Don’t call me a prisoner.

The leaves outside are rustling gingerly, carefull not to awaken the grass, while I, sit here watching the air and sniffing your thoughts. My hands long for your touch..or just a tug at your collar, a tiny brush at your strewn graying beard, but you have become a judge, seated so high in your throne of judgement that a touch from a sinner like me would make you unclean. 

Your fingers hold the green of cannabis and the black of previously lit tobacco. Between your teeth is the occasional Khat, groundnut skins and the smell of  bubble gum, and the occasional hair strands. Your veins stand out, and i can see your mistreated heart beat through your thrift clothes. Your organs are your slaves, but it is in me that you see a prisoner. 

You now preach about the gods, of holy scriptures, saints and miracles.  You talk about Elijah and the virgin mary, angels, Jesus,the holy trinity  and immaculate conception with so much zest, the orators are ashamed. 

While i wallow in shallow disgrace, in murky have found a straw to clutch at.

Across your feet, lies a bible, and a half spilt drink, stale bread, and a rosary at hand. We shall eat no bread, indulge not in immoral acts. Have not thoughts that make us lust for human flesh.

We shall not worship no other god but yours. We shall observe the sabbath, love out neighbours, tell the truth, commit not murder, unlawfully acquire not properties that belong not to us. Your book further says the greatest command is love. Is this not love i have shown you? Wasn’t that love when i saved you a glass of mild vodka, and threw virginity out the windows so you could be happy? 

Now you read out my sins one by one. You accuse a girl of failure to believe. A girl is also accused of fornication, and incest. A girl tempted a boy to sin, so a boy is the victim. A boy was happy too, But a girl will be the only one to burm at the stakes.  

A girl will be judged for her questions on faith. Didn’t a girl give bread to the hungry, visit the sick, sell her sliced peach so her children could go to school and have not empty stomachs. A girl did not overprice her merchandise but now she will burn with the murderers;…and the abortionists.

 I sit here listening to your chants, your ugly sickening chants so crude the walls cry and sob intermittently.  I listen to your tales of  freedom and eternal life which you shove down my throat like a sick toddler’s medicine.

You call me a sinner, a waste of man’s rib, and above all a prisoner. You said true freedom and joy and found in Jesus.

If you untie my limbs, i too will be free. I will crawl and fly if i can, but you hold me here and feed me the word. You shut your eyes to my struggles., the wary fights between what i see and what i have to listen to. The preachings of a god who created earth then went to hiding in the skies. The one who let the good people suffer and the bad people rejoice? The one who sent the hurricanes and the tornadoes. The one who lets infants starve while rich men put fruit in their soap?

So don’t  call me a prisoner when the shackles that bind your mind and soul are tighter than the sisal ropes on my limbs.

Just don’t  call me a prisoner.



6 thoughts on “Don’t call me a prisoner.

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