As the title suggests, The Broken Mirror is a story that reflects on the aftermath of a couple’s marital failure. Like a mirror’s reflection, it makes obvious the consequences of divorce on children. The Broken Mirror is a family drama with unique twists as a bedrock to its plot. The tragic story follows the family as the children grow into adulthood.
Raheem, friends with Joke, twin sister to Shade, narrates the story. The title comes from Raheem’s diary. The relationship struggles of Bode and Cynthia, parents to Shade and Joke, get mirrored in the lives of their two daughters.
After incessant quarrels became the order of the day in the family, Cynthia hired legal luminary Ken and filed for divorce from Bode. Cynthia and Ken later married, and Joke lived with them in Calabar while Shade lived with her father, who was devoted to her and also chose not to remarry.
Heartbroken and enraged after the divorce, Bode lied to Shade, telling her that her mother and sister had died and that no one should ever mention their names again. Joke also grew up hating her father and twin sister, feeling that they had abandoned her.
Bode also lost his job and livelihood due to the divorce and a nasty smear campaign.
Ken abandoned Cynthia and Joke and was never seen again after that. After a rough childhood due to her father’s joblessness, Shade fell in love with a young man, Emeka, and got engaged. Joke grew up angry, looking forward to the day she would get back at Shade, whom she believed had stolen away their father’s affection.
Bode passed away after a lingering battle with leukemia and Cynthia died of cancer. One day, Joke realized that Shade was still alive, about to marry Emeka. This set a tragic chain of events in motion that took the lives of both Emeka and Joke.
After Emeka’s violent death, Joke’s friend Raheem found Emeka’s diary and was able to piece together this twisted tale of family relations.
you won’t hear a friend out of me. the earth is flat.
Summer ends. You buy a bag of carrots. You take the bag of carrots home. You open a bag of carrots..
‘Hey, is anyone one in there?’
Nothing. Nothing n the bag of carrots but the quietness of carrots.
You ask again but louder.
easter hymnal
how to poison eggs:
pacific ocean. joaquin phoenix. tulips. rimbaud. fish. dead editors. birds of sudan. soldiers playing with beetles. when they make a movie about you, you disappear. baking competitions. a river with no name. things that bother you. alphabet spaghetti. the sound of an approaching train. rivers that begin with the letter q. kurt cobain’s last dream. too long in the sun. mary magdalene’s 1991 donruss rookie card. jay feathers. virtue signaling. cool breeze. napoli. scuffed knees. paint factory. street signs facing the wrong way.
What do people mean by “exotic” in travel? A term influenced by personal preference and experience, exotic may have a different meaning for someone never having left their home town, than from someone who has wandered the globe. Merriam Webster offers four explanations for the word, with only one that would pertain to travel; strikingly, excitingly, or mysteriously different or unusual. I would vow that Varanasi, India would certainly qualify for such a definition, by even the most accomplished world traveler.
Varanasi, a sacred place, where Hindus get a leg up on karma, provides them with a back door to nirvana. If one dies in Varanasi, the atman, or soul attains moksha, a release from incarnation. Thousands travel to this final leg of existence to liberate themselves, and become one with Brahman.
On the latter end of a circle tour of India, I arrived in Varanasi. I wandered the back streets— a maze of narrow lanes between high walls washed with ocher, indigo and red oxide. Brightly colored saris and scarves draped store fronts, and gift shops glittered with gold and gem studded jewelry. I was glad I brought a good size tote bag to hold my treasures, for hundreds of shops offered a plethora of goods ranging from the erotic to the mundane.
Determined looking women in kurtis and saris, brushed by me, and aged men in white linen, gathered in tea shops. I hopscotched my way around clods of fresh and dried dung, remnants of holy beasts left to roam on their own. When I encountered one or more cattle blocking my way, a good swat on the flank got them moving. Occasionally, I came across a funeral procession, where bearers carried bodies, shrouded in colorful linens, upon stretchers to their cremation site. A single family member, carrying an urn, accompanied them, making sure of proper care for the deceased. The air filled with the aromas of jasmine incense and garam masala, eventually enticing me into a local food establishment for some savory chicken tikka masala, which I washed down with a cup of chai tea.
