But I wouldn’t be in the slightest inspired,
nor would my flesh spoil from the smallest of nicks,
like I’ve never taken a lick,
never taken a kick when I’m down,
been around,
and been unsound of mind,
aching of body,
restless of heart,
anxiety filled with bursting liver rage,
and yet patient,
enjoying the parchment and blood,
like a sage.

None of it without the bitter bile that spoils the meat,
steadies your hand,
tempers your knife,
suits you up,
to die with dignity,
and take a bite of this life.


The downfall of a sharp memory

If there’s a thing I don’t like about humans,
perhaps I could say it’s their memory.

I hate a memory that cracks like a whip,
the memory that has no empathy.

Even mercy resents it,
ever reluctant to caress their face.

There is no comforting glance,
not even a silken tongue can mend your ways,
if your memory whips and cracks,
ever a temper, ever ablaze.

Reluctant to let things go,
not a detail is left out of your recall,
they ache for your forgetfulness,
a hint of succour, release from your thrall.

There’s no pride in itemisation,
of every past thing said or unto you wrought,
how sage-like, how noble,
is the forgiver, who reduces memory to naught.

Wesam El dahabi

The merchant of forgiveness


He came like a passing vapour,
embodied with the gift of light and lightness,
the faintest hint of jasmine and sandalwood,
and a buried childhood.

Suppression makes for an interesting man,
a thorough masculinity,
that is more tender than dew on the petal of lemon trees,
and as firm as the roots of date palms.

He held himself inside until he imploded,
it wasn’t diabetes, cancer or kidney failure,
it was a heart that couldn’t contain any more.

He didn’t lose limb and tissue,
but reconciliation and forgiveness faded.

And that was his weapon against you,
he could forgive you,
because he knew by doing so,
he would leave you to your guilt,
to gnaw at you,
to cut you in half,
no one would punish you more than you.

When he could no longer forgive you,
he had to learn to forgive himself,
not for anything he had done,
but his guilt,
his gnaw,
the thing that tore him apart,
was he couldn’t reassure you any more,
that he would be a provider of forgiveness.

Even to his last breath,
he was selfless,
the gurgle of his lungs,
his open mouth,
closed eyes,
soft cold hands,
forgiving everyone in the room.

Everyone was caught up with the spectacle of death,
and all I could wonder,
was how his Lord was preparing his place amongst the elite.

A man once passed in front of the Prophet of God,
the Prophet exclaimed that the man was a man of paradise.
One of the companions, feverish and eager for the works of good,
encouraged by the words and wanton of the fruits of righteousness took it upon himself to follow the man home and pretend he needed a place to stay.
In utter custom and tradition, hospitality was granted.
For three days, the man watched the man of paradise and noted his every move and saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Finally on the third day, the companion came clean and admitted that he had heard the Prophet of God proclaim him a man of paradise and that he wanted to know what his secret to attain such a status was.
Perplexed, the man of paradise replied, “As you see, I do no extra activities than the layman, I pray, I fast, I pay the charitable tax, but every night when I sleep, before I lay my head on a pillow, I forgive everyone that I know.”

And that is where my father was,
his childhood whatever it was,
lived inside him until his last day,
and the act of a child,
the ability to forgive and forget so easily,
was his unsheathed sword slaying the hatred in the hearts of all.
He passed, and slayed us all with forgiveness,
there’s no recovering from that.


How to forgive yourself

forgive yourself2

I forgave myself,
By giving of myself

The struggle is real. I learned the hard way how to do it. That’s why I don’t struggle with it any more. Whenever I find myself struggling, I give what I can in whatever way I can. Sometimes it is monetary, other times, it is physical, other times it is emotional, and others a smile, advice, a hand, a gesture, anything.

Some people live with so much guilt for whatever reason.
A troubled past, misdeeds unto others, not living up to their own expectations, suppression of truth, unachieved goals, trespasses of their soul and a myriad more reasons.

If forgiving yourself is too hard, the solution is to give to others in kindness,
until there is nothing left of yourself, to hold to account.
Once you are bankrupt of your ability to give of everything you possess, your guilt will be gone with it.

For those interested, the word is Arabic for forgiveness, pronounced Ghoof-Raahn The g and h joined and coming from the top of the palate and pronouced attached to the ‘oof’ similar to wolf. The Raahn sounds like farm.
Another word is Samah and can similarly be used. Ghuf-raahn is more encompassing, almost like a covering up, similar to when one is covered in veil like fashion from being seen from enemies searching for one. The ultimate forgiveness is when no one knows your misdeeds except God, and he keeps them veiled from everyone so you can remain functional, oblivious you carry on without weight of unveiling yourself to the world, the perfect forgiveness. One of his names is Al-Ghafur, The oft forgiver.
Likewise, when you forgive yourself, keep it to yourself, it is a mercy from God. Exposing your misdeeds is not noble and leaves you anchored to guilt. A wise person once said, “You have not repented from something until the sweetness of that something no longer lingers in your heart.”

