On Closing Car Doors

Mother courtesy-trained you to hold a door by the handle, and shut it with good grace. That is how Breeding shuts the door. Many dumbly decided that Mother meant a door to, or in, a house. So, when they evacuate a car, they grasp the portal by the flank or edge, and fling it to a vulgar close. I really hate that.

Blip, Be Gone!

A blip on my radar
You almost never happened
A purposeless invader
You picked a shameful end

Gulf

TV3 is airing pithy promos for its premier sports programme – SPORTS STATION. They are bruiting about marquee sportsmen and women to catch the fire in people’s minds. On Saturday, they advertised a game of GULF. I know! It strongly suggests a curious contest in which the duellists bivouac themselves on opposite coastlines, and try to pilot petit, pockmarked balls across. Interestingly, they allied such a strange sport with a certain TIGER WOODS, who already governs the popular game – GOLF.

God's Real Presence

Seekers of God in a church room
Your ignorance may be your doom
For God lives right inside you
But you don't have a single clue

Public Bathroom Floor

This public bathroom floor
Was so messy and poor
To catch the 'animals' with proof
I went tracking each hoof.

The Cultural Cant of Itchy Palms

Please coach me on how many ‘clectic cultures are ’caroused’ by itchy palms. I would have placed it with the pilfering proclivity, but, in Ghana, it promises deluge-Dollars and endless Euros. To put the passé theory on trial, would you say that the S.O.L in straitened slums do not catch cacoethes in the palm? Or try asking the Makola mendicant how many times an itch has crystallised in cash for them. So, I came to the realisation, this monsoon morning, that an itchy palm means ... there’s an itch in your palm; nothing more!

Mad-House Justice

There’s a wretched squaw in epic need of mental health care, vegetating on the ‘sacred’ street below the Supreme Court building. In the smouldering daystar, in the drenching downpour, and even when the legion is lagging home, she’s ’plinthed’ on the parched pavement with her napless, dirt-caked, gamy body. One long month has crept by; nobody tries to help, for it is someone else’s job. When I was leaving the courts today, she was fast asleep – or freshly deceased – in the afternoon rain.