My boy

He is set to marry now…my son.

I still see the attributes of his childhood in him. often.

I see the selfishness of some of his decisions. I am his mother.

I see the man that needs frequent subtle guidance. every now and then.

I am afraid to thrust his ship to another. will she guide him right.


She sees a man in him, his wife.

she sees her protector in him, my child.

she sees her hero in him, my boy.

She expects the world of him, my son.

She demands a true leader, my selfish boy.


I am afraid for them both. Yes, I am rightly so.

Will she see his potentials and maximize them. Be his farmer.

Will she see envision his dreams. Be his midwife.

Will she see the fear lurking in the heart of his indecision’s. Be his mother.

Will she make much of this little they start with…


Or will she encumber him. Nag and blame him for his shortcomings.

Or will she take all he is starting with and completely ruin it.

Or will she be the war that drives him from his home, into the hands of the scavenger.

My boy!


Will she ever see that she is the hidden leader in the home…and man up to it.

to birth in him what she envisions. I really hope her visions are grande!

will she empower herself with knowledge and become the maker of a king…

will my boy ever realise all I ever dreamed he could be…

Oh help us make her an inestimable jewel.


My boy…

The mistress and her lullabies.

With perfect agility and know-
she acts out her part,
wittingly uncaring of the damage she leaves in her wake.

Sonorous, beautiful and sought after,
never faithful to none other
but for the pleasing of her needs,
tumultuously wrapped in the veils of innocence.

All remain deceived.

Some can see the plot but the drama need be acted out.
It cannot be stopped.
The subtleties started eons ago;
in the exchange of care, lust and friendship.
The damage hidden in the passing of time-unchallenged.

My husband required of me my covenant
bequeathing it to the queen of his slums.
He would not avail me the chance to remind him
that, our covenants were blood given-
the sorceress already had his heart in her blood-stained fangs.

I look on waiting…
for the day when penance will be sought and
the years of my tears and pain immediately wiped off
in the expectations of a good woman called.

The sorceress met me betwixt times…
challenged me for the oath of my beloved,
telling me of time and times past.
a queen of his life proclaimed she…

If she knew where the oaths were made;
or who the orchestrator be,
maybe caution seek will she.
arrogance in its benign
deceived her of powers possessed,
forgetting it was bestowed.

…making of me but a moth.

This becomes her destruction.

(I write not to please or meaning for you make: apologies.)

I become a prophetess in the telling of the adventures
taking place in the slits between time.

A time and  times past!

Oh! the telling of time on the mind.
The grievance of a wandering heart on a wanton soul.
Time became the destruction of both.

Arrogance in all its glory could not save the witch
from the plunging of the glory of the crown.
Who can the seductress save?

Alas! for the blood of my dreams.

The glory is in the telling but
the meaning will forever be hidden
behind the plainness of the words;
behind the apprehensions of the heart.
The magnitude of the crime…the foretelling of the arrogance.
…the opportunity amply given for repentance.

Alas! for Babylon.

3rd person plural-IT.

I desperately want to paint.

furiously desperate, i find no words.

no muse. no blood.

to paint the emotions that have me bound tightly.

I sit there and realize the frustrations many call

writers block. i am. never. blocked.

I just spill, into the crevices that passionately has nipples hardened.

a lack of braininess. just a furious painting of emotions. it never is mine to own.

never has been. It does not find me seductive enough to fall for.

a tumbling for my sweet nothings. no. it is not mine.

i call it my 3rd person plural. (verbs be damned.)

i refer to its fury as my painting. it is a part of us.

just an elusive persona that comes and go.

we cannot stake a claim on it. no. not my 3rd person plural.

if i were to paint, and stake a claim, then you would see

that even i experience the artist’s bloc. LMFAO!

Sexually pleasing a consenting 6 year old.

He sat there with eyes vividly grey, explaining away irrationally his strong pride as a member of the PIE club. Yes, PIE. Sounds corny? Let me shed more light.

So lets say your little girl/boy innocently wanders into the laps of such men-brothers/uncles/friends/teachers/pastors/men/women who are members of this club, and she “shows interest in being sexually fondled” then the said adult has the freedom and right to fondle the child in whatever way that seems pleasing to the adult. Yes, the adult.

