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It was a damp cold inside the abandoned church, as I sat in the rotting pews. Staring at the beautifully broken stained glass windows, a depiction of a westernized God glaring down directly at me, his eyes burning so hot, it could have lit the cigarette in my hand. My eyes dart to my hand, almost certain the little, white cylinder has caught flame. It hasn't, of course, and so begins the search for my lighter in one of my many pockets. The search is over and the cigarette is lit. I watch the plumes of smoke drift into the ceiling beams that are barely holding up the weight of the church anymore. The roof caves in, on the brink of collapse and the floorboards have been ripped apart, now used as firewood inside someone's house on cold winter nights. I play with my lighter and the glow sets eerie shadows across the walls, the warm, orange light making the cold cower in the corners of the crumbling building. I stare at the lighter, thinking; what a beautiful ending it would be to go up in flames, engulfed in the heat of fire and the comforting warmth of slow burning. My dead body would be a new addition to the deceased building, adding onto the pile of history that seeps into the dark, oak floors. A mess of flesh and flame, rotting wood and the footprints of sinners and saints. I light cigarette number two, throwing the first butt to the floor, where it lay in its own ashes. I don't bother to stomp it out despite the small flame I can see catching on a splintered piece of the floor. I can feel the flame grow beside my foot as I hold eye contact with the stained glass God yet again calmly inhale my smoke. The fire snakes along the floor, creeping its way into the pews and slowly up the supporting beams. I can feel it enveloping me, the heat growing almost unbearable. The hair on my arms singes and my body starts to sweat. I can taste the salt on my cigarette, can feel it dripping down my neck, my back, my legs. The church's structure begins to fall from the sky, as if God himself is spitefully throwing flaming spears towards me. The already caved in roof crashes down and the flames rise higher, leaving behind a heap of burning wood and bodies.

The memory of that moment has lived in my mind for years; a snippet of the most peace I had ever experienced shelved away in the coves of my recollections. If I close my eyes, think just hard enough, and take a deep breath I am suddenly there again. Not a detail of this memory has been lost. It is as pristine and crystal clear as the moment itself, and sometimes it seems to sparkle a bit with a gleam that seems to be the way my mind's eye records happiness. It is just a touch of light dancing across the edge of the memory in a manner that is magically similar to the way that the sunlight preformed a ballet upon the open ocean waters that moment in Avalon, New Jersey. I had arisen early that day and, leaving a note upon the counter, I left the small rental beach house where my aunt, cousin, grandparents, and family were still sleeping. My goal was simple: to find seashells. I ran a business painting seashells, so they were always something I was on the lookout for, and morning is the best time to find them. The sand of the beach was still cool beneath my feet, not yet heated by the rays of the rising sun. In one hand I held a bag for the shells and in the other my thrown together breakfast. The beach was practically empty. The morning was serene, quiet, and a stark contrast to about everything in my life. I walked a few blocks of beach north and reached the Townsend Inlet, the end of the Avalon beach. The Inlet was home to a long bridge which connected Avalon to the next New Jersey seaside peninsula. Between myself and the waters of the Inlet stood the stone jetty; a man-made sea-wall to prevent erosion. It was upon the rocks of the jetty that I sat to rest that morning. Seated on the cool rocks, I could see steaks of color illuminating the morning sky. The horizon began with coral hues which seamlessly blended into a pale blue. The clouds were coral too, kissed with tones of purple and grey. From where I sat, the beach that I had just traversed appeared to go on forever, as did the ocean that stretched as far as the eye could see making you understand why ancient peoples believed that to cross it would lead you to the Earth's end. It was then that I unpacked my breakfast: a salami and cheese sandwich and a glass of lemonade. Really it didn't make any sense to pack lunch meat for breakfast, but the last bagel that we had bought for the rental house was eaten the day prior. The lemonade was a sweet, tangy nectar on my tongue as it washed away the salami salty enough to rival the sea air. It was just me, my breakfast, and the eternal beach. That is my favorite moment; one which I still relive in my mind. For a moment too brief it was just me and Forever sitting side by side on Avalon's jetty. For a moment too short nothing mattered except the world in front of me. For a moment too quickly gone I was merely another grain of sand upon the beach's shore. As I reminisce on this particular memory, I recall the overwhelming tranquility, the simple finality of the moment. It was a moment in which I had accepted the fact that I was just another piece in the puzzle and a spectator to the grandeur of everything larger than myself. It was then that I realized no matter how small you feel, even if you are just a single grain of minuscule, weak, and volatile sand, the rocks of the jetty will always be there to stand strong when you yourself cannot.

