REHANA BLOGS

Sometimes when you meet a person, you instinctively know that that person will feature in your life henceforth. It’s like a decision taken that cannot be accounted for by personal choices; neither taste, nor religion nor race. It’s more a subconscious understanding between two people. If I were poetic, I’d say that it was a meeting of the auras that surround us, before it becomes a conscious meeting. When you read The Fountainhead, you come across this scenario, where Howard Roark meets Dominique’s husband for the first time. He comes prepared to hate Gail Wynand for being his lover’s husband, and yet, that first time the two meet; there is no consciousness of anything apart from the feeling that they’ve known each other forever; that perhaps they were part of the same soul in another life. Past relationships cease to exist in that moment, and Dominique becomes just another person in both their lives. It is an inherent feature of human beings in this world that we tend to believe i...

When I look at you I see the woman I could become I see the laughter lines, I see the bright smile I see the twinkle in those eyes, the smooth walk I see those hands, soft, graceful, I look at you, and I see the woman I want to be When I look at you I see what I want you to see I see what I want you to notice I see your beauty, your grace, your loveliness I see your eyes, free of shadows, free of pain I see the love, radiating from your face When you look at me You see a woman, broken and bent You see someone, who has lost the will to live You see a person, stiff from sitting for twenty one years You see this woman, who aches to be whole again You see a cripple, staring at you in envy When you look at me You feel what I feel, broken inside You come up, and you look into my eyes, You stare into them, and then you understand You look up at the blue sky, and you laugh You listen to those waves, pounding, and you grin You turn arou...

In the early dawn, the sun rose, the rooster crowed My people woke up, and greeted me with blood They wiped their eyes of sleep, and followed the river Of mankind, that swarmed the cities To quench their thirst, and their appetite They took their pangas, and mshales To rid my people of their life’s blood They burned houses, killed, maimed, And then they called it ethnic cleansing. I ask of them, Am I of one tribe? Am I Kikuyu, or Luo? Kalenjin, or Kamba? Do I not harbour all of you? Then they know the answer, and they think I am a fool Is not my earth red enough, from the previous bloodshed? Did the loved ones buried in me die in vain? Those fighters, those lovers; did they not spill the red in their veins, so you could have a better life? What makes them think that violence is the answer? Have they not learnt, from the past? Have they forgotten what the red stands for, in my flag? Who will remind them? Who will make that effort? I pick...

I sit at the edge of the garden, and I wonder. I wonder at the breeze, playing softly with my hair. I wonder, at the flowers, of different hues and shapes, that smile at me. I wonder at the weeds which are growing, that seem to have taken root, which threaten the flowers I adore. I wonder at the palm in the middle of the garden, that seems to symbolize my life, this life. I wonder at the lamp-posts, whose strategic setting is meant to improve upon the aesthetic beauty of this garden at night. And finally, I wonder, at the stars that are supposed to be doing this job. And then it strikes me. There are no stars. And there is no life. These flowers, this garden; do not exist. They represent a place which once was. A place of beauty, a place of joy, a place of freedom. A place where love lived. Without constant nourishment, the plant dies. The baby wails. The earth cries. The moon hides. Human beings have the pity of all nature's bounties. For we have free will. We have the will to...

Sometimes when darkness covers the earth The fog hides the mountains, Shrouding certainty, faking reality, Within, I sit, and dream Of death, and sometimes, Of beauty, Sometimes. I dream of the times, When mountain tops shimmered White with snow When deer gazed at me silently Within the woods When dew, sweet on the red petals, I tasted, When love, hidden yet open, filled Innocent faces Sometimes, I dream, I remember And so it helps, that dream For the times that I am, Within reality, within reach, Of that fog, that wall of white, The darkness inside, is the darkness everywhere Mould has grown, taking over, All the figments of the past That remain, undestroyed, yet violated, Because they were there, They saw, they observed. Where are the woods? Where is the snow? I sit on the rock, thirst unquenched, Never to be quenched, I await death, along wait, In sight of that mountain, Where once, there was snow, but no mo...