About Mbithe Mosa

Mbithe Mosa is an African Literature enthusiast who is deeply in love with words. She is intrigued by both the beautiful and the grotesque. She blogs at mycolorsmyshadows.wordpress.com

These wee hours of strangled consciousness
I am roused awake; wide eyed and throbbing.
I have many hot and weakening tears to dispense.
They are an ode to the demise of my hopes.
I wonder and wander; sieving questions I am not sure I want the answers to.
The prospect of throwing another email into the abyss that is your inbox beckons.
Continue reading

I am these words and let me tell you what else

I am those words you heard but refused to accept like the time Sister Margarite was told about her star pupil’s fraternization with the boys from across

I am those words you choked on like a piece of hot and succulent meat you swallowed too fast in those heady days of Christmas parties and matching cardigans

I am those words you waited for until your hair was as coarse as your aunt’s ‘revolutionary’ cushion covers that Mama used to store grain in

Continue reading

I seek a pristine mind.
No longer hearing the stillness of the dead
Nor the raging voices of the living
Holding on, holding strong but not for long
One day your silence will no longer speak to me
Your suffocating smile and mannequin touch
The eagerness in your step as you leave me swaying
They bring a constant ringing in my ears
Save them for her, for whom you bleed.

One day your silence will no longer speak to me

Continue reading

Maina saw her first out of the corner of his eye.
A big brown bloop in his peripheral vision.
He was speeding down Moi Avenue in one of his blind rages.
His jalopy did its best to obey the choke hold he had on the steering wheel.
Her hair tie had fallen off.
Her dyed dreadlocks spilled over her shoulders.
He braked hard. Honked. Idiot!!!!
He continued to watch, somewhat intrigued.
She was a queen-sized woman. The kind with many supple curves. Not his type.
She bent over to pick up her purse that had fallen almost onto the road.
The view of her rear end made him twitch, his trousers suddenly uncomfortable.
Continue reading

I used to wish a downpour could carry away in its ebb and flow, the stench of my demons.
That on its way down to kiss my skin, it could collect something akin to pixie dust.
That it could nourish and refresh me as it would saplings. Leave me sated.
That it could soak into every nook and cranny of my being…dazzling me with a clean slate. Continue reading

He winces when the door slams shut as she gets into the car.
Sometimes, you can practically see the ghosts of sex not had, of words left unsaid.
She’s talking; he’s staring out the window, fiddling with his tie, suddenly claustrophobic.
She’s looking at him, wondering if this is a good time to bring it up. He’s too busy cursing out matatu drivers.
She’s squeezed herself against the door. The thought of brushing against him makes her shudder.
He wonders when his warm honeysuckle of a woman got so arctic cold.
He’s choking the hand brake.
She’s busy explaining how Kim got Julie that brand new BMW. ‘Don’t forget, they’re coming over for dinner tonight.’
She’s busy removing lipstick form her teeth, he’s eyeing the house help in the back seat. Continue reading

Image via

One day, I will walk away.
I will casually whip my scarf around my neck and walk out on me.
I will pick up the broken pieces and abandon ship.
I will turn back and see that I have left my body behind.
I will watch the quizzical look on my face,
I will watch myself wonder if I left the iron on at home, then shrug it off and cross the street.
Deep down though, I will know that my soul has bled out of me. Continue reading