The improvement was never the point.
The unfolding was.
The bruise becoming blossom.
The scream becoming song.
The life, insisting…
The Flickering Truth
“Old? Pah. Call me ancient, child. I remember the crackle before the picture. When voices bloomed in the dark air, conjuring elephants and empires right inside your skull. Radio. You had to work for it, paint the scenes with your own worn-out brushes. Then… the pictures moved. Silently. Oh, the drama in a lifted eyebrow! A trembling hand! You leaned in, you interpreted. Love wasn’t spoon-fed; it shimmered in the space between glances, potent as bootleg gin. It lived in the shadows of our dreams, hinted at, not plastered on a billboard forty feet tall. Legends weren’t made of pixels; they were stitched from whispers, from the missing pages of well-thumbed books, spun into fantasies so real you could smell the dust on the stagecoach. Truth? Sometimes it got tossed aside, deemed too plain, too stale, for a world hungry for… well, for this.”
A Saffron-Kissed Memory
“The delicious thing was the moment. The precise instant when the ghee, clarified gold, hissed in the heavy-bottomed pot. When the single, impossibly precious thread of saffron – stolen sunlight, captured sunset – met that molten warmth. A sigh, almost imperceptible, a wisp of fragrance like the ghost of a hundred crocuses, would rise. Then, the cascade: cumin seeds crackling like distant firecorks, turmeric painting the air a dusty yellow promise, slivered ginger releasing its sharp, clean breath. The scent was a tapestry woven on the spot: earthy, floral, pungent, warm. It didn’t just fill the kitchen; it filled the world, pushing back the lingering chill of the night, the vague anxieties clinging like cobwebs.”
The Whisper of Silk
“The outfit wasn’t about fashion, or comfort, or even sanity. It was about control. Or the chilling lack thereof… But today, something had shifted. A crack in the monotonous façade. Inside, something coiled and glinted, a dangerous, nascent resolve. She was venturing on a path of sunshine, each step a conscious act of defiance, a subtle unwinding of the invisible chains.”
The Dust Roads of Yesterday
“I travel back. Back through the veils of years, chasing ghosts in the golden haze of an East African afternoon. Back to lost memories scattered like acacia seeds across the savannah, to dreams as bright and fragile as a sunbird’s wing, shattered against the windshield of reality. I see them – the child gaping at Kilimanjaro’s snowy crown from a rattling matatu, the teenager trembling with illicit joy at their first clandestine bus ride to Mombasa, heart pounding louder than the diesel engine. That innocence… it feels like a place on the map I can no longer find, erased by the tears I’ve known, salty as the Indian Ocean spray.”
The Faith of the Ordinary
“He still reads his books, of course. He still talks of higher planes and cosmic connections. But now, sometimes, I catch him. A quiet smile as he watches the sunset from his window, a genuine laugh at a silly joke, a lingering glance at the elderly woman who sells flowers by the cathedral. He hasn’t abandoned his quest for transcendence. But perhaps, in that moment with the child and the spilled mangoes, he began to see that the dance he sought, the spirituality he chased, wasn’t somewhere beyond, but woven into the very fabric of the ordinary.”
The Art of Glorious Time-Wasting
“For me, the grand champion of time-wasting, the undisputed heavyweight title holder, is undoubtedly the ‘Scroll-Hole Vortex.’ You know the one. You pick up your phone, innocently enough, to check the weather or confirm that yes, the cat does, in fact, still exist. And then… poof! Two hours later, you’re an expert on the mating habits of obscure deep-sea creatures, you’ve watched twenty-seven videos of dogs failing at agility courses, and you’ve somehow ended up on a distant cousin’s vacation photos from 2017, wondering why Aunt Mildred still wears crocs.”
Breakfast Conversations
“Another Saturday morning,” sighed the Avocado (for that was his name, a rather philosophical fruit), perched precariously on the edge of the kitchen counter. “The city still sleeps, dreaming of… well, probably more practical things than philosophical avocados.”
Beside him, a plump Mango, still slightly dewy from its morning wash, chuckled. “Practical? My dear Avocado, you spend too much time with the humans and their relentless pursuit of ‘efficiency.’ Saturday mornings are for languor, for the slow unfurling of flavor, for the gentle hum of anticipation.”
A sizzling sound erupted from the stove, followed by the cheerful clatter of pans. “Speak for yourselves, you two!” chirped the Scrambled Eggs, their golden hue already bright. “We’re already hard at work, the unsung heroes of this lazy morning. Fueling dreams, you know!”
As the human finished their simple yet satisfying breakfast, a sense of calm settled over them. The city outside might be stirring, but here, in the quiet aftermath of the morning ritual, there was a sense of peace, of contentment. The flavors lingered, not just on the tongue, but in the memory, a gentle reminder that even the simplest of meals can be a profound conversation, a delicious tale told in bites and sips, a truly good vibe to start the weekend in Kampala…
DMT 