I sit there outraged but the logical part of me become enmeshed in a cultural/moral/emotional/psychological and spiritual discussion with myself.

I think I should explore first and foremost what it means for a child to feel sexual pleasure(am forcing my brain to grasp this idea.) Is my child desiring some release that she has to repress because she perceives I will frown on it. Does she find it easy to send such signals to an adult(who seems somehow to have gone to the school of signals and learnt how to pick them in nano seconds), Am I in anyway guilty of societal conformity. Are they morally wrong to have these feelings(assuming I am ignorant of their biology) or have we made them feel they should be guilty with our moral aspersions on the topic.

(Hey! hold your bullets and arguments, let us explore this subject as rational adults that we may reach a logical conclusion.)

So, do children have sexual urges or not. Secondly, how have they been coping with these urges. Thirdly, why has society turned a blind eye to the freedom of these children to have sexual urges. Lastly, has society contributed in any way to the abuse of children by adults in any form whatsoever by turning the blind eye on these issues.

Please take some minutes to watch this video and keep your reactions in check till you have logically analysed the issue from all angles. In the meantime, I would ask us to sit and think on this as the emotional/psychological/spiritual freedom of a new generation may depend on it.( I am assuming the current one has gone through sexual explorations of all kinds from Nickelodeon to Soundcity to E!, AMAG and several porn exposures and what is not there today to see!)


To learn to trust again

and undo the scars of yesteryears.

To unlearn the secret evils of man’s heart,

to give another sole reign of your innocence and ignorance.


Can this ever be done?

Will it be the undoing of the fabric of experience

or the opening of the war-worn petals

to the blooming of the sunlight’s rays…

hoping it will not rain rape or bring shame and pain.


Can we love again…

starting on a clean wiped slate,

ignoring the scars peeking out

from the tight-edged corners of the heart.

Ignoring the fears screaming out wide,

longing for the safety of the darkness…

an unwillingness to unlearn the wisdom of history.


…To fall again in the time-old murky waters of the human heart.


Can we learn to trust again?

Can this old petal bloom yet again?

Can we take this chance…will you not break again

the fragile pieces left from the siege of the strong man and his recklessness?

Can we yet trust again?

… if only we can dare to dream again.


Sing me a true sonnet.

Write me a verse.
make the sonnets ring
erupting rapturous orgasms from deep within.

Pen me lyrics;
send the strings on an errand for me,
tell the story true.
Make my nipples taut with your sweet nothings,
render the wax in my ears soft…
that the droppings like steals from the comb might become.

Oh! put it up on billboards.
tell the world of how wonderful I am.
tell them how rare you find me among all gems.
Make me proud of all the work my Father put into my making.
Let’s both make the KING proud!

Tell your friends how intact
my womanhood is.
Let your family know that I was brought up well.
Call forth the drums and re-celebrate
…of the tellings of how arduous I made you sweat for it.


The parting is not in the now,
But for when it eventually takes place;
I hope my loving heart gets a memo…

Make it detailed.
tell me how it isn’t about me but
all about you;
make all the anthems ring true.
Tell me the leaving is for my sake
and not because of your wandering heart.

Let’s enjoy the now,
as my heavy heart chucks the deuces
informing my wandering legs to prepare its baggage…

for we might yet make a home in the heart of another.

We will be fine, my hopeful heart sings
prepare yourself, my brain shouts.

When will these wishful wishes won’t the womb,
…to discard its burdensome still-births?

Still the avenger!

Aggrieved Woman.

I watch the blood spill…

dropping slowly and sweetly like

agbalumo with fierce red nipples.

It should have given pleasure

Alas! the soft petals that give acridity to the mouth

making it puckered like an embittered cunt!

Generations undone.

the blood drips fresh. it can’t be helped.

If only I had not met him,

then maybe. maybe these innocents

would not suffer under a burden so


It brings pain that makes me poignant!



If only…

these children could be spared;

but who will please the avenger.

who will unshed the tears and blood…

on whom will my spirit demand the sacrifice to appease…

Monisola, has been crippled from beyond.

Aduke cries daily for salvation,

who will save her own.

Take the news to the King!

