Trauma

 It is on my skin that colors come alive & my eyes 

threaten to be weary from pursuit of happiness. 

My country shifts away from me, in this moment 

these fraudsters want to steal a nation. The head 

on my neck tires from going to many places, seeking

to learn how society make vagabond. These words 

fall from my mouth becoming a river to drown my fears, 

becoming fire from the inside of my stomach. This poem 

is a letter to generations coming as soldiers that must 

stamp madness out from the head of our country. 

photo credit: goodtherapy.org

Chasing nothing

I was glad you would find me.

But you were lost, running chasing nothing!

Our streets still have no lights,

How much does it cost to buy salvation?

Come,

walk with me.

Hold my hands and suck breeze to ease

mind from this ‘shithole!’

Hole dug by actions, wrapped up in the

mystification of our discombobulation.

A future is something you create for yourself. Like a piece

of clay, molded into the want of a potter.

what becomes of your dreams, when your path is wrong?

That having no water or food means more than a smiling

face.

But you are far from where we stand.

Come to me.

to embrace your truth.

to know. that.

a forest always starts with a tree.

Picture by thedigestonline.com

A man forgotten

                                                        

Standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into the world

with a face, battered from rejection &

cuts, deep to reveal flesh, stigmatized by pummeling.

 

Sands of time shift from under your feet,

Oh! You herald of a time waiting to come. Saying.

Like worms, our actions of today eat away tomorrow’s future,

and our tongues are left with no sweetness.

Vile and Vain. Politics of who knows who, wreck us havoc,

and our tradition has been renamed into barbarism.

 

I remember us crawl on the wall to trace a line.

It was a line in our sight, but we were blind.

Blind from driving fine cars on pot ̶ hole roads

& selling birthright for a porridge.

 

Dear Brother,

Now is the time to pick marbles, and build mansions. Think of places back home, in need of a life of love. Against oppressors, hate and division, brought on us who seek a future. So this poem goes in time to record a struggle, as a letter, sent to a man forgotten. 

Picture from lovepopsicles.wordpress.com

 

taste of sweetness

 

Ensconced in your arms,

I die,

from the world

running,

in sweltering heat,

eat,

parts of me,

to fuel my resistance.

 

The floor is a bed,

for our bliss.

We blend & merge, & breath,

many colorful difference.

That time, your eyes broke my bones,

I blossomed in your sight,

my tongue was honey,

Your smile brought peace,

and we painted memories.

 

Life threatens dreams,

we become one,

to fly like butterflies,

away from restrictions,

to kiss mountain eyes,

for the taste of sweetness.

Incantation

It is because I write my

Soul into the future,

That is why I am pain.

That is why I am the last straw of happiness

Keeping the embers in a rebel heart,

burning.

I am the song from the body of a girl,

Dripping with oil &

Made to burn,

Because she dares eat love for herself.

The time of our lives is ended,

But we have only just begun.

So I write my tears on water,

And make them flow into tomorrow.

So when they wash ashore,

I’ll be found in the sands of time.

Picture from pnghunter.com

Sharing Bodies

Nobody’s cloth is really different from another’s, nobody.
Face, Legs, hair, eyes, lips, parts of the body continue to eat people into thinking that they are bigger than what they are.
But people are bigger than what they are. They are bigger than their clothes and frame.
I saw a man eat the Sun once,
and flushed it down with a bottle of reality.
My mind keeps splitting into small pieces of many things.
It keeps molding itself into newer versions of swallowing waters
that draw maps of life
and humans are fishes swimming to the rhythm of invincible sounds.

Open these bodies.
Trace out the lines that are cursed through the spitting of tongues
that is saying I am different – that is saying you are different – that is saying she is different and so we should burn all because they do not understand us – because they do not understand themselves.
But bodies are dynamic and so they bend and twist into shapes that suites only them.

In this life we cringe from fearing what we do not know,
which is what we ought to know.
All souls are merged, that means we are one, that means we are indivisible, that means we are a mountain that cannot be moved.
The enemies of the people always keep crying wolf
and so one day they would cease to find voice
and people would become a tower of talking bodies.