After I explored the labyrinth of back alleys that made up the heart of the city, I wandered through passages headed east, eventually breaking through the cool, dense shaded darkness of the ancient urban environment. I shielded my eyes from the glaring sun, as I stepped out onto the broad ghats (steps) running down to and along the banks of the Ganges.
Atop the vast stairways, ancient temples and commercial buildings stood overlooking the Ganges Valley. Above the buildings loomed numerous shikara or temple spires gilded in gold or painted in bright colors. Hundreds of men and women gathered at the bottom of the ghats, purifying their souls, as they bathed in the holy waters. At various times of the day, ritualized ceremonies took place at platforms irregularly placed along the steps, and cremations occurred on a daily basis. The entire facade of the city flanking the river appeared other worldly, particularly in the early morning mist. Yet, it was at night when Varanasi became its most exotic, with the culmination of Ganga Aarti, the ritual paying homage to the River Ganges.
I rented a boat with an oarsman, who took me out on the river about an hour before sundown.
Once moored, the boat aligned with the current, allowing me a full view of the holy city, from the bottom of the ghats up to the temple facades and the tall spires. As the sun began to set and darkness descended over the city, various sources of fire began to move about the ghats. The figures of white robed priests, and funeral entourages became visible in the flickering of torchlights, casting moving shadows up and across the stairs and on the walls of the buildings.
Ignited cow dung and ghee fueled fires that slowly rose form the Pyres of previously stacked wood, as Jiva (humans) were given Antyesti, their last rites. At the Dashashwamedh ghat, a long wide concrete platform sat within the middle of the stairs. Across the front of it stood a high metal frame, composed of eight arches, topped with umbrellas, their exposed ribs outlined with tiny lights. Bright flood lights shown down upon the stage, giving a clear view of the activities that took place below. Priests gathered, and lit large brass candelabras, and urns filled with incense, which they held aloft in their hands, as they began to dance to a cacophony of ringing bells, the rhythm of tabla, and the deep vocalization of chants.
Movement in the murky water suddenly caught my eye. A naked body bobbed past the boat. It was the carcass of a deceased monk, who by custom, was not cremated, but weighted and placed in the river, his tethers having come loose. Clouds of smoke from various sources of fire set about the stage, enhanced the supernatural atmosphere of the evening. I became transfixed by it all. It was as if Yama, the God of death, had prematurely selected me. But unready, I remained in a nether world of fire and water between the earth and the land of the Gods.
Early the next morning I went back out onto the river, accompanied by a young priest. When dawn broke, he began a low resonant chant to the god of light. As I faced east, daylight slowly spread out across the sky. Turning west, I watched the city begin to glow in the bright amber light of the morning sun. Wisps of smoke rose from the remnants of the previous night’s pyres, as men poked through ashes, and swept up the detritus of men’s souls. A trickle of Hindus began to clamor down the ghats towards the Ganges. Within a short time, the steps were covered with a multitude of people, all seeking to bathe away their sins.
Unique in the world for its culture, architecture and etherial ambiance, Varanasi provided me with a once-in-a-lifetime travel experience. For those of you seasoned, and unseasoned travelers seeking out that striking, exciting, or mysterious and unusual travel adventure, Varanasi may just be your Nirvana.
When she’s gone No more endearing smile to greet my return or laugh at wry and corny puns. No caress of the neck or tender rub of the arm. An absence of affection even in inconsequential moments. When she’s gone A silence in place of wistful songs of love. No more care in moments of need. An absence of knowing she will be there, always, but then not there.
When she’s gone A longing for words that admonished when things went wrong, and yet its demand required. A hole of improvement to be filled, but left undone. When she’s gone No pride of her dance and woven skills. The joy of accomplishment left behind, as costumes hang lifeless, and towels and scarves lay hidden in drawers, no longer given.
When she’s gone No feeling of wanting, of sexual yearn. A reassurance of manhood, as this figure waned. Her body still haunting after years of toil and age.
When she’s gone A lack of anticipation for things to come. No crazy impulses to thrill the hour. A day at the ocean, now only nostalgic as waves wash over the the memories of the water sign that was her.
When she’s gone A hush reigns where voices rang out in congenial times. Her gregariousness no longer dampening my loneliness. She was best for me in many ways. Now I am left once again on my own, to muse and remember, for she is gone.