The cries of the babes for mercy.

the grievous wails for mercy…

who will still the avenger!

Please take the message to the king;

the deity has spoken!


I would probably have bought a gift today…no! scratch that, I would have given you yesternight. We both know I was never good at keeping surprises!

Ade! Ade! Ade! screeching at the top of your voice, it used to irritate me: must you scream! Kai!

Ishola-Ade, ma binu now…

Ishola, Isho omo agun ma te( such nonsense just to make your spoiled little brat forgive you) chai! I could just not fathom why.

Ajoke, you are sleeping in my room tonight…Ishola, you too. and then you would force us all to keep our space on your big bed even though each of us could go crash in our own rooms! such a woman! cutely annoying. I took it all for granted…

I have always wanted my privacy and I give anything to get my own space but this woman, she wouldn’t budge. we were from separate worlds: she wanted people around almost all of the freaking time!

Today, I wished you would take my space away altogether. I keep running looking for a home but you yanked that away. You just had to!

I am sure your Ishola is also somewhere in the world wishing he could annoy you as usual but we all took the time we had together for granted assuming we would always be around together…we had such little time together, Chai! so little.

child1 c01aaf0e0c0d6ac388b374a859842ab1    article-2388042-1B462DBE000005DC-524_634x749blackchildcrying Breathe-on c01aaf0e0c0d6ac388b374a859842ab1

I could jumble pieces together and write poems and all that but nothing will really capture my true feelings today. Nothing will bring back my roof or my home or my friend or my love or my confidant or my mom.

I used to think I could handle May even if you left: I assumed he would remain my baby you know. But I have failed woefully. I keep  calling on the heavens to help me out…calling on all and sundry to assist. Yet, I cannot handle this situation you left me. I cannot save him from drowning; I look on from the river bank and watch helplessly as he drowns in a storm of his own making, of my making, of daddy’s making, of your making.

I would have said an happy birthday but my voice is gone, raging in the storm of wails buried deep down. I just want your arms around me and the peace you bring. I cannot remember the taste of your food anymore but I still perceive the smell of your house gowns and wrappers…almost elusive now, quite faint but still there. I wished it can hold me and comfort me but that your wrapper, yes the ankara one is torn now.

Where will I find my home…I am still looking ma but I say Happy birthday. This is the 6th one and I will still be counting forever Awa, forever.


Mama…oh mama, were there dreams and hopes pregnant for my birth.

At fourteen: just fourteen.

Felicia serves much more: oh much more.

She is a mother: rising earlier than others,

even mothers: to serve a large household.

For the remnants she feeds on, she pays

I am a person like you; like your daughter
I am a person like you; like your daughter

back: much more with toil and sweat.

To sleep on a mat in the corridor is a favor

given: an act of benevolence from master.

Sleep is a luxury, who can find!


Pause her to ask: “how do you fare this day?”


She answers: “like every other.”

Death is not a choice.


I have come to give life…

A life of abundance to all who believe.

I have died, to set the captives free.

Help me please...
Help me please…

Deep in a prison,


Walls built solidly,


Dreams of release, Heaven


Chains held in place, sweat and blood



she asks: “how do i become free.”

What life have I chosen,

prevalent with beatings, curses and a floor to keep.

A life of privilege none promised,

No space of mine not demanded,

No tear freely given,

Alas! my days sorely driven.

Please have mercy.
Please have mercy.

Mama…oh mama.

were there dreams and hopes

pregnant for my birth.

can you face what i live daily…

who is to shield me from such abuse;

of soul, flesh and purpose.

why am i deprived of ignorance my age-mates enjoy…

Oh! Falila is at it again.

When will my release come?

Nigeria and Nigerians

I would not know how to indeed go about these “thoughts” BUT I must set it forth and see what it births from there.

Is it that Democracy has caused some of us to become crazy or is that the insistent and inherent option of Choice has caused us not to be able to see which way forward, or is it that we have simply stopped caring?

If for anything what I have witnessed thus far in this Polity has made me conclude, that the shackles we keep screaming off has indeed been left there buried deep within by us; I believe no other human can keep a man’s mind thus shackled…Yes, westernization has its disillusions and some things cannot be helped, but the things that can be helped; how have we helped them?