Wear my cloak of somberness and make my readings from within you,
away from being buried in the cockiness of your ignorance like proud beggars.
This poem is not about today – This poem is tomorrow’s blood pouring from the sockets of sunken eyes,
freeing entangled souls woven into the matrix of shattering misunderstandings.
Saying that we all are 1,
= Sharing bodies.

Poetry is a Kind of Savior

Everybody has a place they run to when their world is in chaos.
For Christians it is the Church. And for Muslims, it is the Mosque.
For me, it is Poetry. 
At two a.m. I am stuck on my lover’s Facebook wall, 
re-reading my unreplied messages. 
I do not feel like I have a soul again | my husband has beaten it out of me.
My walks are faint, & I live on eggshells.
If you can come closer,
you will read the stories of marks that are mapped around my body.
My body is a generation’s history.
It is a building that houses the meaning of vulnerability.
And it is a broken soul, sheltered within the four-walls of poetry.

These days sorrow eats away
the courage of brave men.
And fright makes warriors take flight.
The streets are desolate & I can hear the echoes of my own thoughts.
Life looks very dissimilar.
And I fear for my disorientation.

When no home would accommodate my madness,
and no ear would listen to my shrilling.
Poetry kept waiting, with it hands out-stretched.
It kept waiting for me to find my path,
me that is a complication, walking through sulphur-disinfected pavements. 

I remember that one time, that time when I misplaced my happiness.
The road to the stream appeared shorter than it usually was.
I walked to and fro until my feet grew big & watery sores.
That night, it was poetry that took me in. It cuddled me away from the precipice of death.
And after then I could live again, because poetry is a kind of savior.

When life decides to Costume you

At the first instance, you will think you have a choice.
This is because life always comes easy,
it comes easy with no force or pressure: at the first instance.
You are still used to arranging clothes for each days:
Suit and tie for the coming Monday.
This week’s Saturday has to have an Agbada in it for me,
this is what you tell yourself.
You have forgotten that clothes have spirits
& that life can do with you what it pleases.
This is why you feel different the first time you mask your face.
And you can barely move, 
because you feel you’re caged.
We all know:
It is never easy to like a new thing that’s different.
But who can have a say, when life gives its dictates?
It is dress like this or face meningitis,
Or dress this way to avoid Covid-19.
This is life, ordering us around.
Telling us what to do, live / die.
You can have a choice,
when life decides to costume you.
But what you do today,
would always decide your tomorrow.

Storytellers of the street

Who are the storytellers of the streets?
They are the orange sellers.
They are the sugar-cane traders.
They are the ones whose silence is always a recording,
and nothing ever seems to pass them by.
You see these people,
The streets were built for their feet
& They know its corners like the back of their palm.

The tale of the smoker-pastor can be heard from their lips.
We can learn about the thief-turned national hero from them.
From the Lungus of many Angwas,
to the alleys of the ghettos =
You can see them.
They’re always singing:
come and buy Oranges,
come and buy Carrots,
and nothing ever seems to pass them by.

Today they told me a story about a man,
Who couldn’t mind his mouth.
He fell in-between two women, &
Insulted another woman’s husband.
Woe! Unto such a man,
that ended up beaten into his right senses.

These storytellers are conscious than griots,
yet, they require no pay for their services.
These street stories, are everyone’s stories.




Glossary
Lungus = A slang that mean Corners in Hausa language.
Angwas = An Hausa language word that means Areas.

DE.MODE.M (DE = DOMINATE EVERYTHING) --- The Art and Sound of Mikhi

Music continues to be a medium of connection to the soul and the heart of many people in society. Artists come up with styles and patterns through which they dish out their art, and we know from history that only a few of these artists are able to create something that is long lasting. 