'And the award goes to…' The crowd goes wild, a standing ovation with shouts of praise ringing from all around. Familiar faces past, present and future glowering with satisfaction yell 'Speech! Speech!' I stand up, my confidence glaring, my strut overconfident and my smile misplaced as I walk up the stage to receive my award. I take a stand directly under the spotlight, right in the middle of the platform. I don't need a microphone, my words come were their own amplifier, I raise a hand and a sudden hush fills the room. 'I am young,' In another world this is an advantage, to aliens, I am worth something. An able-bodied youth that will protect their homeland and one day build their economy. The welcoming of a successor to leaders in transition, a key to a luminous future. Then there is the world that I live, where I am lazy, weak and useless, a bane to the existence of my elders. I am languorous and pessimistic as I waste my life on things that do not even bring me true joy. But I was not born this way. You see at my Genesis I had a clean slate, a myriad of options lay before me. And it was the duty of the sages in my community to guide me on the right path so I could become something of substance. This is where failure began. When the so-called patriarchs of my dear land, who were too busy sniffing up white arses, brown faces turned darker by foreign faeces, to care what I was to become. My role models who myopically rob their own pockets. Fogey pregnant men that do all that is within their power to keep my realm gerontocratic, so they may never have to deliver. I ask what example can a human with no morals set. Then there are the parents, the omniscient ones that force and beat me into conformity. That tied my dreams of creativity down like a balloon to rock and thrust their version of reality upon me. "You cannot be an actor, you will be a doctor," "You cannot be an athlete when you can be a chemist," "You cannot be a musician, that is not a profession" My progenitors, their word is law, I obey. They delay my independence for the fear that I would become wayward. Suddenly I am shoved into a world I do not understand when they deem it time for me to be an adult. Ohh and I must not forget the unsung heroes of my miseducation, the teachers and the preachers. Those who instruct me on the most old fashioned and conservative way to live my life. Spent old bores that squash my free-thinking, training clones not individuals, followers not leaders, in learning centres they work on my eyes not my mind nor my heart, not even my hands. What exactly do I do with such baseless beginning? I will tell you, nothing, I just sit at home and waste my youth. So here I am with eyes but I refuse to see, a brain but I refuse to think. Will I remain a rebel in ways that only leave me with more scars or worse strive for more mediocrity? In a void-less paradigm, in a world without depth; in a country without a voice, after decades of using lies to keep me in check, I stand now stuffed on untruths and I accept your award for Repressed Nigerian Youth.