Is it just to allude the attitudes of some of the masses to a lack of “western education, local education and will” or a lack of “western education, will and dreams” or a lack of “western education, local education, mind improvement, food and dreams?” or a lack of “enlightenment, western education, food, democratization, dreams and will?”

Can we be just to say that the darkness that persists in this country, as witnessed in the political, economic, spiritual, social and cultural equanimity is simply the lack of dreams and hopes or a lack of faith in the democracy we profess to practice? Or is it in the lack of vision or the existence of needs and wants on a very basic level?

Besides, what is democracy in a country without its attendant democratization?

Will I be just to conclude that the masses of Nigeria, who are so quick to adopt the latest trends of Fashion, technology and all sorts of so-called forward ideas are still in various degrees uncivilized as to what true ownership of self, economy and freedom indeed is?

When will we stop justifying lies in the Leadership of this Country on the basis of Party, ethnicity, Familial ism, greed and “all the what nots?”

When will we imbibe true value in Self and Ownership…in creating a future where our children can grow in true freedom with National monuments to point to, monuments laid down in their Parents fight for justice and freedom and truth?

When will we arrive at that stage where both the masses and leaders will recognize that promising power supply, food, good roads and all the “have-nots” are the basic rights of tax paying citizens…when will I be able to walk to a Police man and demand that He/She does his/her job because I am the one paying their salaries not government?

When will the people stop aspiring to power just because of the Money they can pilfer and not for the change they can make…how indeed can we say Politicians should not steal when they gamble their money unsparingly just to arrive at office…when will we start questioning where the monies for all these campaigns and bribery is coming from and what do the givers want in return?

When will we realize that agriculture is one of the strongest means of survival for man…and it is on it that the people of a country can truly survive…Yes! we need certain staples from foreign soils, but have we finished consuming the ones our soil can afford us…have we developed agriculture to a stage where we can say we are indeed filled and we can sell the remaining to other countries?

If the people are filled, will they not have amp opportunities to develop and research…Is this not the main foundation on which Economies that are prospering build their prosperity? When will we develop anything if we are so hungry that what we earn is barely enough to subsist on…and the little we can spare is spent on unnecessary ownership of technologies, high-end fashion and a frivolous existence we truly cannot afford…because we do not even have a right to aspire to them if we do not dream of making or improving on them?

If Indeed PDP has done well, why do they have to pay hungry citizens like me to stay in a hotel and press through the social media that they have indeed done something well for the Country for a paltry sum of thirty thousand Naira(30,000); when the citizens in question cannot even get a good job after finishing from the University…If they have done well, will the “wellness” not speak for them…When will someone question why the President of a Country came out to lay claim that He indeed sent the people caught with cash owning up to millions of dollars, to buy “Arms and Ammunition” for the Country when He can simply transfer the cash CBN to CBN if there was nothing fishy…Am i the only one who sees something amiss? Why would children, the most defenseless mass of a country, be taken from their places of learning and the “arms and ammunition” bought is not adequate to bring the culprits to book…

Where indeed did Boko haram get such “military Tanks” that are claimed to be so rare…who indeed finances them? who created this terror to begin with…what have we done to get “THESE CHILDREN” back…are we not failing as Parents already…where are all the charms and witchcraft we lay claim to, can they not be employed to indeed help us…or is the power of the black simply black in its very existence? Is there no witch among the mothers of these children…what message are we passing to the ones grown?

Is APC exempt from these lies either? Where did my “…” get the money to buy brand new cars every year when the streets are so bumpy you cannot even enjoy the ride no matter how new and expensive the car. Where did “…” get the money I see wasted up and down…Yet, maybe because of Fashola, and a few others, I may say, maybe lets give APC a chance at the national level…Yet, I remain disillusioned.

Why can’t the presidential aspirant for KOWA party have hopes of winning the election, is there something that says She cannot rule well? Yet, I fear because of the Party, that woman even if she means well might never be given the opportunity because after all, “Na where she waka from come”

If we want to attain development, and we believe we cannot run to it but crawl, at least even with a snail, you see the trail left behind, point me where the trail begun from and where it is now…where is the trail we have left behind? Why are the investors running to South Africa, Dubai, Ghana and even little Benin Republic? Nigeria, so called giant of Africa, are you so vast that your brain and mind has been stretched so thin?

