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    Before the party I put my makeup on,
    a layer thick enough to hide the tracks of my tears,
    they’ve been there for years
    you see them, and still act
    so cavalier.

    Foundation, first smooth, no hairline cracks.
    unlike us
    it does not hide the scars
    because you’re too smart
    to leave a mark
    where outside eyes can see,
    your outside eye works perfectly
    you see all other women but me.

    Once in a while, I wonder
    who else you’ve been under,
    which is why I refuse –
    and then comes the abuse.

    I’ve laid the table. I’ve lit the candles I’ve cooked – it looks beautiful.
    The lamps hang from the trees in the garden outside
    our friends laugh, having a good time
    you hold your glass of wine unsteadily.
    Your party started a while back.

    I feel foreboding.
    Tonight is going to be embarrassing again.

    You’ll be too loud,
    too forceful,
    too you.

    And when everyone is gone –
    you’ll be too loud, too forceful, too you.

    I feel it in my throat – the bile
    then I have to cover it with a smile
    because you’re walking my way
    and you can’t stand frowns on my face
    someone might find out.

    3 hours later, when everyone is
    squirming uncomfortably because of you, I
    carry the glass salad bowl into the kitchen for a refill, you
    stagger after me, yelling expletives.

    You raise your hand.

    I feel a quiet in my soul, the
    kind that comes before a mania,
    when everything is in slow motion
    and your thoughts have perfect, crystal, clarity.

    I bring the perfect, crystal salad
    bowl
    down on your head.
    You’re still conscious
              I hate you with a passion
              sharper than
    the blade of the knife in my hand – I’m
    stabbing you and laughing, the
    wine from your broken glass is forming a
    toxic cocktail with your blood.

    I
    sit in this jail cell
    wanting to laugh again
    waiting to be acquitted – as I know I will
    be, all they need to see are my black
    eyes, swollen shut
    wanting to sing, laugh, dance, shout –  freedom at last.
    Thank God I’m free at last.

    (Based on a true story)

     

    © Abigail Arunga
    “She is a passive aggressive narcissistically inclined writer who hopes her dreadlocks will one day grow to the length of Maxi Priest’s hair and acknowledges the fact  that her father doesn’t think she has a real job. She hopes to someday have a lot more money than she does now by writing hella lot/winning the lottery/forcing as many people as she possibly can to buy her first – and the others that will follow – book.”

    In Search of Freedom is one of the 85 poems in her new anthology called Akello which retails for Ksh. 600 only.

     

    In Search of Freedom via @theMagunga

    Abi pursues freedom, happiness and sleep in that order.

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    Suzanne

    poignant …

    Hillary NM Hillary

    I will be revisiting this again…

    Redscar

    … and Abigail Arunga has it, lots of it! The more reason why one should buy Akelo, her anthology.

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