Alas Love
She was complicated—an enigma Yet, I loved being lost in the labyrinth of her being She was a mystery—a contradiction but, I reveled in the dissonance of her dance
She was contrary—anti everything However, I was proud of her taking her stands. She was sensual—erotic And I laid my libido bare for her.
She was mysterious—a riddle And I willingly followed all of her clues.
She was magic—a clever trickster and I foolishly fell under her spell
She was a vagabond—a wanderer Abandoned, I now stand alone with only her story to tell.
Fat Jack
Jack Sprat ate no fat, and I should do the same. Alas, I lust as lions eye the bearded gnu on plain. A true carnivore am I. Order rare and fresh at bistro Jeaunty, Slicing thick or thin, no matter, scales will never haunt me.
I yearn for those crackling chicharrones, I’d even dice them with macaronis. Ham for this Christmas? I plead for more, My Jewish spouse, responds in horror.
No no. she screams, as it is trayf. Then pastrami, I say, for it is safe. There’s more to lean than meats the eye. A dollop of fat in mince meat pie. No sating my taste for adipose tissue. to hell with calories, they’re not my issue. So, here I sit in banquet’s scene, knives at ready, well honed and keen.
A roast afore me all marbled and mean. I’m ready to lick that platter clean.
Fica/Fico
Succulent fruit of ebon sheath, more alluring than Eden’s own temptation. Plucked when size matters, spewing it’s sticky milk; oozing, dripping, clinging.
Within it’s dark shroud lay a hidden blush of pink delight. Spread by gentle fingers, a soft, moist gel of suspended seed ready to be sampled, licked, sucked. A taste of strawberry jam, sweet and sticky on the tongue. A tip slowly lapping up forbidden flesh, sensing it’s texture, viscous, gelatinous, viscid.
An orgasmic release of gustation, requiring reflection, while savoring the next moment of oral satisfaction, pleasure, fulfillment.
Fig, your broad lobed leaf indeed, need cover thy shameful fruit.
There’s a stylish tattoo That is waiting for you, First given in West Africa. It’s not a tattoo You can see, But most likely, It will be free. It will allow you To come and to go, To get some of the things That you need. It will tell the man Things about you; Just about everything That he needs.
A few years ago, maybe five, I was supervising and working with a man who was doing community service for a crime that he says he didn’t commit. We were removing ivy from an area around the tool yard of Tryon State Park south of Portland Oregon USA. Two police cars showed up and informed us that they had a coyote with a broken back that had to be killed because the injury was fatal. It had been hit by a car about a mile away on Terwilliger Boulevard which borders the park. They told us to get behind one of the buildings while the shooting took place. We heard more than one shot, making me wonder about their marksmanship.
Afterwards, I thought that I had not reacted well, but then who expects to have a coyote mercy killing interrupt one’s day? I should have either tried to send the police to contact the park ranger before the shooting or done it myself. No one wants unexplained shooting in a state park. The police had explained beforehand that there was no better place to go in the residential neighborhood surrounding the park. Shooting in someone’s yard would have been worse.
Afterwards I explained what happened to the ranger, who was not pleased. The carcass was refrigerated for the possibility of taxidermy for addition to the park’s beaver and other stuffed animals.
****************************************
Coyote sightings were more common at the time this happened. We saw one a few blocks from our house. A couple crossed our path in Tryon. We later learned that there was a coyote family in the park. Same couple and pup? We were warned not to leave out pet food for fear of feeding coyotes and pets being killed. There was at least one report of a cat killing by a coyote, which was at first feared to be some twisted ritual killing by humans. At the time, some were worried about attacks by coyotes on humans. Nothing like that happened, but we were disconcerted by the fearlessness of the coyotes that we encountered.
Other animal sightings are becoming more common. In the last few years, unverified cougar observations have happened within a few miles of where we live in residential areas and the first killing by a cougar in Oregon was recorded on a hiking trail.
My love had style. Irony. The sketches of subtle pleasure and pain. The resentment that comes with frustration. His motion hollowed out something in me. Perhaps a hollowed out bitterness. There was a yellow river in his hair. In the palms of his hands he held something back from me. The life of his family secrets. A room filled with the music of treasure. Earth becomes with weaving. Earth resonates in that most rare personal space of touch. The wide health of touch that makes you feel extraordinary on days hellbent, and filled with winter.
