COFFEE ! Black.

I raised my voice today
It was reasonably, yet I felt vulnerable 

What came out was nice and formal, but without reporting the whole incident in its proper context, which this colleagues may be inclined to, some to damage could be done. For instance, if it’s casually said to the headteacher “he raised his voice at a child today, you know, but it was nothing, given that that child is a challenge” even as a gossip, let alone, a course of concern report, this would be damaging.

Nipping it at the bud, I turned myself in; I said to one of them, “I am sorry for raising my voice”
“We will address her stubbornness latter” Then she said, “I know how you feel. Don’t worry, it’s alright, it’s alright”.

Surprising fairness, and highly surprising. What do you call that feeling, when you are at someone’s mercy and you feel that that was undeserving of them or feel it could have been avoided? Pride? Ego? Human? Definitely humanising.

I have made so much progress in getting used to not being treated fairly, that I have become proper to the unnerving of my alter ego. 

I had lost my cool momentarily. All the same I was disheveled, chafed never quite as confident all day.
I blamed it on the coffee.

Listening and Creative Communications 

Leonard Chintua-Chigbu

Tombstones of Saint Peter and Paul

The bird flew with one wing and flew in small circles.

The bird’s eye view was the best world view 

When both wings flapped their bests

When she soared much higher in the open skies

When heaven was not the earth 

When it fell, the plumage littered

They worked together

I saw them every morning on my way to work

One was urbane and neatly dressed, 

He was open and had inclusive Jesus inscription 

Partly covered by his ‘huddie’.

The other was the opposite, 

Rough and hard, both in demeanour and choice of clothes, 

Yet young, with cigarette lit and clipped 

between his pale left fingers.

They worked well together; same factory, perhaps.

I walked to catch the 6:47 train to London, 

They would walk home off the 6:38 train to London.

I never get to Grays for that earlier train to London

But we will always meet on the footpath 

Along the tombstones 

of St Peter and Paul Church. 

They ignored me

And it was difficult getting used to it

Not being greeted

Or not greeting others 

At a lonely and narrow path. 

Today He walks alone

I see him every morning on my walk alone

No longer with any urbane and neatly dressed bloke,

No friend with inclusive Jesus inscription

Neither covered in black ‘huddie’.

The bird flew with both wings and soared up the skies.

The bird’s eye view was the best world view 

When both wings flapped their bests

Heaven came to earth when both wings flapped

When colours filled our open minds skies

When love was the colour of life

The bird flew with one wing and flew in small circles.

The bird’s eye view was the best world view 

When both wings flapped their bests

When she soared much higher in the open skies

Listening and Creative Communications 

Leonard Chintua-Chigbu

Morning after Victory

I am not righteous nor do I dictate to others to be so. Forgive me O Lord of my sins. I ask for mercy because am fallen and wish that you would never forget your mercies and grace towards me and all my cries for help

I do not ask to be held to the highest standards. But do ask that your hand will hold me through the path of your righteousness. For I love how you soothe my soul and teach me to love

Help me to comport myself amongst those you have humbled. Forgive Lorraine for the things she’s gotten herself into. Help her to find your hands and place hers in them. Let your light shine through in the midst of this darkness

Have mercy O Lord. Amen

Listening and Creative Communications 

Leonard Chintua-Chigbu 

TIME we can Gain



I told my daughter, but she chose to learn with Time.

I bought two pairs of Loake brogue in 2005 and another two pairs of Samuel Windsor Chelsea in 2009. They all fitted like gloves and set me up to a premium definition of taste.

Recently they just wouldn’t fit anymore. I manage to wear them but because they are good and won’t let off much, they squeeze my feet and toes, and live me with so much aches and pains.

Our present common sense, sees the economics and prudence of repairing our things as meaningless; getting new ones, including our marriages, and leaving our non usable, not necessarily as Refuse, but Oxfam, Landfill and land mine as wise things to do.

I saw in Facebook that if I filled a waterproof bag with water and inserted it into my shoes and froze them together for twenty four hours, that water will increase by ten percent of its original volume and force the shoe to expand.

In reversed global warming, the water froze and increased in volume on turning to ice, but the direction of the increase was not all towards the tough leather walls. My relief was short and the pains came back, only a little later than before.

In Lakeside, I was happy to run into a do-it-yourself shoe stretcher. The stretcher worked well, but after a few turns, the screws gave way and the thread flattened. After this time I realised that the cobbler will do this better and that his cost will be less than the cost of new pairs of these shoes. 

I googled one in Woolwich and his charge was surprisingly reasonable.

In his receipt, it says ‘Shoes worth Wearing are worth Repairing’… selah
How did I come this far?
Why didn’t I do this all this Time?
I have only gone through bends and turns, only to learn that what my mother said that I shouldn’t do, was right not to do. However in counting the time, I must not also diminish the experience that is now mine.
My daughter and I are in the same space, where we have completely understood each other but are miles apart on the same issues.
When I was my daughter’s age, Time was when things were repaired, when our refuse bins only contained organic wastes and our marriages stretched our intolerance to virtues of patience, acceptance and love, and everyone learned to stooped to conquer…
Am I crushed for time? or Am I getting old?
Leonard Chintua-Chigbu
Listening and Communications Artist

THE fire Place

The fire crackled as grandpa stroked the big log of fire wood which never seemed to be out of fire. Large chunks of fire laden embers landed on the ashes of previous coals which had warmed the room before.

Grandpa sat up to hedge his loin cloth properly around his groin, between his legs, as I looked away into the the fire place, to the first enterprising tongue, strenuously raising its flame above its seated embers.

The rest of the hut was dark. Only grandpa’s ankles showed, his feet which now has the colour of ash, his arm, only when he stroked and the thickening colours of yellow, orange, sienna, burnt umber and the pitch darkness around us.

In that fire our souls rested and found warmth, away from the muted noise and scotching sun shaded by grandpa’s presence and lonesomeness.

“Nkechi..,” humming the N a little longer, as if to trail its mystic certainty. “It will be well” he finally muttered.

My tear filled eyes were wet, they flustered and also sparkled, catching a glimpse of those firry flames, confident, extinguishing the dark coals beneath them and gaining their energies there by.

Leonard Chintua-Chigbu

Listening and Creative Communications