This article is a review of five songs of the musical artiste ‘Mikhi’. These songs are available on audiomack and they constitute an EP titled DE.MODE.M, which is the only body of work that the artiste has on the musical site as at when this article is being written. What are the qualities that a music which must be relevant to society should have? Does the art and sound of Mikhi possess any of these qualities, as well as portray social relevance? And where and in what part(s) of Mikhi’s artistry can we find these qualities? These are some of the questions that this article would be interrogating, in-criticism of the art and sound of the artiste.

It is important that any music that wants to attain posterity must involve itself with matters that are intransient. This is what Mikhi’s music appears to have pursued through, in the five songs that make-up the EP. The musical tracks talk about different subjects that can be understood vis-à-vis relatable scenarios or incidents that happen in life. From crisscrossing rap and singing with a notable confidence, Mikhi’s music contains themes and messages that are capable of contributing positively to the growth and development of his environment. The lyrics, and words are a part of the system through which the artiste propagates his thoughts and ideologies, consciously/unconsciously. From the interrogation of the lyrics of all the five songs, we can hear a honest conversation between a child and his parents, promising them of his success and their enjoyment. We can also hear an expression of a love for simplicity, contemporary vibes and most interestingly, love. These chosen themes are fundamental qualities that try to explain life, and therefore remain being discussed in continuum with a never ending relevance, because life can never be fully explained. 

The sound of the music and the structure of the artiste rhythm is another place that one can look out for the signs of a socially relevant song. Mkihi’s sound is different and can be discussed individually in relation to other sounds. The difference of the music lies in the combination of the sound, the lyrics and the voice texture that the artiste uses to weave his delivery. His voice texture is a little above normal-flat, which makes us to think of an artiste that is relaxed in himself while he his creating his art. This relaxation and coordination is a trait that many artiste lack, and it is in fact an important requirement for every song that wants to be remembered forever to have. Life is an ocean filled with crushing waves, and it is this ‘relaxation and coordination’ that is able to help a song fight against the eroding powers of time. Songs that would be socially relevant have been known to have an unusual style, a signature that carves a space for the artiste in the general world of music. The sounds of Eminem, Jay- Z and J. Cole are examples of socially relevant music, that bring some audacious contribution to the general forum of music. It’s therefore no surprise that Mkihi counts Jay – Z and J. Cole as some of the personas that have inspired his musical journey so far.  

Michael Iriale Ikhigbonoaremen a.k.a Mikhi, describes himself as an Indie Artiste. A creative mind that exists in independent form, unconnected to the capitalistic construct of being ‘signed’ in the music industry. He explains that the kind of music that he creates is genre-bending and genre-blending. This is why the sound that he keeps creating has been able to carve a niche for him, in the world of music. Truth be told, the unconventionality of the sound and the structure of rhythm that characterizes Mikhi’s art, cannot be overlooked. The way ‘Mihki’ twists the hooks and the tones of the verses in his songs, making them feel like conversations, has been able to break any possible categorization of his music. This is perhaps the reason why he explains that his music is genre-bending and genre-blending.

And so, it is important that we should discuss The art and sound of Mkihi, and by doing that, relate to the public our own opinion of the nature of the artiste music. It is good that the public should always be made aware of the things that can be of benefits to them. This is the first duty of any one that decides to do a job to the society. The knowledge that you are able to acquire in the course of doing the job, should be used for the good of the public. After a study of the five songs that constitute the EP of Mkihi, the public are made aware of the rare pleasure and knowledge that can be gained from listening to the artiste. This is a music creator whose projections can only be interpreted as a favorable one. The kind of prediction that can be made about very few artiste in the country and around the world. It is the knowledge, lessons and information that people can get from this artiste that should drive them to listen to his vibes. In the capitalistic world of today, the truth is rare and therefore artiste who create in the openness of their messages deserve to be appreciated. It is important that if we must listen to music, then we should listen to that which would enlighten us more. That is how we can learn things which can help us live a better life. And it is on this note, that I recommend Mhiki’s music to the public.