Why is the Naira not doing well at all in the International market…why did we need to print the new hundred naira(100 Naira) Was there any need for it…Yes, it marked something but is that the priority now?

When will we start picking the pap from the slim point…when will we begin to afford simple industries that can avail much…when will Nigerians be ready to give the pain and sacrifice for which development is necessary? When will this hardship dock…never to set sail again.

bla bla bla

Off it goes!
The most exaggerated tool in existence…
Bang! bang! bang!
Just a lil poke
and out spills all.

There it sits…
in all its humility,
on its own very calm,
until a lil prod you give it!

Off goes the catch of restriction!
Out pours all the virtues…
Secrets kept in vain!
In a few moments utterly rendered naked…

and there it goes again…

Father help my soul!

Our state of Hell…

these dreams just won’t stop…i decided to tell it to the streets!

Calm and serene…

undercurrents within pretentious.

we all approach the day,

as if we were promised tomorrow.

as if we were guaranteed of its safety:

guaranteed it will belong to us…

Hell nears its fulfilment


we all go about our business

pretending we do not clearly perceive!


Oh! thou son of man…

listen to the voice

of age and experience,

of sights aggrieved…of hearts disillusioned

a wisdom way beyond years!

This old woman cries out,

with the mouth of the adulteress who has seen a lot…

“come thou simpleton” and hear,

hear what the spirit has got to say:

“come oh young and unassuming”

ignorance will not be an excuse!

Listen to the voice within,

crying out horrors glimpsed near…

“come oh young and foolish”

Hell has sharpened its teeth!

soon all will be let loose

Alas for my soul!

Omalicha, Eagle gone on…

Ify Omalicha…for the few who knew and read her works, her death was a sudden shock I still have not gotten over…

Our milk has gone dry,

drowned by the tears we shed

…tears of pain and sorrow.

An eagle flew across mama’s hut:
Blazing a trail for us to See…
Leading the path to hope and glory…

We drudged on;
A torch in hand following the path,
It flew high, high and mighty

Then suddenly IT plummeted!

It fell right into the dark abyss…
We became shocked:
for its fall was all too sudden.

Our echoes down the well,
came back unheard,

Bounced right back at us unanswered!

Our lips parched dry…
Sought the nipples that held the milk

the flower that held the nectar…

Pucker and sucker,
Our lips came back dry!
Our milk has gone sour!
Drenched in the tears empty on our faces…

Our echoes have come back empty.
The eagle has plummeted!
Such a tragic grief!

Can we trust our hearts…
to find the trail you blazed
Are we bold enough to step forward…

The eagle has plummeted!
Leaving behind a cub…

A cub we cannot cuddle,
So young, oh so young and free!

Free of its milk of desire…

Our lips are parched… Dry!
Tears have run out,
The eagle has blazed its trail!

Are we bold Enough To step out.

IFY OMALiCHA has departed!
Are we bold enough,
to bear this grief…

Bold enough to take her place.

Our garments have been rendered tattered!
Our milk has run dry…

With parched lips we cry out…
EWO O!!!!
This is more than we can bear!

Tired…my nation Nigeria.

Nigeria, and her constant lamentations of hope…a dirge I am tired of listening to! Oh just when will the end come?

I came
I see
I am tired…

The route to the forest,
once laid bare and clear;
has become a path fraught
We do not recognize.

…yet we remain completely familiar with

even more, at home with!

The path to the evil forest…
leads us to the ancestors.
The path to life drowned
in the steps of our leaders,
our followers…
in Choices made of
our dogmatic follow,
of the flies swarming the pit…
On the tail of the elephant,
A state of meaninglessness!

Our fathers have trod, and
we are lost…
still pretending to be on the pathway!

We follow a path…paths now many do lead.
will it not surely lead,

have we not arrived the evil forest.

The echoes and pain of our ancestors…
Almost lost in the sands of Time,
Etched with blood, clarity and thought
A perception we paid for with hard earned blood.

still we wait…fooling ourselves to

a better tomorrow!

will it never come?