Walking toward the lonely shadows, figures of doubt whisper with breath rotten from lies. Down the downtrodden path running from memories of sweet love that was, isn't, and might have been—wandering lost in the labyrinth of the mind waiting for a glimpse of love, my Unicorn. @GrammarWarlock on Twitter

With the National outrage in India over the rape and murder of a 27 years old Veterinarian and another 23 years old rape victim being set on fire on her way to testify in court, I can't help but recall an incident that happened years ago. I got to thinking about the way our society perceive rape and how more often than not , the victims are the ones who get punished. We tend to blame the victim rather than the perpetrators. This incident happened years ago, I was a teenager and living in Aba with my family. Our neighbors had a daughter named 'Chinyere' whom everyone termed ' Promiscuous'. Opposite our house is a two storey building owned by a rich Merchant who has 3 sons. One of this sons is a well known trouble maker called 'Osy'. On the day the incident happened, Osy pretended to be sick and so was left alone at home . He then called Chinyere to come and prepare spaghetti for him. Unknown to her he had 5 of his friends waiting and when she got there, they raped her one after the other . After the crime, they seized her clothes and pushed her out on the street stark naked. You would think people will condemn Osy and his friends but the reverse was the case. Chinyere was severely beaten by her parents and that was it. For months, Osy and his friends boasted openly about how they flogged her with belts when she refused to open her legs and other details of the rape. The girl couldn't walk through the street without one of them taunting and mocking her, she was about 19 years old then. Last I checked, both perpetrators and victim are still alive, all married with kids. Looking at the incident now from the perspective of an adult, I can't help but wonder! Why the parents thought their child deserved to be beaten and the Criminals spared? Why no one spoke out for that innocent girl? Why the perpetrators were the ones mocking the victim and not the other way round? Why the victim had to bow her head in shame while the perpetrators walk with their shoulders straight and their heads high? Could it be that deep inside, our society doesn't really see rape as a serious crime? Could it be that deep inside, we tend to think that anyone who gets raped had it coming? Why is it that judges in court are quick to tell victims to dress the way they were dressed the day they were raped? Why are there more excuses for the perpetrators than sympathy for the victims. I can't even begin to imagine the trauma, that girl had to go through , first in the hands of her torturers and then in the hands of her parents or the shame she had to face afterwards. Our society has to start looking at rape, not with the eyes of the rapist but with the eyes of the victim. We need to first chase away the Wolf before we blame the hen for being careless with her chicks. Women and girls please be careful, who you trust and where you go. It isn't safe out there and at the end of the day the only person that can truly take care of you, is you. Like the songwriter wrote' No one else can feel the rain on your skin'. Be safe this season.

A snake swallows the dream, and somewhere in the distance I hear laughter before I open my eyes. There's sand on my lips. The wind rises and whispers something in softly-spoken Spanish. Pounding and throbbing, my head feels like an ancient war drum.\nThe laughter resumes and the children of the desert encircle me. Vibrant skulls are painted on their sweet faces. They are beautiful. They are curious. They speak in laughter. One of them leaves the circle and walks slowly up to me. He covers my eyes with his small brown hands.\n\\"Wake up,\\" I hear a familiar voice coming from the lips of this strange child, and I open my eyes. The hands are gone. The dunes are gone. The children of the desert are gone, but my head still hurts.\n\\"Hey. What happened?\\"\n\\"Too much tequila,\\" she giggles.\n\nJaundr\u00E9 van Breda \u00A9 2019

I thought my parents didn't love each other. I thought so for a very long time. I thought they could live with each other, learned to tolerate and become comfortable with each other—but that it wasn't love. Here are the reasons why I thought this. In earlier years, while our house was under construction, they argued a lot. Or I knew they would, because they closed their door at night; their muffled voices would rise and fade from behind the wood like tides. Mama later told me the points of strain in their relationship. It included building the new house and how it would accommodate Teta*; raising my youngest brother, Kareem, because he was troublesome and Baba got angry with him a lot; and when they first moved to Jordan without knowing anybody except Baba's family circle. My parents are not romantic. My dad doesn't like being hugged or kissed abundantly. He expects it, though, when he comes back from his travels. When mama tried to kiss him on the cheek, he'd grimace exaggeratedly and shy away. He was embarrassed— and I was there, looking, hoping. I speculated Mama might love him, but that he doesn't love her back. And that he's too introverted, and/or emotionally uninterested, and/or passive to seek out another person. Or split. Their marriage, from my child-eyed lens, wasn't horrible or anything. A part of me just expected all marriages to fail. To fade into complicit companionship and for nothing else to be left but that. I was trying to be a realist, and romance appeared too ideal. I figured love was a culmination of hormones that eventually ebbed and eroded into a sort of mild