The Scars We Cover Up

He was a true craftsman, a poet, an author, his mastery of words was his charm, and he was a true reflection of self-confidence. He had style, class and determination that reflected through in that all he did.
He had come from a broken home, with a torn heart, horrific images of his father strangling his mother, hence he breathed hopelessness, his blood boiled with rage and his stomach had endured hunger pains as “daddy” drowned in another green bottle.
As he randomly chatted up random ladies and often was complimented for his charisma, optimism and sense of humor, no one ever noticed the scars in his heart, covered by godly designed ribs and flesh, and a perfectly peaceful smile.

She had a million dollar body, shaped like an hourglass, timeless, and a billion dollar walk to compliment it. She had a perfectly cheerful smile, bright and beautiful, and her confidence could move mountains, or so most people thought.
She had been blessed with a baby, and simultaneously cursed with a clumsy operation that cut almost half of her stomach off, it was now a scar, but still a fresh wound to her that bled uncontrollably every single night she uncovered her expensive garment.

She had a perfect life, so he thought.
He had a perfect life, so she thought.


My Self-Esteem

To say I have a low self-esteem would be a lie, although I’m sometimes skeptical to call it high.
I think of myself as average in every possible way, and that’s just euphemism for dull as they come.
I do not drink, smoke or club, I spend most of my time indoors writing articles, reading books and watching documentaries on how to acquire wealth; I’m as dull as they come.

When I was younger I wasn’t a very fluent speaker, my aunt would imitate my sloppy voice that I grew up too afraid to voice my thoughts and feelings fearing focus would not be on my content but rather my “funny” voice, funny isn’t it?
In high school I was “slightly” overweight, and at home they treated being fat like a “deficiency”. I remember my aunt showing me the Eddie Murphy movie The Nutty Professor so I knew “the handicaps of being fat”, as if the tight pants that I wore in grade 9 weren’t enough torture, and the fact that a girl I used to crush on once spanked my ass because it looked like a girl’s, damn it.


I have never been handsome, smart, excelled in academics or athletics that I was a center of attention, and Lord knows how desperate I have been to get noticed somehow.

Am I confident in myself though? I would like to think I am. I have made peace with my “deficiencies”, focused on maximizing my strengths, and realized that what really matters in life is how you impact other peoples’ lives whilst just living your own, hence I have made it a personal mission of mine to make people feel good about themselves.

Again, am I really confident? I am not confident that if I ever asked Beyoncé out she would say yes, but I am confident that with my words I can make someone feel good about themselves as much as I’d like to believe Beyoncé does about herself.


My aunt really screwed me over, but I’m partly to blame, I should have known making one more sandwich on a full stomach was a bad idea.

I have really struggled fitting in the society, so much that when I think back of college I only imagine the weirdo my classmates must have figured I was, and as for the rest of the schoolmates I doubt they even noticed me as I was defeated by painful hunger pains, abusive background, bad choices and a paraffin stove odor; I have truly come a long way.

God has blessed me; I have been through a storm and because of it I have learned some of the most valuable lessons in life; some which are more valuable than everything I ever learned in college, combined.

And for the last time, am I really confident in myself? Yes, so much that I don’t even need to prove it to no one. My life matters, I know it, I believe in it and I let it shine through every fiber of my being without making it anybody’s burden.


About Ubuntu

When I joined WordPress I never introduced myself properly, my apologies, I’d like to rectify my mistake, hopefully it’s not too late.

Ubuntu is my legacy. Most artists’ earlier work is never discovered, and I’d be dammed if the same happened to mine, so I’ve decided to store my stories, articles and poetry here, to make it easier for future literature scholars to discover them some day, and share them with a larger audience hopefully.

I have struggled a lot, from my parents leaving me to be raised by grandparents who never truly wanted to, as I struggle with sharing a sense of belonging to this very day. To living with my dad and stepmom, daddy was an alcoholic so he never truly was around and stepmom drew a line so vivid between “step” and “mom” that even a blind person could see it. Needless to say it didn’t work out in the end, so my aunt took me in, but reminded me every single day that nobody else wanted me, manipulated my gratitude and expected to be sung praises to like she was in fact God, The Book Of Yeezus. Mom only returned around my 10th grade, she and dad had reconciled by then, but he was then unemployed due to his alcoholism which significantly consumed him, so he was a nightmare to live with, not only were we that poor, but we were also abused, so picture being kicked in your “empty” stomach for no bloody reason at all.

