I hold you tenderly
Like a precious thought
I sparingly share
Only with strangers

For they know not its worth
Will not rob me of it or its meaning or
Crush it to death like a writer
Crushes an idea in his mind –

Might be a butterfly
Might be a petal
Might be a story that would have changed minds –
Gone, unwritten, unspoken, unshared.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.


A wishing star slid across the nightsky yesterday while we all slept, it went and we missed it. A strange and beautiful, gentle, sea-creature, never before seen, surfaced briefly out of the Pacific two fullmoons ago. It stayed upon the waters for a few weeks and then disappeared again into the mysterious depths from which it came, and nobody but nobody saw it.

A new bird appeared briefly in the noonsky and vanished in the blink of an eye, and nobody saw what happened. You did not understand the tongue he spoke, and by the time you did he was already speaking another tongue, you missed it and it was gone, whatever it was he first said in that first tongue.

The moment always holds the greatest treasures, spark-lightning, flashes of pure intuition, a brief something between the eyes, and if you did not see it while it lived, you never know it ever did.

How many times? How many times, my dear? How many more times?

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.