I’m letting the Lent in because I’m a reckless lover. I tattooed your name at the bottom of my sole so that I would always walk in your direction. I have a banjo on my knee, a harp in between my toes and a harmonica playing through my ears. You turned me into a musician. I need to let the Lent in so that I can sing to you my last song.
This heavy footed love that thunders through life leaving tellable prints everywhere it goes. You called a meeting and invited all your board members from around the world to discuss how my thoughtless love tore you apart. The 40 days ahead of us will teach me how to unlove you and you will be left with those that don’t care. I apologise for my heart that knows no bounds.
It can’t be by coincidence that this weekend on Women’s Day, my name will once again appear in print. They will write that I have played a huge role in writing in Uganda and elsewhere. You and I know it’s really because my hasty heart has honed hundreds into heroes and sheroes. No more. It excludes me. Loving you excludes me. It discolours my contact lenses so that the colour of your hair is haloed and hallowed. Not this time. I’m letting the Lent in.
I was never a whiner, only a shiner. I was never a victim, only victorious and glorious. Manifestations of this will ripple to you. I promised I would teach you to bungee jump. It’s perilous and requires trust and blind faith. It’s not the bungee jump I’m talking about now.