He was grace. He was mercy. When I was with him, I knew what desire was. There was always going to be the possibility of silence between us in the early hours of the morning. We had nothing to talk about. Nothing to say after the dry thirst that followed the physical act of the sexual transaction. I always felt apologetic for the fatigue I felt. I don’t know what he was thinking. What he felt.
He called me ‘doll face’. Now, I don’t look like a doll. A doll wears a painted expression. Rosy cheeks that blossom. A pained smile. I have put on weight around my middle. I haven’t seen him in the past fifteen years. I don’t know what he’s doing right now. Living. All people live. Others do it extraordinarily. Others extremely ordinary. I know what you’re thinking. Why am I here? Why do I come here week after week to rehash the past, to live there as if I was part wild/part history wilderness/part object/part possession? Is it just a sham, this insane vanity that I have to talk about him repeatedly when I come here, now that I am flying solo single handedly?
Even when I was younger, during adolescence I was always drawn to the older man. The man with the accent who served me in a restaurant. Cultured. Educated. The writer. The teacher. The math teacher. The English-English teacher. The film and television production lecturer. Portuguese, British. The introvert. The man ten years older than I was in the summer I turned the lush age of twenty-two.
I thought I would be safe in the city surrounded by buildings. People who did not care for me, about me. Who would not turn their heads to look at me. To acknowledge me. Yes, I thought I was safe. The same way I feel when I come to see you every month. I feel safe here. I feel I can say anything. Know I will not be judged. I remember the electric blueness of the light. Nature was translated into pollution, climate change, global warming, buildings, banks, delis, foot traffic, cars everywhere you looked, grassy parks in the city where men played chess. Time meaning nothing. Time meaning everything.
The first day we met I looked up. Met his gaze head-on, chin up. He did not look away. I did not look away. A flicker of inquisitive excitement filled the void I felt in my heart. I knew what he was thinking. Passion. This was what I was looking for. A boyfriend. To be part of a couple. I was too young to know the difference. The difference between passion, and betrayal. Love in his hands. When he kissed me hard or soft. Gentle. Going all gentle on me.
I knew what his childhood was like without him telling me anything about it. His relationships with his siblings. Rivalry. Abandonment issues. A father addicted to drugs. Alcoholism on my side of the family. Cancer. It was the tapestry of loss that connected us. Love was the photosynthesis of an awakened loophole into place.
I’m apologetic about love now. It’s walls made of brick history. I’m sorry for loving you. The glare has shifted mysteriously. The hours tick on. The clock inside the glass cabinet minding seeds’ growth. He was magic. It’s been one those days. Long, empty. The day dulcet. Elegiacal. Summer burning the nape of my neck, my shoulders. The back of my arms in my sleeveless dress. Admiration.
That’s when it started. I think I admired him with my perfumed hair. I don’t know what he made of me. I was a girl way back then. New to the city. Johannesburg. I think about him like family. That closeness close up, That quiet intimacy that belonged to men and women who find themselves at a loss for words in museums or art galleries or the theater. You see I don’t need people. I was lost in the city. Dust, flowers of plastic rubbish washed away off slick, cement pavements.
What is the meaning of couples anyway? We weren’t a couple in the truest sense of the way. The sky a polychrome blue. His eyes awash with a blue ink. His self control powerful. The control of a man who knows what he wants. Who also knows that he is going to get what wants come hell or high water. My memory is still raw of that day. The flow of the talk was always intense. Yet we could always sit for hours in each other’s presence and not say anything. Lost in our own world. Our own thoughts.
Yes, let us talk about the men in my life. My brother’s remoteness when his girlfriend lived with us for off and on for a year. She moved in with her color television, double bed, chest of drawers, and oven but after the year she was gone again. After that my brother and I were closer than ever. Confiding in each other over the skinniness of cigarettes and lukewarm coffee.
My wiry father’s absence, and abandonment. The Johannesburg men. Powerful men with hybrids of status, and large sedans . Influential men. Men who had the life experience of women and children in their lives. I want to remember them all, and what they meant to me.
‘You’re beautiful. Good girl.’ He whispered. It was always like that.
