Can done be better than perfect?


My socks don’t line-up,

My belt never sits in the middle of my trousers,

My fly doesn’t line-up with my belly button.

My left arm is used for dexterity,


My right arm is stronger,

I brush my teeth with my right hand,


I carry bags with my left,

To compensate.

I write notes with my imperfect scrawl,

Smearing the page and my hand,

I write over and over each letter,


It is perfect.

When I put my notes away,

My therapy,

I put them into my bag,

Carefully chosen for it’s neat and tidy pockets,

And place my pad and pen away,

Pen tip facing right,

I check all the zips until it feels tight,

I undo it and do it again,

Just to be sure.

Sometimes people notice, so, I act shifty, this is a dirty habit now,

“What’s the matter with you?

Oh, I like things tidy, I’m a clean freak.”

But they aren’t,

They don’t get waves of panic if they don’t have a certain pen,


Get a speck of dirt on a clean top and get submerged in waves of dizziness,

I spend my life exhausted making sure right angles line-up,

DVD players and TV units, making sure they are symmetrical,

Even when the tape measure says I’m wrong and the placement is right,

It doesn’t feel right.

The worst is a circular object like a lamp, it’s all guess work and that takes longer,

And my chest knots, breathing stunted and neck creaking.

These thoughts aren’t a popular poem to be exploited, they aren’t a love song,

They are pain,

There is no sleep,

It’s like caffeine injected,

I don’t fall to sleep, I’m switched off,

Inhuman and infected,

Where every sound,

Every fly-buzz or quiet breath screams like a lion roar.

This is my disease and my life.

Not a poem, these words don’t match up and my grammar is off,

The lines are too long and the words don’t rhyme.

My socks don’t line-up.

©Delroy T Mmusi 

Featured image courtesy of Google.

Splashly imperfect

 ‘There are neither good or bad people. There are imperfect people, with both streaks of good and bad.’

Hello world, been quiet for quite awhile. Let me call it quite quiet because I was still in and not lost. Missed you so much! September ended with us drifted but with October am now am here, all yours. 

Continue reading “Splashly imperfect”

Tell your story, Africa

The world needs our stories, which we are the only ones to tell. I encourage Africa to be brave before this vast multicultural audience.

Most of the time I like it when filling applications online – because they make me feel so great. Not because I enjoy the reviews, or the pressing of the keyboard. It’s the fact that this world always want to know where I come from. 

Ceaselessly, the sites often ask me to fill my nearest town and street while myself I’m at the edge of the earth’s core. Know what I mean? If you ever read articles  of people climbing trees, or hilltops to tap network, then you sure read our story. We recently improved though, for we now have rental tree houses so you can take as long as you want – but you must pay for it. It’s a blooming business, and the scenario from that vantage is breathtaking. It is what I mostly like about it.

So proud of these streets

In this scenario that has repeated itself over and over, I proudly fill Kanyamgotha Street in the slots knowing very well that this in fact is the footpath leading to the late Kanyamgotha’s home – who happen to be my late grandfather! You know, I say, since these people, neither their system know this place, let me put it into the map! That’s why Kanyamgotha gets into the Google Maps and also into the dictionary. Isn’t that proud, that my Kanyamgotha gets into Google Maps? Someday it would be defined and illustrated like Tom Mboya Street and Boulevard Street, I pray.

We’ve named this paths as we’ve always known them, and that’s how we would like the rest of the world to identify them. So if a tourist visiting this region was to ask where he or she was, I think I would have done him/her a favor. I would proudly say, welcome to Kanyamgotha, even try googling it. And I’m sure it would surprise them to fine the online reviews of the cafeterias that are now booming in this area. That’s how I want it to be.

I’m proud of my origin, in Africa. Our heritage is so unique that the whole world can’t help to admire. In fact, I no longer feel insecure at the peculiar questions, stares and questions anymore, leave alone the prejudices and stereotypes. It is stories that define us that they lack. We’ve lots of theirs in books, and movies, why not even us tell ours to them, in the ways we know best, through this technology?

The world needs our stories, which we are the only ones to tell. If only all of us could tale to them our stories as I do. I encourage Africa to be brave before this vast multicultural audience. In their lands, they face almost the same thing as we do, they just don’t know how we cope. The vastness of the world we’ve watched and read, but ours is still muffled in our fear. And day by day it gets tainted when we alienate ourselves to the foreign cultures. We’ll leave no real history if what we live is the lives of others, if what we wear and the names we give to our homes and streets are not our own.

Where is us in us, Africa?

Random  puzzling thoughts

Why is letter W in English called double U, shouldn’t it be called double V?

When I am bored and just puzzling a few things don’t make sense. . . like:

1. If poison expires, is it more poisonous or is it no longer poisonous?

2. Which letter is silent in the word “Scent,” the S or the C?

3. Do twins ever realize that one of them is unplanned?

4. Why is the letter W, in English, called double U? Shouldn’t it be called double V?

5. Maybe oxygen is slowly killing you and It just takes 75-100 years to fully work.

6. Every time you clean something, you just make something else dirty.

7. The word “swims” upside-down is still “swims”.

8. 100 years ago everyone owned a horse and only the rich had cars. Today everyone has cars and only the rich own horses.

9. If you replace “W” with “T” in “What, Where and When”, you get the answer to each of them.

10. If you rip a hole in a net, there are actually fewer holes in it than there were before.

It really bothers me. . .  my friends think I am crazy because I talk to myself about these things. 

Break her legs… by Odhiambo Kaumah

A newly married man must be watched in the morning
For the elders’ eyes are on his wife’s dress
When will it push?
When will you break her leg, Jairo!

Jairo, son of Oloo
A woman is not a harp that you play for other men to dance
Or a dead snake that you scare children with
As you head to the anthill
The sun illuminates her endowments for the world to see
In the broad daylight as she bends to fetch the low-level waters of River Nyando

Continue reading “Break her legs… by Odhiambo Kaumah”


…and maybe you expected too much boy. But for Broken Dreams, the cure is dream again and again. – Kenyanito Wendo, Letters Unsent.

Oh boy! look what you’ve done to yourself. Perished dreams on your heart’s shelves; Parents’ expectations and society’s interference are the reasons for your dream’s disappearance. I know, a lot did they annoy but why did you let them snatch your joy?! Continue reading “OH BOY!”