For those Moments

In which there are no words;

When all has been swallowed

By the empty laughter

That rings against vastness,


But not entirely failing,

To fill the unpronounceable thing

You refuse to give a name,

Saving yourself from the grim deed

Of enunciating a clear epitaph,

I am sorry–

As I am sure many before me are,

And many after me will be;

In the knowledge that it is easier to lift and hold,

The mass of weightless laughter,

Than to kneel with your hands and head,

In a sort of obeisance to nameless things,

While trying to hold weighted clear pearls,

Slipping through your fingers,

In a flood of wet beads around your knees.


K.N.O.W. Thursday, August 20, 2015. 15:28 hrs

The Flip Side of the Coin

So last week I had to let a few things off my chest regarding my mother. Once I got them out, I found that I really didn’t feel quite as angry anymore, so I think my objective side just may be returning. As a result, I’ve decided to look at the postive sides, especially considering the fact that Adurna– my longest bestie- said that I made the woman appear like a fire-breathing dragon. Being a teenager, we tend to view our parents in such a way based on many factors, in some cases simple miscontrued perspectives,cases where there really are issues, pressure from school clashing wtih home life, etc. So here goes.

Based on what I’ve been told, my mother decided to keep me against the wishes of my father. He wanted her to abort me. According to one of my mom’s sisters, this turned my mother into something of a joke among her peers, since most people her age usually just went ahead and had abortions performed. While I can’t say for sure whether this was on the basis of religion or a genuine interest in seeing what this little life growing inside her would be like to have around, here I am writing this today.

As the years went along, our family quickly forgot the muddle my mother had gotten herself into, and they all proceeded to spoil me rotten. Mother was still in college at the time, she’d been twenty-one the year she had me, and as such, granny was the one who cared for me during mother’s class days, well until we got some form of a sitter. I’m not sure if mother worked while at college, but for as long as I can remember, she’s been a teacher.

She began working at a primary (elementary level) school in our village,( and eventually moved to become a well respected figure at a major secondary school in our country). There at the primary school, I was a regular little visitor, writing on the chalkboards, playing with the other children, snacking on yummy school biscuits (cookies to the Americans) and eating powdered milk– the really good, rich kind. I was a pet among the teachers, and the students alike.

Since my mother and the rest of the family didn’t want me to waste the brains they’d spent time cultivating to sharp edge, they decided to send me to a private school. Mother worked for quite a while at the primary school, and most of her salary went toward my school fees and the bills that everyday existence racks up. Since my father definitely wasn’t contributing at the time, the brunt of my existence fell upon her. The school fees gradually increased with each academic year, and those costs didn’t include the seperate expenses of the uniform or the textbooks. Luckily for her, I was quite the skimpy child, so my uniforms were spread out quite well throughout the nine and half years I spent at the private school. Since she couldn’t balance the load of my finances alone, gran and the aunts and uncles ( biological and in laws) chipped in to help her out, like I said, I was the baby of the family. Aunty KC- mother’s eldest sister- carried quite a bit of the load regarding my school fees. She and her husband would also take turns dropping me to and from school. When Uncle SLF got back on his feet after a few personal problems, he too contributed to transporting me, and eventually financing me as well.

I cannot deny that the amount of time I spent at the private school greatly influenced the manner in which I grew academically, but my mother also did her part. When I had assignments and homework, she would stay up with me to help me get them completed neatly, and in time; in fact, in our household, no one ever went t0 bed before ten p.m unless they’re sick or completely exhausted. Even when I left the private school and entered the second best (THE best to me) public secondary school in the system, she still helped me with my schoolwork and homework. Not to mention, in all my years of schooling, I’ve always been provided by her, with a home cooked lunch or money to buy what I needed to eat. Even when the SD joined the family, he chipped in as well to our finances, long before they were actually married. As you can see, my mother and family have never been awful to me, compared to some of my peers, I had an amazing life growing up. Things only began to change when all the resentment began building up, and as it built I lashed out without meaning to, and my mother was caught up in a situation she couldn’t quite handle.

Of the two of us, I am probably the more manipulative one. No, I don’t sit around creating evil master plans to bring about my mother’s downfall -___-. What I mean to say/ write, is that I have always been more capable of removing my emotions from a situation and seeing the manner in which it could best be used, thus I am capable of manipulating my environment and the actions of those around me. Now that I’ve shown you the better side of my mother, let’s examine my lashing out.

While I have never been the sneak out of the house and go clubbing sort of person, I do have my rebellious ways. I prefer to lie in bed and read until my book is finished, and this has been my way since I learned to enjoy a good novel or other reading material. As a result, my ability to obey commands has always been slow in the execution, and it’s usually worse because once I’m otherwise occupied, the command goes into one ear, and sails out the other. Frankly, I forget. Along with this, has been the manner in which I speak; sometimes I can come off as sounding condescending or arrogant, and when one is conversing with a parent, that certainly doesn’t cut it. Also, the older I’ve grown, the less patient and tolerant I’ve become, which can of itself create a problem when it extends into relations with those who have authority over me. Not to mention, when it comes to certain aspects of my life, like my spirituality and my friends, having my mother attempt to control those areas via confiscating my technology when I refuse to acknowledge who I’ve been speaking to or whether I remembered to read my Bible before I hop onto the laptop, have constantly been nuisances to me. The fact that she did have the right to do so then does not escape me, however it irks me that at this stage, she still desires to exert that much control in matters that are no longer hers to handle, and as such, I find simple ways to rebel where they are concerned. Since my mother usually tells my aunts about every little thing that I do, and don’t do, my aunts and my now deceased grandmother, were convinced and are convinced that I am a selfish spawn of the devil himself

 \_(‘/)_/ , thus throwing my rebellious nature into the current power struggle be tween I and the mother. I guess the fact that I detest socialising and prefer to stay in my room, most definitely does not help the situation. I am pushing back against the force and authority that my mother exerts over my life, and as such, I am equally responsible for the current state of affairs.

So no, my mother isn’t the proverbial firebreathing dragon, she is simply a frustrated parent.


Kadeen Nichelle Oksana Waldron

July 9,2012

How Do I Cry?

How Do I Cry?

Tears sparkle between my lashes
As downcast eyes search the barren, dark sky.
Trails of memories float swiftly by
On the cold winds of the lonely night,
Covered in dense, grey clouds.

Pain stabs at my heart
With each breath of my lungs;
Each beat of my heart;
Each tear that never falls;

For every moment that I hurt
and never cried,
For every agony that I faced
and never screamed,
For every wound that never healed,
But opened again, and again with searing pain.

Despair fills my soul
As I try so hard to cry.
But how do I perform a skill
I have never learnt?
I can’t shed a tear for each time I felt ashamed.
I can never shed a tear for each memory
That perverts my soul.
I can never undo the single stitch
Of one solemn, pear-shaped tear
Never fallen.

How do I unravel the thread
Of saved tear-stitches so long ago made?
How do I release the renting wail of cloth
never torn?
How do I spoil the weaving spent so long
In creation?
How do I unwind the very case
That protects?
Tell me,
How do I cry?

Kadeen Nichelle Oksana Waldron
Tuesday, September 27, 2011