Art of apology

Yes, it is an art.
It has it’s own etiquette.
It flows within the confines of sincerity,
It moves with deliberation of amendment,
It contains a brokenness of presentation,
It carries on the stretcher of death the ego and presents it for mutilation, for post mortem examination, for autopsy and cremation if needs be.
It does not stand aloof, boisterous and proud.
It is meek,
It is humble and downtrodden.
It is admittance to error.
It is not denial or justifying of your action or inaction.
It is a want.
It is a desire to communicate,
To leave open the gate,
Grease it’s hinges,
Before it’s too late,
And you’re left to the throes of fate.

And you thought a simple sorry would do? That is the prattling of someone who doesn’t like the reflection of themselves staring back at them, so they destroy the mirror instead of beautifying themselves.
You’re surrounded by all this misfortune because you’ve broken one too many mirrors.


You DID mean those words.

bullshitters and cowards
What manifests on the tongue, is present in the heart.
The adage is clear.

But the cliché defence to someone denying they meant what they said, or coming across with a half arsed apology is always ‘Oh, I didn’t really mean it from the heart, I just said it in anger.’

You see that doesn’t quite work with me. Not someone who sees your insecurities from a mile away. Not someone who doesn’t say what they don’t mean. Not someone who takes words seriously, and without boast, can put them together to make something coherent and legible.

It’s hard to tell someone who takes words seriously that what you say is not really what you meant in a half baked apology. You’d succeed much more if you acknowledge your mistake, your fuck up for lack of more colloquially contextual vernacular and own your mistakes like an adult.

Your tantrum throwing is not becoming of your age. How long can you continue in your dramatic outpourings and then sweep them under the carpet of , ‘I didn’t mean if from the heart.’ Guess what? The dirt is spilling out from the sides, it’s been one time too many, the boy who cried wolf and all that stuff, ya’ know?

No, it’s impossible that you’re a prophet or prophetess. You were not divinely inspired by God, words didn’t magically appear on your tongue and force your palate, lips, teeth and throat to engage with breaths of life to produce sounds by sheer instance. You’re not speaking to a moron who doesn’t understand a myriad of psycho-spiritual-emotional as well as anatomical-biochemical-physiological underpinnings that make us who we are as human beings. You insult me.

You can’t pass that on me and expect me to retort with the traditional, ‘it’s ok, all is forgiven.’ Not when for thirty eight years of my life I have been subject to your treatments, yes, even when I was five, I remember clearly the bullshit you would try to pass off, just utter bullshit.

There’s a one way relationship here, I know who you are, I’ve made it my mission to observe your every movement, silently. You know nothing about me. Zilch!

If I asked you tomorrow what my deepest passions are, you wouldn’t have a clue.

But that’s beyond the point now, the point is, If you didn’t mean them from your heart, you sure as hell meant them from your mind. You thought them up, which is actually worse.

The mind is a filthier place, it can justify things that are unjustifiable, like I have now, choosing not to forgive you, as filthy as that is, not for any other reason than to snap you out of your fucking slumber. Wake the fuck up and own who you are, you’re still a child without any iota of man/womanhood.

Having developed genitals and becoming a parent does not make you a man or a woman. You’re still stuck in boyhood and girlhood.

So don’t fake your apologies and don’t lie to me. You’d get a lot further telling the truth, even if you are abrasive with me.


Sins, Guilt, Hope


Now the sins just sat as anchors on the ocean floor, leaving him burning in the possibility of a sun navigation away from his current self, the currents of his Self. The waves, pushing like people prodding him to snap out of his state, they don’t realise that his pockets are heavy with sand bags of guilt, they don’t realise those anchors were attached to him by pirates of the soul, tricky scoundrels who had all but forgotten him. They don’t realise that his sails were acid filled arms weary from attempted paddle that he couldn’t raise to catch a heavenly wind.

People still sail by him, laughing at his broken bow, pointing at his weathered sails and shaking their heads at his half sunken vessel.

Their day will come when their travels will be questioned.

His day will come when rust and salt are no longer the only taste in his mouth, where he can finally taste forgiveness on the shores.


A Kingly Find

The King ran out of the cave in ecstasy, screaming with hands in the air. The people thought he had lost his mind. It had been forty days since he entered the cave as a last resort, burdened with the guilt of not being able to use his riches to save his ailing wife.

“What is it King? What did you find?” the people asked as they had been standing anxiously for forty days.
Panting and still elated he blurted out, “I found it!”
“Found what,” the people asked again.
“Teach us, King”.
With a sigh of relief the king said,

“All you have to do is ask.”


Forgive and ….. nah, just forget

Some profess to forgive everyone before you sleep.

Such a cliché in my opinion that it’s motions can become robotic, lifeless, soulless…..fake

I’m happier that God created me able to wake up without recollection.