Long story short, it is indeed a miracle to be sitting behind a computer screen and writing articles instead of being in a grave, or facing time in a maximum security prison. The day I had to grace prison, the victim dropped all charges. He gave us a second chance, as God did in countless instances that my crew “collided” with other crews and we came back in one piece. And God gave me a second chance, when he ensured my absence the day my close friend stabbed a man to death and was sentenced 25 to life.

My greatest tales are my greatest shames. No one has ever truly understood me, my high school teachers told me I had no potential to be anything at all, fellow students constantly mocked me and ostracized me, that loneliness has stuck with me to this very day, so much that in tertiary I only said about 10 words in a 3-year whole course, and in every job I’ve ever had I’d just read my book peacefully during lunch breaks that eventually co-workers would get me fired.

I’m currently unemployed, so this blog is to keep busy, make new friends and prevent insanity. I will tell you a lot about myself, assume a lot about you and the world around us, if you have so much time to yourself as I do, you happen to become very “creative”, trust me. Hopefully someone out there will relate, even it’s just one person, I will have fulfilled my duty.

I dream big, too big, and I want everyone with dreams as big as mine to know that they are not crazy, and to not let non-dreamers discourage them anyhow, even if it’s your best friend, lover or even your mama, they can’t tell you what you can or cannot be, the world is your oyster.

And to my dad, Rest in Peace Cowboy, we have forgiven you, forgive yourself as well. To my late son, daddy loves you so much, and he would have climbed mountains and swum with sharks just so you could have one good ass life, Rest in Peace young solder.

And to the rest of the world, I appreciated you reading this to these very last words, and hopefully it’s not the last time.

Thank you so much, and my apologies again for not doing this sooner.


Music Is Life

More times than I can remember music has been the only friend for me. It has been there when there was no one, no one to talk to me, no one to listen to but music. A friend told me that he once heard rapper Eminem say that if weren’t for Hip-Hop he would have committed suicide a long time ago, I can’t exactly say the say for me, but I just cannot imagine what I would have been if there was no music to comfort me.

I started writing music in my 8th grade I think, and to this very day I still do. From the 10th grade to my tertiary years I lived with my parents and it was not a healthy environment, especially for children. I remember I’d never be around when they both were, I’d just go to my room, lock myself in and get my rhyme book I call it, and just start writing. Back then I wrote so many songs that I had a big black plastic full of finished rhyme books, and when I didn’t feel like writing I’d get all my old rhyme books and recite songs acapella until I passed out.

I’ve always invested in earphones (well at this point I’ve upgraded to headphones), I’d only go to the kitchen for the food, eat, smoke a cigarette and go straight to my room, put on my earphones, turn the volume up to maximum and escape this world, I’d wake up to a shockingly disturbing loud blast in my ears at about one AM, like oh sh*t!! I must have passed out with my music on, again.

Truth is; my parents had a very disturbing relationship. You could never spend time with them together without having to watch them fight about any and everything, and the insults they threw at each other carelessly were too graphic for a child’s imagination. So nothing ever made sense to me, it’s like my world fell apart before it even took form, honestly, I gave up in life before I even tried. A very large portion of me believed the quarrels were instigated by father, I could have never blamed my mother, a humble country girl who worked in other people’s houses, crossed towns on bare feet and would never tire of it all just to feed us, whilst my father was a very disturbing alcoholic who had given up working because it interfered with his drinking schedule, ate everything he could found in the fridge just to mock mom’s hard work and laid hands on a woman who had subsequently assumed his role as the head of the house.

I despised him so much, so I did with life and everything that came with being alive. I loved my elder sister and my younger brother so much, still do, and maybe as much as music actually. This one time I was up late at night watching music videos when a song by RnB icon Babyface came on, it’s called Sorry for the stupid things. That song literally saved my life, it changed the way I looked at my parents’ relationship, it made me to consider that maybe I did not understand, and yes I really didn’t understand why father had quit his job, had been so “devoted” to green and brown bottles as well as why he said such harsh things to us and lay hands on such a beautiful woman. I did not understand, I also didn’t understand why she stayed, why she put up with him, still fed him, and even did his washing after she had been so tired after walking home from one of her many piece jobs.

But I did understand though. I understood that I would never understand, that I needed to take my eye off them for a minute and focus on myself a bit, rebuild my will to live, my confidence and that positive outlook I once had on life back when I lived with grandma.