Water is She who can conjugate her scattered beads to contort, excite and disrupt. She wears her grin at the sight of the entropy she leaves when she rages. She spreads her legs and flashes her grandness between, above, and through all that can be had.
One can sniff the antagonism between nature and the human waste that poisons the sea. Floods, tsunamis; she is coming with the fury of an army.
No pleasantries for etiquette’s sake. She must have the house, the shed, and the garage. I am a garage, and she is the house. How dare you think concrete a protective force against her chameleon-like frame that splashes your bits on the same concrete like a soldier at a nuclear war? She doesn’t just open the door; she blasts through the hubris of the blind and deaf –we who have heard nature’s blaring alarms and seen the consequences of our penny-greedy selves.
Do not believe the slant tongue of a woman scorned. Even when she heals, she bleeds. Her devastating knife of calamity slices its way through leaves that bow down to hurricanes and trees that yield to tsunamis. The earth collapses in defeat. Better to be a lizard on a wall, oblivious to impending peril.
She’s a moody teenager this one. She peaks the heights of Everest –below she dances, above she cries. Today she quenches the earth.
She’s a naiad of herself, the ever-elusive finned skin fiddling her enchanting tunes on sea shores. Tomorrow? What does she do then? She retreats —But —Not in surrender. —Never in surrender.
“If you do not want me as I come, I will go as I am.” This tormenting lady knows that soon, we will build dams and dig boreholes. We will look for her. We will pray that there is room for forgiveness. We will pour our hearts to God and ask that he pours us some rain. She knows she is needed. No matter how well-intentioned her purpose, she says, “Leave me be. I will not be pushed. I have flow. I have rhythm. I will go and go completely. Let us see what will feed your bellies without my help. Pray your tongue never thirsts for liquid affection. I am near your lenses but not your kidneys, least you shrivel up with the aid of my good friend the sun because what I assume, you human shall also assume.” Sometimes her friend courts her, so much so that she stays gone for a great period of time flirting in the clouds.
She’s inscrutably heterogeneous, a bipolar thing. Today a medium of the purest of blessings, tomorrow a serial killer. Today a windhond rested in the Chile, tomorrow a tainted Yamuna. “I could give you more than life. I could give you Ebola. Or what would you prefer? Malaria? Cholera? Edge on; you’re almost there. I dwell in generosity. I’ve got a manifold of overflowing jugs ready to settle your qualms.”
As nature’s nymph of the pave, she is painful to lose as she is beautiful to behold. Even when she is not sweeping the earth with her long striking legs of chaos, water distills our high-held heads by existing in useless profusion. Blow me out to the sea and spectate as I tick-tockingly shrivel, patch, and exsiccate, I whose body is sixty percent water. The irony of it all. Insolence! In a pot there brews the Irminger sea, the Drake Passage, Bermuda’s triangle, and Pandora’s Box. This cataclysmic hugger-mugger cries in the cauldron as it bubbles. The potion colors red and out comes the apple. Who has ever resisted a FREE apple? Not you, me, or her. She devours this monstrosity every second of every day trotting round and round the earth. She impregnates the soul with loss and the heaviness of it all.
—But
She serves as the vehicle for flavor. We bathe in her serenity. We exist as little fish swimming in her ebbs and floods of radiant skin and pot bellies.
She filters the sourstuff from the pungent waft in the atmosphere just for us. How else could we be living and breathing things? At this very moment, walking by the seashore, the happiness quartet in my brain splashes – a silver blade in the open pacific.
‘The Smell of Water’ is a piece from the poetry collection ‘All the Petals of the Universe’ available on Amazon
Here is the point which eludes us most: she is not fighting us. She is fighting back. It always comes down to a good war.
“You spit in my face and expect me to kiss you. You say I am toxic and the source of toxicity is you. I shed wasteful tears every day desperately searching for my Mehmet, one to rid the poisonous taste of morbidity off me.
Why can’t you be the one to make me purest in form here as I lay? I loathe the seconds that lead up to the choke. Roaring engines swim their way through me. You mount your flags in my home and feed me with your PBCs and DDTs.
I reckon displeasure would arise if a foe dragged their muddy shoes on your newly cleaned sparkling white carpet. Why would you expect me not to cause a storm when you drag your muddy shoes through my house? When all I do is give, and all you do is take?
It goes without saying: if ever judgment was to be passed, and we thrown into hell’s pits, I can take out such a fire. Can you without me? Respect is a two-way street, even for me.
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In recent years, there have been multiple instances of African pastors and religious leaders taking actions that have been deemed questionable and harmful to their followers. Four such instances are the actions of Kenyan Pastor Paul Mackenzie, Congolese Prophet Dominique Khonde, Zimbabwe-based clergyman Pastor Tito Wats and Pastor Bafomba Willy
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