liking and appreciation for your partner— at best. Maybe I'm right. I was feeling mellow emotions during this time. I assumed everything else, therefore, inevitably mellowed. Baba doesn't like displaying affection. He doesn't show much of it. He, perhaps, is not good at being sappy. When we talk to him, he communicates in sarcastic remarks. He tries best to show us he cares about us by taking us on routine vacations, once or twice a year. I remember sitting in hotels a lot and going to restaurants. And walking. I began correlating vacations with boredom. I think it's the same with several kids and their families. I asked Mama if she loved Baba like she did at the beginning of their marriage. She says she loves him more now. My mom is the opposite of my dad in that she doesn't mind sounding cliché sometimes. Or sappy. She doesn't think what they had at the start of their marriage was really love—not like now. They seem on better terms these days. More comfortable than I remember any other time. But my memories could easily be betraying me, so I wouldn't take any of these speculative observations too seriously. I just know this speculative observation prompted me today to ask Mama if she loved Baba like she did the day they married. Although, I'd suspected from the narratives that they'd married on the cusping petals of a crush than a solid stem of adulation. Do you think love is familiarity? I imagine two people are like clay, like goo, like dough. If they stick together long enough, they blend together. Merge. One bulge pushes into the other person's lump, until one of them softens and makes a hollow, a concavity, to fit the other. And if you removed the remaining bulge off, you'd see the scoop it leaves. The space it occupied by creating. Or they both make hollows, in some parts here but not there. I can't imagine anything too spontaneous. Of love. When one instantaneously falls in love with someone, its because they noticed something achingly familiar about them. The way you like their hair, those brown waves?— you've already fallen in love with it from a cartoon character you'd watch every morning as a child. Or the hardened shell of their speaking is the same shell your uncle coated his words with, and during Eid gatherings he commanded with it. He would sit for minutes on end, captivating all the other relatives circling him in a traditionally oriental-decorated living room on flowery couches. You didn't understand what he was saying but you understood—even if perhaps without a formulated, conscious thought—what he was, in that moment. Maybe they are aspired to your ideal, someone you've already built in your head. So when the real thing comes along they mimic an appearance, a talent, or a persona you admire. They're familiar because you've wished and wished you were like that. You imagined yourself a million times over someone you aren't. Someone brilliant and cool. But its hard to be that. You've resigned yourself to whatever traits you have now—whatever extent of them. You've complied. You could only be them to be anything like them. And if you can't be them, then you'll want to be as close to them as possible. Am I close? teta*: informal term in Arabic meaning "grandma".

Closing my eyes I can immediately picture your face, as if your amazing features have been tattooed onto the insides of my eyelids. It brings a smile to my face, seeing that birthmark in the center of your forehead, the way the corners of your lips have a small smile pronounced in them. I smile at the way I can immediately place every freckle on your cheeks from memory. I smile as I think of the way your laugh sounds like a stone skipping across a pond after being thrown from gentle caring hands. I smile at how when we hug or kiss our bodies interlock as if they were blocks never meant to be unbound. I smile at the way you have become everything to me. You are my world, and I can never bear to let you go. I'll give anything to continue this love we have harvested from a simple seed planted in the ground long ago by the universe. The seed that demanded you and me to be its caretakers; the seed that decided we were to be soulmates. It is true that in the dead of night when I am lost, I can find you in the persistent stars that somehow shine so bright for me. It is true that in the petrichor I can find you on the individual teardrops that reside on the lush grass. It is true that when there is nothing to be made from the disasters I have created, the thought of us and everything we could be buoys me to reality. I cry sometimes, because I know that although you are my soulmate, perhaps our time together is not definite. For soulmates aren't always forever. Perhaps you are to leave me when there is a smile you find warmer than mine. Perhaps my eyes won't sparkle quite like they used to for you. But a part of you rests in my heart, and that's what matters. You and I will always be attached by a single thread for all of our life. If we are to take two entirely different paths, only connected by that string of fate, I see myself finding you once again later on in my mind. You will always be on this map that has been charted for me by the greatest cartographer of all- destiny. It is quite possible that you and I are to drift onto opposite coasts of the land we have shared for the time we have been together. It is quite possible that we may cultivate our own islands to invite other people into it, other soulmates. But know that in the center of the island sits a perennial blossom you and I have grown, and continue to grow. Because although you have passed to create your story without me, you have left an imprint on my soul. You, soulmate, have filled a crater that I held within with the devotion and love you have shown me.