Follow Mikhi

Twitter & Instagram: @miiikhiNG

Art and the binary of life: The review of a painting in-performance

Some people explain life following the principle of the binary. The principle of things in twos: 1 & 0, Girl & Boy, Rich and Poor. It is this principle that I see exemplified in this painting that appears to seek a portray of two sides of something; the two sides of life. For me, generally, this is a good piece of art that reemphasizes the aesthetics of art and promotes the serenity of color mixture. Away from the surface, a more critical exploration of the painting reveals a concentration of consciousness that defines intention and defies distraction. 

My analysis of this painting would be under the headings of Colors, Characters, and Scene / Setting. One reason I have chosen to restrict my criticism to these few headings, is because I believe that it is possible to substantially interrogate the essence of the painting under the selected headings. Another reason is because I believe that the selected titles can help focus the criticism in the direction that elicits advantages for society, which is the aim of this blog. That is, to promote the freedom of the artist to create and explore without any restriction. Since the review promises to be brief and concise, the headings can help to guard against unnecessary deviation and shifts away from the focus. The criticism would be carried through in a stretch. Even though the discourse would be done under headings, the headings are infused into eachother in a way that makes the entire analysis a single whole and not partitioned. 

***

What can we title this painting? Do we call it a tree of life or a tree of love? I believe that whatever it is that we choose to title the artwork, would be irrelevant if it is unable to capture a logical argument that can explain the work. Even if the argument is metaphorical. I would not run into the temptation of given the work a title. For this review, that is entirely within the purview of the artist. But in my analysis, I would run a description of the artwork as I attempt to break it down gradually to arrive at an understanding of what the work might mean. 

Colors are beauties. They are strong channels through which messages are passed and transmitted to people. Colors say things and they are able to describe situations and events. Colors are able to speak, and this reality has over time encouraged a performance of colors within the theatrical world. In these kind of performances, there are usually a play of colors and somehow the messages intended for the audience are woven into the arrangement, organization and movement of the colors, realized in-performance. The art of Robert Wilson is a good example of this kind of theatre. It is in this light that I see the use of colors in this painting. I see the colors move and dance and talk and say that they are carefully selected sub-characters, interlaced into each other to aid in emphasizing the actions of the two main characters: The boy & The girl. The boy & the girl are both on a swing, moving according to their individual pace, far from each other and yet still close. The tree is the foundation and the source of strength that the boy and the girl cling to. The tree also reveals nature as the ultimate set-designer. This is because it is on this tree that the boy and the girl have chosen to enact their performance of duality. If they both had shared a single swing on the tree, maybe then one could think that the artist intended to portray a somewhat joining together. But in the painting, the girl is on one swing and the boy is on another swing and it is unavoidable to notice a separation between the two of them. What is the artist trying to say? Is there some kind of separation that happens between girls and boys in the society that the artist is trying to call our attention to? The thought that borders on separation is amplified for me by the conscious swap and inversion of colors on both parts of the painting. The top part of the tree, from the branches and leaves upward is divided into two colors. One side of that part of the tree is painted black, while the other part is painted pink. From the branches downwards through the tree trunk to the roots and the ground, is painted black. This favors the side of the tree that is painted in black because the major part of the tree is painted in the same color. Consciously or unconsciously, the part of the tree painted black is the performance space of the girl in this theatre of painting. What is the artist trying to say about the female character? I can hear the girl say that because the artist has decided to give her part of the tree a color that occupies the larger area of the tree, over the color on the boy's side as we can see for ourselves, then she is being favored. Why the girl would think such a thing, is a question that we nosy-folks interested in understanding the intention of these brush strokes must ask. To get our answer we might decide to look at the bigger picture. The entire frame of enactment that constitutes the stage, is capable of giving us more insights into understanding this piece of art. Away from the tree, half of what serves as the background of the painting, the setting of the scene, is painted in a careful combination of colors that range between different shades of pink and color orange. This is the part that has the girl character in it. The other half of the setting where the boy can be seen to swing, is described majorly using the color blue. From left to right: one side could be the representation of dawn while the other depicts dusk, as it basks in its own reflection upon the surface of water. A reflection that has been carried through by the moon. 

