Dear Fate,

Random poems, blogs maybe, spontaneous

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Like a Lantana Flower

Today I received lantana flowers, In the purest form of love. At six and twelve, They know how to express their feelings, They know how to care, They will be great men.

These thoughtfully handpicked flowers, A gesture of genuine and kind love. The yellow for life, The pink for femininity, These are delicate and stunning flowers, As delicate as my heart, As stunning as my soul. They have bloomed this spring.

In case you didn’t know, Lantanas grow in the tropics of Africa and America, And in recent years, other parts of the world too. Although they are fragile and pretty, They are medicinal. I feel my stomach upset no more after holding them, I feel my heart is calm.

When the boys gave me these, they didn’t know all this, But they knew love. They knew, like lantanas need sun and moisture, I needed love to bloom. Just as lantanas can resist heat and drought, I have resisted the toughest of this season.

If you ever hold a lantana plant, You will feel its prickly stem. I am in the most impure and prickly state, Yet thought of, loved, And deserving of these magnificent flowers.

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Baraka's Birth

I was worried when I first pulled him by the forelimbs. He slipped from my hands. I quickly took soil mixed with leaves and rubbed it on my palms. I could see his nose— He was breathing. I was excited and scared, Or scared and excited.

I nudged his mother, I talked to him to be brave and strong. "Three, two, one—" Half of his body slipped out of his mother. One more push. I nudged the mother again. Soon, she rose and swirled around. He dropped to the ground. She licked him clean— Only a mother can.

His brown coat shone beneath sun's rays through the cypress tree. He was soon ready to suckle. I was mesmerised, proud of this moment. His name is Baraka, Our calf was born on 7th March 2025— Just a month after my birthdate.

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No Shame in Dignity

Life’s problems are private, They are mostly shame, And if you dare say otherwise, You should be ashamed.

Many have walked in shame, For they have problems— Men who couldn’t shave, Women without sanitary towels.

That said, my most embarrassing problem In the last 366 days Has been lacking tampons— So basic, yet so shameful.

I dreaded leaving the toilet seat for hours.

Then he shared how he needed a haircut. I risked using the boy's private clippers, I disinfected thoroughly afterwards.

It didn’t clean his problems; It restored his dignity.

Human life is about dignity. As long as we are alive, We are not private, because Everyone who hasn’t attended our funeral Is aware that we are breathing.

So there is no privacy, There is no shame— Just no dignity.

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Dear Vladimir,

Thank you for being my faithful companion through the sweetest and toughest days. You carried me across new cities, quiet lakes, and even lonelier moments, drying my tears and lifting my spirits when I needed it most. With every ride, you brought me freedom, courage, and a sense of belonging. Now, as you begin a new journey with a new friend, I hope you bring them the same joy and comfort you gave me. You will always have a special place in my heart and memories.

Goodbye, my gentle Vladimir. Ride on, and keep spreading happiness wherever your wheels take you.

With love, E.K-chosen

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Vladimir

We’ve known each other for such a short time, Too short, too sweet a moment to define.

A few months ago, my Dutch colleague sold me Vladimir for 10 CHF, But this gentle Dutch bike was worth far more than his price. I hesitated—not because I was already poor— I needed Vladimir.

Too intimidated to ride him at first, I walked him thirty minutes home. Built for a tall girl, perhaps 6’0”, At 5’6”, I struggled, But love made me stubborn.

Days later, I marched into Decathlon, Bought a pressure pump, a bell, and other accessories— Vladimir began to change my life.

Three Sundays I rode him to church, My first time in a decade Since compulsory high school mass. We explored Lake Geneva daily, Took photos, loved life.

I showed Vladimir Geneva’s city and villages, Our souls intertwined like spokes and rim. Vladimir has been my only companion at my worst, And has beaten loneliness with me. I have cried a river, and Vladimir dried my tears. At my lowest in the past year, Vladimir held me close.

One day, his tires fell low— The pump I’d bought confused my hands. Luckily, our residence’s communal pump saved us, And I rode him fiercely until our abrupt goodbye.

When I needed to give Vladimir new love, I was not selling him. I gave him, with love and a card for his birthdays, To a young refugee student from Ethiopia, A fellow East African. I hope he loves Vladimir. As I unpack in another country, I am in tears for my lost love yet again.

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366 days without Dignity

366 days of no dignity Maybe more but I recorded a year, A time that’s been of turmoil , Maybe more but I have a record of numbness from despair The faithful would tell you it will be ok But the living will tell you when your dignity is stripped away is it ok?

366 days I asked myself, Should I pen this down? I guess the answer is in here. A woman who cannot afford tampons has nothing left to be ashamed off That in its own sense is Shame

366 days I was positive without dignity, and then it ran out Some tell you it’s depression, seek counselling and be optimistic It’s not depression, it’s the emptiness, the unworthiness, the dead end Who survives 366 days?