Someone once said…

the art of writing acts as a midwife to ideas of the heart…

I recognize the beauty of writing for relief; a need to bare it all on ink and paper. The joy and satisfaction that comes from this is simply ecstatic: maybe it is purely synonymous to the joy at birth or for those of us who see nothing else pleasurable beyond sex, then a purely sexual gratification.

Nowadays, people create blogs everywhere and the internet has revealed the world is indeed full of ideas everyone wants to share, yet, like the disaster of “too many cooks” everyone wants to get popular in a jiffy. The ideas that would have simply borne incredulity has become linear in itself if I am permitted to use this word. I believe my great philosophy professor, Oladipo Segun, may roll over in his grave right now.

There is always that temptation to just make your presence known in the world. As beautiful as this seem, we lose control when we simply try to be something other than we are. Let me use an example of the recent human disasters I had the opportunity( I am wondering here why it is an opportunity since I paid cash for the subscription) to see on the new programme called Botched on E. A man had surgery just to make himself look like Madonna! Now I ask penance if I seem ignorant about such matters but asides from the gift of music and energy Madonna has displayed, what is so spectacular about her: why would I leave the delicateness and ingenuity of “Myself” just to become a copy of another?

Back to the matter, I love the feel of pen on blank paper. I love it maybe a little too much. Yet, I feel something akin to disaster when I write something that does not sound remotely real to me. I do not know how to write for people, it is a gift I do not have but I have come to realize when I just write for the sake of relief, allowing my emotions to pour forth the best way I can capture it then there is a catharsis. I am relieved for the sake of being emotionally unheavy.

Whenever I read up blogs of people famous for their writing skills e.g. Seun Odukoya’s blog, Adc writes, Tls place, T.bards blog, Seun Alade’s blog to mention a few, I feel like they are identifying with something essential in the fabric of existence that gives no bullocks what you feel even when some of them are works of fiction. They paint the picture exactly as it occurs to them. Yes, some of us are better artists than others and they bring to society: the mind, exactly how the idea they want to capture appears to them. Now you can give each of them the same piece to write but they will come at it from different angles because they are different beings and you will still feel complete. They are simply adding their individual signature to the fabric of time. This in itself is something essentially beautiful.

In essence, when ideas are written from the heart, you feel the exact imprint of an individual in the fabric of existence and I feel this is what being individuals really mean. There is simply no need trying to capture attention simply because you want to increase your followers. Write the way you can exactly what you feel and you will realize that it is a product, sooner than later, your imprint will make itself known.

I wished I was a good writer yet I know I am not. I simply leave the writers to show their finesse while I just paint my emotions with words that readily come to mind: sometimes am apt enough, other times I paint an obvious idea behind abstractness. The simple truth is that I sometimes have no control over what I write. I think this is where the muse comes in for the bard. I just allow the idea run itself into words of its own choosing.

Now that I have set down this idea I believe I have fulfilled one of the inherent duties I feel obliged to do. If it becomes pressed, good but if not, I have arrived at the ecstasy of having my mind unburdened. I believe that is enough.


I wished I knew when you will be touching down,
i mean the exact time…
maybe then this fear of hoping
will not leave me in weaves?

I look forward to you…
to us.
to the trail I see us blaze.

I indeed look forward to responsibility
probably, accountability too…
can we add some spice
with me anything is expected.

As I look forward to it,
i wring my hands in anticipation.
indeed, am cooler on the inside
but like a child promised a long awaited gift,
I look forward to christmas…

This miracle is simply beyond me…
yet the phase has begun.
Baby am dazed:

Slum of my dreams

Each day I pass through you,

living and reliving the memories…

seeing things I never grasped!

Afraid to relive here in reality.


Passing through you I feel undressed.

Naked to the eyes that stare back at me,

through me,

By me, blank.


…they dare me,

to think.

to ask.

to trouble endlessly:

should we lose hope…

have you forgotten to dream?


I may yet have forgotten.

earnestly, I believe in my struggle for a pleasant reality,

I may yet have forgotten the ambitions of my dreams,

the hunger I felt even after fed.

I have certainly forgotten to dream my ambitions.


My home has been made far away.

quite far from these harsh realities I see.

far away from the utter lessness and the hunger.

damn! the unquenched hunger ever present.