Imagine a world of absolute pain. No, I mean imagine real agony; more, more. You're getting closer. Add a little more pain. Now, consider this imaginary world of yours is as a stumped toe in the night compared to the actual emotional world that you loved one is living in every minute of every day. I don't care how bad you can imagine it to be. If you have never been on the inside of addiction, you could never truly understand. Try telling a hospitalized burn victim that you “can imagine” how they feel. That healed grease-pop scar on your arm, the one that “really hurt” isn't even remotely close to what that person is going through. No, I don't have a PhD behind my name, my experience comes from the inside. I was an addict. Scratch that. I am an addict in recovery and will be for the rest of my life. When you look at your loved one, what you are seeing is not you little girl, or your little boy. That's not your sister, brother, mother or father. That's not your friend. All you can see is the outside shell. I've heard several say that is the abandoned building that used to hold that person. I'm here to tell you, that is not an abandoned building, they are still very much inside that hull. What you see is more likened to a garbage can that is holding what's left of them. I'm here to take the lid off and let you see the putrefied remains inside. When you look inside of that person, you are looking at the emotional sludge that has devastated your loved one. But unlike man-made garbage, God made your loved one the first time, and HE can re-make them again! There is no “bionic” theme music. I'm not talking about repurpose or recycle. HE can literally re-make them. The key is that they need for HIM to remake you too. You may even know their story, but you do not know their heart. If you find yourself asking, “Why?” then you could not possibly imagine the pain that it took to get them where they are. I heard a story a few years back. It spoke of two men, brothers, who grew up and chose very different paths for themselves. One became a preacher, a the other an alcoholic. When each was asked why they turned out the way that they did, they both responded, “because my dad was an alcoholic.” People react differently to trauma. Can you remember when the World Trade Towers were hit in 2001? Some people came out running, some walked, some required assistance. Some people were crying, others were in dry faced shock. They had all gone through the same experience but were reacting differently. Two parents can stand outside of a burning building. One might scream for their baby, the other might bolt inside despite the danger. There is a perfect example in the bible. Luke 15:11-32 tells us the parable of the prodigal son. A man had two sons. The younger wanted his inheritance so that he could go and experience the world. The older wanted to stay and be considered responsible. Neither choice was wrong. Many seem to forget that the inheritance was his to do with as he chose. Two men with the same background and the same inheritance chose two different paths. If you remember from the account, the prodigal son made choices that left him in despair. I heard someone say once that, “He got what he deserved.” That statement bothered me. What if he had made the same choices, but the situation worked out favorably for him? Would he have still “gotten what he deserved?” Many a liar, cheater and swindler have prospered and faltered and many a “good man” have done the same. The world that you loved one is living in is wretched and wicked, and emotionally painful. They already know it. They are living in hell on earth. Fear and pain form calluses on our soul that never heal quite right on their own. Please, stop talking about them, stop praying about them, and start praying FOR them. They want you. They need you. They are desperate despite what they tell you. If you are still asking why, stop. The clinical answer will never suffice. Don't ask, “Why aren't you eating?”. Feed them. Don't ask, “When's the last time you bathed?” Run the water and lay out a towel. Offer to carry them to a doctor, not the police. Stop screaming and start loving. If you really want to know why? Look in the mirror. You are strong and they are weak. You stopped loving them when you started judging them. When they needed you most you faced society and turned your back on them… you're so called loved one. Turn back. Please.