The performance of this painting lives on into forever, existing in the colors, characters and setting / scene that keeps performing into the future. The painting appears to offer an explanation, through a contradiction. We know that the character of the boy and the girl are at the center of this action, and we know that the scene / setting and colors are only tools that help to amplify their actions. Deconstructively, meaning can be generated from this painting in an unending continuum. And so far, the lessons that I have been taught through the painting are certain and assertive. 

***

The use of the boy and girl as recognizable characters, and the use of colors, scene / setting, that we can connect to our world, makes the piece of art of sociological importance. What is the use of this art or what can be its use for society? It is the focus of this blog to publish and promote art for the benefit of society, and it is in this line that I am exploring the importance of this painting-performance for the Nigerian society. 

The boy & the girl dichotomy that the painting appears to emphasize is not a new phenomenon in the Nigerian society, and in the general world society. Girls are often made to belong to a socially constructed predicament that does not qualify them to benefit like boys. The organization of many societies across the world favor the boy child over the girl child. Is this maybe what the artist is interrogating in this art-performance? If that is the case then the painting would be contributing to the arguments regarding the equality of gender. 

All these thoughts are my musings, and perhaps the artist did not mean to make a socially-charged painting. Maybe the artists has simply tried to paint a portrait of love. Of the boy and the girl. But even if that is the case, the painting can still provide a high effect on society. Love is a potent ingredient of the supernatural dish of existence. It can neither be understood too much, nor can it be understood less. Love can only be understood. And this is achieved in the feeling, the genuine feeling that intoxicates a person to take actions that can visibly affect the constitution of life, here on earth. Whether this is, OR isn’t what the artist has tried to say through the painting, I can say no more. At this moment I can only swim in the nerve-relaxing ocean of feelings that this powerful painting elicits.   

Painting by: _@Ruthie_

Source: Twitter.com

My opinion on the fallout within Brittle Paper

Yesterday I was shocked to find out that the deputy-editor of my former favorite literary blog Brittle Paper, Otosirieze Obi-Young, have had to leave the literary platform over a matter that had few days ago, attracted the attention of many writers, artists and literary enthusiasts within the country and outside it.  This matter is about the son of the governor of Kaduna State, Bello El-Rufai, who had insulted a social media user just like himself, by pouring bitter and caustic vituperations on him. Bello was called out on the internet by many people, alleging that he had threatened to rape the mother of the social media user and that by doing that he had violated provisions of the law of the land and should be made to pay for it. Hadiza El-Rufai, wife of the governor of Kaduna state and a novelist, was roped into the barrage of tweets that was rained on her son. This happened because Mrs El-Rufai stood to defend her son at first, stating that his action was taken in defense of himself and his dignity. Brittle Paper ran the story about the unacceptable attitude of the governor’s son and his wife’s hurried defense of the Man-boy before finding out the facts of the matter. The reason for running the story according to the former deputy-editor of the platform who ran it, was that Mrs El-Rufai is a novelist and that since the platform concerns itself with developments about writers and their lifestyle, the story was well within bounds to be published by the paper. Brittle Paper’s founder Professor Ainehi Edoro did not find some of Otosirieze statements in the publication acceptable, irrespective of the fact that he was making a valid criticism and running a solid news. In her argument, some of Otosirieze words were unwarranted, harsh and they opened the platform to possible law suits from other new platforms that were mentioned in his news. She also argued that the news story was personalized by the former deputy-editor, when he should have detached himself from the story he ran to be impartial and objective. After a few back and forth conversation with the founder of the blog, the former deputy-editor was logged out of the official pages and accounts of the literary site. His access to the platform was denied, and it was then that he realized that he had been distanced from the literary hub. Otosirieze moved to announce his departure from Brittle Paper yesterday, reclaiming back all his intellectual properties that are or might be in the possession of the African literary site. 