I seem to have forgotten to dream,

to at least make an attempt or make a pretense at,

to give voice to a truth that will be left unspoken;

A truth forever etched in the hearts that settled far away.


I will yet move again

and it is going to be far away still.

Like a nomad I am forever cursed,

to look for pastures greener and yet greener.

forgive me love but that is the way of man.


I have not forgotten the truth.

is it not forever etched in my memories?

Yet this constant reminder will help me to think

and I may yet dream again.


I have only ever known release,

dare I say freedom from the torments!

in the corridors forever running into each other

In the land of my dreams

but yet,

I will dream again,

for you, for me, for generations of the slaughtered lambs…

Mushin, I will yet dream.

when frogs dance

it’s the dance of the child or so they said

in the folklores…

they could look into your eyes and see beyond…

their voices were loud in Olodumare’s ears,




in things as delicately woven,

and symmetrically balanced as a man-woman affair,

they remain as uncouth.

as unknowing as the frogs on the bank.

they flow with the tide, when they hold the paddles in hands

and watch a storm blow them away

when they could easily decide their fate…

as frogs on the bank,

these look but may never really see

till it might be too late.


they have the ears of Olodumare!

such an irony.

bring back our girls


the Thief, the Whistle-blower and the Mad men IV

what have i done?


the girl after various beatings was finally dragged off.

topless and one short of a friend.

she must have received the beating of her life,

how else can I describe the belts, the slaps, and the kicks?


I sat there and saw a child

maybe fifteen going on sixteen,

there in a crucifixion I had orchestrated,

in my stupid show of audacity!

go through what even “Jesus” cried enough.


Admists the shouts and the cries,

her friend playing a total “Peter” on her,

I sat there dazed and losing all hope for humanity.


how much was in the purse…

what is the price tag of this crime, criminals voluntarily carry out

who has birthed these girls?

where were they?

Is this all it takes for the demons in the crowd to be



yet, as the bus zoomed off

leaving this child to her fate,

I wish I had kept my mouth shut!

I wish I had avoided this great rape of this girl’s humanity!

I wish I could save that child from another harsh reality,

thrust upon her by Parents who turn a blind eye

or was she the “Cain of the family?”


As casually as it had begun,

the driver said: if she is lucky,

the lynchers would just rape her and let her go…


I saw the color of anger and fear,

(yellow with a tinge of blue and red),

rape has become a lesser evil

a mere punishment for wrong,

who is to tell wrong from right?

why wont these mad men take their frustrations out

on the streets of Abuja or Lagos

on the real criminals…


would rape have been a welcome safety

from the merciless masked men who whisked innocent girls away?

this is what existence in Nigeria has come to.

who will set us free…

the Thief, the Whistle-blower and the Mad men III

i looked back and I heard the pleas…

i could not fathom my feelings:

it went from alarm to


then confusion.


yet, this girl persisted and refused.

she refused to be dragged off the bus,

it was as if she knew what was coming…

it was as if I had no idea of

what was coming…

I had no idea.


the crowd had gathered;

for on the streets of Lagos: Yaba to be precise,

geographically Nigeria,

the people were frustrated.

we were exhausted.


we are exhausted:

with the meaningless death.

the cash loathsome economy.

the embezzlement “s”…

the government that parties barely a few days after a sacrilegious act

had been committed,

the abduction of “200” children from the most safe place.

a place away from all the menace of “the death”.

Alas for their illusion!


this girl simply refused to be dragged off the bus

and as I sat there and watched amazed,

my real fears began.



I look at you…

laughing out loud

from the other side of the mirror.

I see your dissatisfaction,

perfectly mirrored in mine…


I know the answers to your listlessness


Do you know mine?


Sister in crime,

sister mine…

Girl in distress,

they all want us for a mistress!

we play games with them all,

i can’t just feel anything anymore…


I keep laughing


because i see the cause of your listlessness;

but you do not see mine.



They want us figured out


the spirits are here again…


I laugh again:

heavy tears streaming down,

I am one of them.

I can never belong with them.

I know who I am

Do you?


The motions are no longer right;

but on I must trudge…

They do not understand you:

neither do they me.

They see a craziness

we see “us”.


