When the Honeymoon is Over

I am sitting here on the wc seat thinking aloud.
I have no father and I have no mother.
They are dead. Long dead.
And I am not married and no child.
No. I am not scared of marriage.
I love women as I loved my mother.
May her peaceful soul rest in peace.
She was one of a kind. My own Mother Theresa.
Women are not the problems in this world.
Of course the devil is not a woman.
Jezebel was a woman?
Because King Ahab was a coward and a fool and he was not man enough to discipline the stubborn wife.
This is not why I am still here in the closet.
But, I am bothered by so many existential issues that we often misunderstand and that is why I want to pass them out. And I have a deodorant here just in case it begins to stink.
My festering thorns are pricking my heart and soul.
I am speaking from the closet of my heart.
Just reason with me for a moment, please.

The intimate confessions continue in my latest short narrative, Sorry, My Name Is Not Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

There are two more of my intimate writings. The following are critical political commentaries on local and global issues of current affairs.

When Two Africans Woke Up This Morning

Dear Americans, Our House Is Also On Fire