Brown eyes



I stirred and turned, woken by the sound of beeps and crashing rocks in the mountains to the north. I pushed my blankets to the edge of the bed, I sat up. My feet searched for my slippers, my hands searched for my lamp and found it, its light was dim like a candle in the wind. My eyes searched for my mobile, the best thing HTC did was put a torch in their smart phones that lights up a tent like the sun lights up the Kalahari after a rainy day.

I fought the zip on my tent like a freedom fighter battering the colonial forces, as I stepped out I was greeted by the cold air of a dark night in the namib desert. I made love to a desert rose, made my way to my tent fought the zip again, pulled my still warm blankets onto me and I sighed. My mobile must have been lying to me, it was only midnight, the consequence of going to bed at seven in the evening. I rolled twice almost falling of the bed. I was fighting with sleep again just like I had done for a year in France, then the memories came flooding back, as insomnia lulled me in like the whispers of a goldigger in a short cleavage revealing dress.

As events of the past filled my head, my heart started sinking in my chest as the painful memories flashed across my mind, but they were less painful than the previous time they crossed my mind. Which coincidentally was just the previous night, a night that yielded a poor harvest of sleep. I can run from them but I choose not to, I can never escape. because with the bad comes the good memories, memories of my most happy of times. Then she turns up, my mind starts sketching her face. I remember each contour on her face intimately, I remember most of the contours on her like I saw them yesterday. My mind can paint her face like Santana can play the guitar. My thoughts lose themselves in her like I lost myself into her eyes, those soulful, deep, incredibly piercing brown eyes. Which complement her big ears, her laugh and her teeth (she laughed with me when I teased her about her teeth). It's no wonder my subconscious refuses to confine her to the past.

The greatest percentage of black women have brown eyes. heck! I have yet to see a black woman whose eyes were not a shade of brown. But her eyes were different, she's not just a girl with brown eyes, she is T-H-E girl with big brown eyes. I could see sensuality in those eyes and of course my handsome reflection. There is more to her as well, she makes reasonable sense when she talks, tells the funniest jokes and does not think geological age is a night club. She had way of running her fingers up the inside of my arm that made me almost hyperventilate, which I'm sure she will wrap me over the knuckles for exposing the next time I see her, when I eventually see her. There will be other girls and boy do I love girls, I love them so much that my first born if I live long enough will be a girl. there's is just something in the melange of vulnerability and inflated stubbornness in girls that I find interesting.

My eyes start to tire and my brain starts to shut down as a result of the sandman's deceit. The gods of sleep show gratitude by choosing to show mercy and starve me of sleep another day. When I wake in the morning the first thought on my mind will be the last thought that ran through my mind; the girl with the big brown eyes.


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