Crying would not stop it all;

I know the perfect drugs for you,

I know mine


I seem to want more.

to enlist your freedom,

I must turn  back from sanity

…sanity is so elusive


It seems it is all I have now…

Years gone by…

I remember my years in mushin…

Years i cannot buy back;

memories of a life well adjusted,

of days unruffled by hardships!

memories of a time and place

that seem so unreal now…

As i drive through,

I see dreams I did not believe real.

realities i never imagined possible,

of times I never dreamed

en capsuled in momentous steps;

burdened by years never really understood.

Today i look at you,

You see a reality you never dream i lived;

I will not take you to those years


in my heart of hearts

I will live those moments again

maybe better,

I would NEVER dream of making a trade of them.

Mushin contributed a lot to what I am today.

Mushin my place of fear;

of unimagined experiences,

of children forever caged in realities

of servitude forever accepted.

That great monumental waste of human resource!

Mushin my cage of tears,

Of things i never can tell Maami.

Mushin that great place!

The woman from abroad.

Dilly dallies…

conversing on our “nothingness”

and then she steps in: beautifully attired.

Very unlike our own fat assed women.

hugs and reminisces visited!

In our own corner: struggling babes that we are,

We visit our own “nothingness”

In visiting, we reach a border of ‘cross laughter…

the kind that sounds crassest out of genuineness.

Yes! our laughter could indeed make you laugh.

In this merriness: worries and hunger forgotten,

labours shifted to the furthest corners of the mind,

I hear a voice crass in its melodies…

No girls! “Thatsnt done.”

and like that,

just like that, in that snooty raised voice

embodying a rich foreign personna,

She totally burst our bubbles,

the bubbles that enclosed us from our heavy worries,

reminding us we were just struggling girls in the moving car

on the lane at Maryland; looking out a car that was not ours!

“No! Thatsnt done”
In that pinched snotty nose! argh!
Must i become an english snub like you?

must I laugh out delicately: a pretense that the fufu I feed on cannot produce?

must I assume am better because I have visited foreign soils?

or simply more civilized than the heartiness of a black soul?

and just like that,

just like that,

She brought the thoughts, cries and pessimism crashing yet again!

and in her blindness, in her “overbearing” civilization, she cannot glimpse that which “the heartiness”

tries best to hide.


O thou most wretched of women
Hear thou my cry
Bereaved i cry out
Adamant in my pain.

Olaitan has mocked me,
Out in the streets
He has.
See my shame out in the open!

Aduke has come,
To make sacrifices for the children.
She has made an atonement
A peace that leaves me in pieces

Augustina what is my crime
Why have you fallen for the sweetness
Of the comb?
Making an ado of nothing.

Asake he has lied to you!
If you doubt go and ask kristi.
I am not the witch he named me, it was
Nemesis that caught up with him gravely.

Ewo for the shouts unrendered!
For a cunt embittered,
For a heart utterly shattered,
Ewo for the stump left without!

Maami if you had waited,
Olaitan wouldn’t have named names.
He has called me a whore
He to whom i have borne my all.

Alas! for the choice i made,
Staunch i must stand even unmade,
Where do i call on for help?
Alas for Oya, Oba and Osun proclaim.

I make my exit unencumbered,
With voices, questions and wail unheard
A good woman i tried to be
Alas for the choice of an embittered man!

childhood (unedited)

Steal not my childhood from me
Neither deprive me of the days
When ignorance was most profound

Force me not into education
Let the years of tales satisfy
Let the years of animal hunting
Oh such glorious years!
Let them for me be enough.

The days when okporoko
Was d fish most delicious in d pot
Where disaster was when my sister
Came back with unsoiled clothe from
Her husbands hut!
Oh the days when swimming naked
In the pools of nsala were delights

Oh steal not from me sister
The years of no education in
Classrooms built with tears and toil
From papas farm
Executed properly through taxes
We dared to pay

Oh visit me again days
Of village wrestling and dances
Caricatures of life we live now
Of privacy and indoor swimming pools
Of meals we know not who toiled for
Of democracy and monumental wastes

Please take not from me sister
The days when mamas wrappers were
Comforts and peace and sister was
Just a foreigner dreamed of in the land
Of the spirits.

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