This development once more reveals the crisis that has always troubled the literary sphere of our dear Nigeria. Once again the writer appears to be under threat because he has chosen to speak the truth just the way he wants to, as a free man. One of the importance of literature is that as a site of continuous power play and cultural interconnection, it is capable of positively influencing the society through constructive criticism and required objectivity. What is the use of literature if it cannot be used to speak truth to power just the way it wants to? This is a question that we must ask ourselves at this critical time. Should writers in Nigeria exist just so that whatever they write can be accepted by the government and other structures of power because it possess decorous statement? Must a writer kowtow to the popular attitude of hypocrisy in Nigeria, before he can be left alone to breath in peace? The answer to these questions is certainly no! The writer is a god that has been given the power to create and to kill, to make and to destroy. This is the reason why the writer must be encouraged and guarded jealously, so that his creations can continue to be based on truth and not deception and can be of benefit to society. In my opinion it was totally wrong for Otosirieze to be treated the way he was handled by Brittle Paper.  I deeply respect and love Professor Edoro, but I also believe that she didn't make the right call when she blocked and retired his access to the platform work spaces without letting him know first, because this happened after she had talked to him. Nigeria has suffered from the damning throes of ethnic jingoism and professional nepotism enough. There is no better time for the people of this country to rise up and be nonpartisan in their criticism, especially in literature and the arts, than now.

While the highly cerebral Otosirieze has now fallen-out with the Brittle Paper platform, Bello El-Rufai has so far received no major sanction for his nasty public behavior from the government, his employer and his father. His actions have caused a ripple effect in the Nigerian literary scene, leading to a fragmentation of the already strained relationship between writers in the country. Bello is reported to be working as an aide to a senator in the state, and now one can only wonder what kind of aid someone that is filled with so much uncouth language and sickening egocentrism can offer to drive this country forward. As a young man who should be a shining example of leadership based on his political privileges, Bello El-Rufai have through his actions, portrayed himself to be a young example of the cancerous tumor which intends to worry our dear Nigeria to death. He lacks public coordination, and he obviously harbors ethnic divisive tendencies. His actions and words stand against him as evidence that he doesn’t believe in the dream and aspirations of a one Nigeria. Therefore he stands in contravention of the laws of the land and as an aide to a senator, he is a security risk to this country while in his current position. 

This matter is a landmark happening within the Nigerian literary sphere, and it is a significant turn of the hands of time that would ultimately have some effects on the destiny of the country’s literary life. This is not the first time that a writer is in contention with people that used to employ him over his writings, and this would definitely not be the last. So far many writers have written and some have proposed to write to Brittle Paper in expression of their copyrights, to withdraw all their published works on the platform. Today is a day that has been impregnated by yesterday, and will give birth to tomorrow. The things that happen today are potent signs of that which is to come tomorrow. Certainly but sadly, this incident will lead to the further polarization of the literary scene in Nigeria. Already, writers like Elnathan John have begun to mock the entire Brittle Paper establishment, accusing the writers and workers at the platform of reaping from what they have sown. The platform has been criticized to have connections with the Kaduna state government, and this has been described as the reason for the victimization of their very own after he criticized members of their benefactor’s family. I do not know how legitimate the accusations against Brittle Paper are, but I know that Professor Edoro has repeatedly and sternly refuted the claims, stating her historical personal sponsorship of Brittle Paper without any external donations. 

What is important now is that, we must not allow the tool of literature to be wrestled away from us by those that it is used to fight against. Whoever does not like the truth must move away from any position that demands uprightness from him/her. Anybody that finds him/herself in a public space, must be cautious to not abuse another man’s freedom on the account of his/her own privilege. Politics must not be allowed to absorb literature into it, to make literature into a tool that can only be used by the rulers against the ruled. Literature must be allowed to roam free and live its life the way it wants to live it. The writer must be protected from being intimidated to relinquish his pen and run into hiding every time, because he has chosen to correct the ills of society and talk against the bad leadership of those who sit in places of power. As time goes on, I will be patiently waiting to see how things would unfold within the Nigerian literary sphere, even though I am certain that this matter has only just begun. It is my position that the writer as an artist should not and must not be persecuted for following his conscience and speaking the truth. Every Nigerian at this critical time when the history of the world is being rewritten through the pen of a virus, must stand together to combat oppression and refute the actions of those minute few who intend to harass the common man as a result of their public power. Bello El-Rufai must be made to answer for his misbehavior and take responsibility for his public display of unacceptable character. This is all that I have to say to say for now.

