Neally Chingombe
Bio
I am a young African girl, who enjoys expressing her self through short stories and poetry. Love focusing on the world I grew up in, and the parallels I know see as as I view the world through another lens.
Stories (2)
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The Swan's Egg
* A fork. * A fork, cup, pan, * and oil. Basic essentials to make * A perfectly fried egg. Ohh and heat. * Maybe some salt if you like to tantalize * the taste buds, we are so eager to please. * Those of the gentler species would see mishaps, * Well, the speckles of the shell, the freckles if I am * Myself am kind, as great necessary imperfections … * They lead to some grandeur of beauty, a necessary evil * BREATHE That leads to unique. BREATHE * Something to be admired, treasured despite its shortcomings * To be truly beneficial to humans as to distinguish one chicken egg * From the other. The devourer knows no difference to appearance – * it is bestowed on him by grace of an upset stomach. *Regardless of unique under the bosom of the mother the egg finds shelter. *A place where care and love feed of each other, in the warmth of a Mother- * A sweet-sweet innocence. * Though my lips have moved do you not hear, ohh great tiger. Hear me. * Or are you lion? I am an enemy? Your seed who dares to breathe. Mum * I know not what I have done. I see pain as you claim someone’s son. * I felt it edged into your back, where you cradled my hot tears till I slept. * An open wound my resemblance tore apart as it dug deeper into the * Dreams unmet. BREATHE * A name whose one half bore a constant red scribble beneath * And the other a name accepted by the conventions of English… * It was also there on your back, I learnt heartbreak in black and blue. * Screams rung loud as each word would touch you without consent. * And now I ,stand with feet worn down being frozen by the pale Tiles, * I now call home. It is here that I miss you most, hunger deep * With an cracked egg in one hand, as my memory * Serves me another dose * BREATHE Of your smile. * A pain I know no end of. Love and hatred are common folks. Kind. * But strangers to peace, when they are allies. But it is way easier to * Hate you, than it is to accept the burden your partner has left. . * You gave me life, shelter, and an education. At times you . * Would lay with me as sickness engulfed my small body * In flames. I heard stories of your sleepless nights, when * You knew not of my return. Baby after baby. Dead. * As you watched other mothers cry next to you. * In return I give to you … * Blood now covers the portion my finger * Covers, as part of its shell pierces my * Flesh. * But who am I to complain, When you? * Ohh Helen, dear Helen of Troy. * Shared a womb. Mother- * Unknown. Born in an * egg.
By Neally Chingombe5 years ago in Poets
In the Middle
As I got older the number of streets that made up my life grow too. Given this only added 5 to 20-minute drive radius to the house, it was more than I could dream off. Able to now partake in the story telling of day to day complaints of visiting these areas, with my high school friends, I found ways to explore these forbidden realms.
By Neally Chingombe5 years ago in Families
