My Little Suburb

Fringe ArtsPoemValerie Akinyi Ogweno — Published September 30, 2025 3 minutes

The bike path that leads to Sage Creek is an everlasting river of divinity. The gravel beneath me, white and chalky, earthy and grounding, acts as waves shifting and sifting to move me across swiftly. As I forget myself in the abundance of greenery, bright and intense like LSD; as the trees stretch to greet me, bushes rattle to entertain me. Birds fly to whisper to me secrets of life. I can’t help but slow down in wonder of my surroundings, bowing to the unlinked presence. To my left, a pond stays situated within life; it houses breathing beings, grey and white, muted and mobile, as that life inhabits life, filled wombs, creation manifesting within the metaphysical act of manifestation. 

To the right of me, red roses flourish, rich in colour, blushing as the sun winks a twinkle of flirtatious light. My beautiful man-made suburb planted in a sea of houses fighting to be seen. My beautiful man planted in a neighbourhood of people fighting to have their place, waving his hand frantically, waiting to be seen, unwrapped and unravelled a little gift for me. Yet still, my slice of realness is within my suburb. 

As I continue to walk, there stands a tall pillar, a rock, and at the bottom, another one sits. One stands to support the likeness of a primal act. Two conscious souls engaging to find physical engagement in one another. One hand on a chest another one on a lower back, Lips connected, Secreting secrets no one could ever understand. As they are lost within each other, an elderly couple walks by, hand in hand, stealing glances and smiling. Their secrets are shared in their souls’ admiration for another, for the young couple, for the man-made suburb. For the man. For as fake as it is, they feel real within it. 

As they continue to walk, a small boy runs out of a sub path, lips painted blue, tongue painted red, hair ruffled. As he runs, his parents chase behind him. As I reach the end of the path, I look at the ecosystem of God. I go about my day, do my bidding, tithe my soul away, and as I walk back, the sun begins to set. The air is cool. The crickets are chirping, and around are the minds of people who are contemplating their thoughts in the sky. I look to the sky as well, to bear my spirit. As I fix my gaze, the bright colours become clear. Yellow like gold, burnt oranges like expensive cloth, accents of pink and purple as exclamation. As I look, I see the little boy grow to come and contemplate, I see the man bury his wife and come to the path to find her in the sky, I see the young couple steal glances, but eventually resent themselves for those very glances. The pond fights to survive; the sky towers over in darkness. The roses dwindle and show their thorns. The birds fly up above to condemn us for our ways. The trees wilt away in a resounding goodbye. Yet still, the river of a man remains. 

This article originally appeared in Volume 46, Issue 3, published September 30, 2025.