Come with me to Nairobi

To my dear baby,

We should leave this place when the war is over.

Our bodies have become stories too broad to be confined within borders

& our freedom still pricks when it is restricted.

So come with me to Nairobi,

the Matatus can’t wait to taste our sweetness on their lips.

Me & You, living off the elixir from our free souls -

souls that have become refutations to blinding dogmas.

We would sell everything; our prettiness and our logic.

We would just be two sweating flesh, eating each other  

on the floor of a hotel whose name we can’t even pronounce.

I would drink some wine, you would swallow my thoughts &

we would be drunk from the deafening sound of our jolting defiance.

You must come with me to Nairobi, my dear baby,

in another life time | after we fight a virus we know how to beat.

Photo credit: Www.history.com

Source: Www.google.com

The border called life

I can still remember the time my Grandfather walked me through Igbo Olodumare in the middle of the night.

The lamp that must never die was placed on my palm, and the oil from the burning cup trickled down my arms into the crevices of my thought.

Bent over a dog at the Shrine of Ogun,

I could see the crucifix around his neck dangling – dangling.

How can you bring Our Lord Jesus Christ into a Shrine?, I asked him in my mind. Watching Steadily.

It seemed my mind was in his mind | It seemed the two minds were strewn together like the destiny of death-sworn-lovers | Because he started to answer that:

Life is a border that leads to nowhere | That means it leads to many places.

It can be fragile like the bones of an old man

OR

It can be hard, concrete like the picture of a Priest serving Ogun’s meat as communion.

                                        

                                                    . . .

Now all that is left is a memory of intermingling spirits.

Spirits that now sing lullabies to me on my bamboo bed | Etching my soul into a body that is shameless | A body that is a mountain of fire, Burning down the borders erected to classify people.

This time I remember my old man whose truth was a coat of many colors,

I remember moving through time with the lamp in my hand & I remember dancing in the air.

The Yorubas have a saying: It is who you wish to do business with in the market that you pay attention to. You do not pay attention to the noise of the market.

/

For there is no contradiction more, than in the border called Life.

Photo credit: Daniel Miessler

Source: Www.google.com

A poem

I sat beside myself all night/ and I heard the flicker from the light bulb speak to me.

“Say something,” it said. Say something before you die this night and miss your heaven.

It wanted me to say how my body is a talker, 

and that it speaks for itself.

It tells me that 1 more Fela would have changed my country | But isn’t there something that keeps even Cowards busy?

What we want is a general better life, we the Nigerian people - and now we know that we must work for it!

Good water, good road, working society, 

African vibes and a life that is free of virus.

You see, you can literally never become more Roman than the Catholic | But step by step, Africa must rediscover itself!


Photo credit: ART SCENE
Source: Www.google.com

Lurking behind butterflies

This time is not for lamentation. I tell myself.

This time my wounds have learnt to heal themselves and so I walk through a forest of arrows | My back is bent against shrapnel and my soul is still dancing on that thin line of in-betweens.

Asking when would the world beget itself and lead us unto paths of welcoming sunsets?!

My name is a house on the hill,

that means it’s on top.

That means my Grandfather emerged from a lineage of warriors. And yet I fail to win the fight against my skin.

This time is for bouncing back up

Building defenses against the roses of thorns

Scratching the surface of every experience like a DJ in love with his jam. > Pull and Pull

Search and seek

Deep in energy, buried in peace!       I’m all you’ll find, lurking behind butterflies.