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This longing

I've never known how to explain this longing, this quiet ache that settles deep in my bones. It's a feeling that's both familiar and terrifying, like a constant hum beneath the surface of my life. It's the kind of longing that makes ordinary moments feel incomplete, like a melody missing its final note. And it's all because of you.

More than the sharp sting of heartbreak, I fear losing you. It's not just the romantic kind of "losing" – although that terrifies me too – but a deeper, more fundamental loss. It's the fear of losing your presence in my life, your laughter, your perspective, the way you make me feel seen and understood, even when we're miles apart. It's the fear of losing the potential of us, whatever that may be.

Years have drifted by, marked by weeks of silence. Weeks where I replay our conversations in my head, searching for hidden meanings, for clues that I haven't completely faded from your thoughts. Each time I reach for my phone, my heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. It's a wild, hopeful beat, a desperate plea for connection. It feels like it might actually leap from my chest, desperate to bridge the distance between us and finally be free to be near you. It's a foolish hope, perhaps, but it's a hope I can't seem to extinguish.

This longing isn't something I can easily explain. It's woven into the fabric of my days, coloring my thoughts and dreams. It's in the way I notice things that remind me of you – a song, a scent, a particular shade of light. It's in the quiet moments when I find myself wondering what you're doing, who you're with, if you ever think of me too.

And the silence... the silence is the hardest part. It amplifies the longing, makes it sharper, more insistent. It leaves me wondering, questioning, hoping against hope that one day, the silence will break, and I'll hear your voice again. And maybe, just maybe, I'll finally find the courage to tell you how I truly feel. To explain this longing, this fear, this hope that's all tangled up with you.

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The Truth Is

Image is from Google

Death by suicide, they say, is selfish, A weak move, a sin against God's will. It defies the norms—social, cultural, political— It disrupts the rhythm of every day.

At the last straw, with family looking up to you, When you have nothing left to give, How strong can one truly be? Is this, too, God's will?

The social, cultural, political eyes— They watch, they judge, they criticize, With arms folded or akimbo, Never reaching, only observing.

Life is not fair; I’ve told this to little ones. The world’s wrath begins even before conception. Born into the wrong place, the wrong time, Among the wrong people—what is the right one anyway?

The mind fractures under the weight: Unseen battles, relentless thoughts, A cacophony of failures, expectations unmet, Whispers louder than screams.

It’s not weakness—it’s exhaustion, The culmination of countless moments, Where the future feels like a closed door, And the present, an unbearable burden.

The truth is, the mind grows silent, Not seeking hope, not asking for help. Just a longing for stillness, For the pain to stop.

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Hanging Loops

One day, during a call: heartbeat.exe raced faster than any thread, and I feared he could hear the echo of my unspoken variables. I debugged my emotions, held them steady, but they threatened to crash my system.

We’ve iterated through endless data points— family, politics, jobs... Ah, jobs. A shared year of "status = jobless;" perhaps he ran on faith's fuel, while I parsed reality with stoic pragmatism.

Call me a pessimist? False. I'm a realist, executing actions on a thread of inner strength, not all can process or embrace.

His belief in divine recursion, a loop of hope coded in his soul, contrasts my algorithm: step-by-step, if-then-else logic meeting destiny's randomness head-on.

Our conversations: long-running scripts without closure, intentionally left in a state of "undefined." He leaves me with ellipses… Was it avoidance or indifference? I don't know, but I let the console.log("hanging") speak for itself.

Our humor scripts don’t sync: He programs clean, wholesome lines, while I import chaos: inappropriate jokes, functions that return laughter from forbidden libraries. His system—flawless, mine—full of glitches.

Yet, as we continue, the code compiles, a hybrid of incompatible yet functional arrays. I don’t know the output we’ll render, but I’d rather live in this infinite loop, even with unresolved exceptions.

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Love is best-served family-style.

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Code Winter

In a city where dreams converge, we met among shared ambitions. A connection like two strings of code, entwined, debugged, but never broken.

Through weeks (0x1A) and months (0x2B), we crafted a program of forever friendship. One cold winter—our shared workspace— where struggles and fights compiled into a bond unyielding.

We've talked in loops, nested conversations of a thousand "what-ifs," but no if-else statement has dared declare a tender truth.

In some parallel universe, a variable (love) exists, but in this reality, I'd rather not execute that script than risk losing you.

You, (0x267), me, (0x254), a cultural array coded into this dynamic function.

And though I may dream of a shared home and futures undefined, I’ve run simulations of all outcomes: whether your heart processes elsewhere, I'll console myself with the console.log("friendship forever").

Because friendship? It’s the root of this program, and I won’t let my love's error handler break the code we've built.