Home

I sit in mother
Warm with sounds of life
Surrounding me.
It’s noisy and peaceful with nature
Green and brown and blue
Cloudy and cool from rain.
The sinewy sweet threads of mangoes
Tangled and stuck in my teeth
The dripping syrup of mango
Coating my tongue
Ravenous for the sugar
Of life
And adventure.
Memories of the honey laughter of familiar souls
Mind sticky with the joy that has quenched
My searching heart.
I swallow
Reminding myself to breathe and savour the sweet mango moment
Of home
To let it settle and nourish me
To the bone.

Hunger and thirst
Inevitable again
They loom on the edges of…
And time winds
And I search for that fruit
Again
That I can’t always recall
Yet know so keenly
Longing for that soft warm embrace
Of home

From my 2025 drafts

I have recently, and serendipitously, encountered a YouTube video of Audre Lorde reading her essay Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power and it uncovered something in me that I knew inherently but had began to forget. I recently left a company that I was at for four years. My experience there left me changed. When I reflect on the erotic as Lorde, Perell, Ayandastood and other thought leaders describe it—which is an “aliveness”— and how shows up in my life, it feels like that moment when you’ve been contorting your body to try and find that sweet spot of stretch. What I meant to say is that I realise I have been having a deadening experience. It has been some months since I left and I am returning to my self. I am feeling inspired again, and not just inspired, there has been action after inspiration. I am returning to my deep and livening love of learning, of consuming knowledge. I feel as though I am opening my eyes again for the first time and I am seeing bright vibrant colours, seeing not just sunlight, but the magical stream of light that is choosing to take rest on my deep brown skin, light that is nourishing the green of grass. I am seeing the way the water glimmers and because I live in the UK, I am guzzling the brief moments of sun like you drink water on a hot summer’s day, desperately. Passionately.

“You have to go the way your blood beats. If you don’t live the only life you have, you won’t live some other life, you won’t live any life at all.” —James Baldwin

So in 2025, I am committing– taking a vow– marrying myself to embodying “aliveness” in my relationships, in my work, in my hobbies, in my habits, in my clothes, in what I consume on social media, in what I eat, in the way I spend my time. I chose to live, in the only way I know how, kindly, messily, quietly then loudly, truly.

Spilled Milk.

I am the child who spilled milk
Paralysed as the white consumes the ground beneath
Seeping into the cracks of the floor
Quenching dry wood
Lost in the thick and brown. 

I am the child who spilled milk
Looking up
Looking for mother as tears leak from my eyes
My stomach churns with guilt and fear and glee.

I am the milk that is spilled
Messy and un-contained 
Refusing to remain within
The constraints of those chambers. 

I am the spilled and spoiled
Ruined by sealed lips and too much
Space 
And too little room.

I am the milk
Cherished and separate. 
Whole and alone
And wanting
Mother.