Snailing through life and space

I cannot put myself together,
To whom I was before,
Having left fragmented pieces of me
Along the way,
Snailing through time and space.

I cannot rearrange myself to my before,
Having lived apart all the years afore,
Hidden under a bridge of time and space,
Are the fragments of my memories,
Woven inside a huge pipe of experiences,
Livened by the high stench of waste and of life.

I cannot put myself together,
To whom I was before,
Driven to despair,
Are the labyrinths of my identity,
In the slums of experience,
Deep in the heart of squatter camps.

Sewn to my identity,
Are the traits of fear,
Associated with isolated dark alleys of ekasi,
Stitched to me,
Not by a number of mobile phones “lost”
But by wounds of knives and screwdrivers.
Sworn to my experience
Is the posh life of the city,
Tottering tenements,
“Extended” family—from all over Africa,
All sharing amenities and life,
Masking all terrors of life
in booze and laughter.

Hence, I cannot be myself again,
Having lived as you and them,
Having been here and there,
Home and identity is now,
        where I was, whom I was,
        where I am, who I am, and
        where I will be, and who I will become.
All understood through space and time, and
To God
Be the grace.

Also by this poet:

• Memories of a Hut in Issue 2