Colour Play

Angelic bodies drape the skies

In varying stripes of turquoise shades.

bronze burns into a scourging orange.

A magpie in flight like a sardonic ghost

Turquoise and teal stretch their edges on life

across horizons to assimilate heaven’s secrets

or secure God’s ritzy paradise

from our predictable human minds.

Day and night, the shadow play

Umbra charade on lemon walls

a painstaking five minutes rushes by

and scarlet unites with fuchsia tinge.

the sky tells a mysterious tale in deeper hues

like all the darkness of the world has seeped out

from our mind’s crevices

and trapped above sea level.

I do not fear the horrors that the story unfolds,

it is beyond the border

far from my inquisitive reaching mind.

No, I simply close my eyes and feel the colours paint my soul,

dissecting it red and blue

The colours fade and loneliness looms like a crown above my eery head

Monte Claire’s bay

The lighthouse illuminates past the waterbody bordered by a precipice pile of rock leading a trail of the harbour of Monte Claire’s bay. A plantation bordered the harbour on either side. Past the harbour was a grove of vegetative labyrinth around the trail. The trail ended in front of the lake where the water got deeper. One could see pebbles in the bottom reflect clearly in twilight.

No one knows what’s down there and no one has tried for a century. All who visit the bank threaded carefully even in high summer sun. More glorious than the black sea, the waves flowed in unison. Sea urchins from the far end of the water washed up to the shore. A delightful melting pot of invertebrate critters resided there.

Legend had it that a mermaid also existed in the lake, somewhere in the far Northeastern border. Even the most agile swimmer cannot escape the sea witch’s grip.

No one wandered into the territory of the sea witch lived to tell, and worse was for the naive unsuspecting holiday makers .


25. 05. 2008.

Two brothers, both in their 30’s visited the bay for a picnic, after which they went for a swim.

Arthur thrust his hand in the current and Philip was slapped across the face as a consequence. Noting his facial expression, Arthur dashed to the deep end of the water as his brother chased him. Few splashes were tossed around along with hearty laughs, but the fun disappeared and the waves silenced. Right then, something long and slippery wrapped around the elder’s ankle. He wiggled his foot, damn sea weed, he thought, but the more he wiggled, the tighter the grip became alarming the young man. His left limb was gradually obstructed.

He yelped and yowled, till Philip noticed something was amiss. Philip grabs Arthur’s hand and yanks desperately, but now streaks of blood escaped to the surface because Arthur’s limb was almost amputated. Philip tried desperately to save his brother but the “octupus claw” was stronger so Arthur drowned. More blood resurfaced.

Philip’s head bowed as a tear fell from the corner of his eye and touched the water. When he raised his head, twelve meters from him was a maiden so beautiful and alluring. Her golden flaxen hair reached into the water, her supple lips told of her innocent and her chest was humongous compared to the proportion of her lanky body. Philip’s grief was suddenly exchanged for enchantment. Without saying a word, she reached and cradled his face. They disappeared.


06.08.2015.

Abigial pondered under a coconut tree admiring the glistening surface of the lake. Seldom she glanced down and scribbled into her journal. It’s been a little over 2 months she broke up with her boyfriend. She thought she might be fine but it was increasingly harder to get up in the morning and prepare for work, try as she may. So her boss suggested she take her vacation early. He needed his top sale’s manager in tip top shape.

When she arrived home, she broke her piggy bank and checked her account before searching for a holiday spot. It must have been her lucky day too because the Island of Monte Claire had a discount, much unlike these Island destinations. she was paying next to nothing.

She raised her head again to glance at the water when she saw a striking figure in the lake looking at her. Without her glasses she couldn’t see well but it looked like a maiden with golden flaxen hair and juggers, the size of watermelon. In the blink of an eye, she disappeared.

Abigial felt her anxiety melt, for the first time since the break up and although she didn’t plan to, the circumstances was perfect for a swim. She dipped her toes in the water and started to untie her robes when she noticed a bottle float to shore. She picked the bottle and opened a paper stuffed inside. One word; HELP !!.

She immediately dived into the lake. She was tired of obsessing over her ex and somewhere here was an adventure she couldn’t turn down.

The Road to Torture

She was a young sweet Bavarian virgin who had been moonwalking on clouds for a long time. Wearing unconventional boots that spread across the sky like a butterfly perching on a rainbow. She’d been riding on the waves of unorthodoxy. Certainly unlike others she was.

At first it was just blathering jokes. Slithering tongues and whatnot. Women at the lake, those gossipy analysing lots, addressing one another in satirical tone. “She always staring at me with her buggy eyes”. Another affirmed, “she stares a lot that one she does, you’d think she’s plotting something vengeful”. A little laugh here and joke there before they started on their way back home. But the birds sang to the whispering leaves of a weeping willow in the breasted forest and the wolves that nested beneath its roots chatted with the wild dogs. The dogs relayed to their owners. In a couple of days the town had formed a council.

“I hear she’s a kleptomaniac”. One said

“They say she’s a Parsel mouth”, said another.

Witch. Witch. Burn the Witch!”, they yelled in unison.

Our young sweet Bavarian girl took careful baby step on the gloomy road of torture. To a chamber where the executioner invited her to marvel at the edge of his chilling axe that bore the crest of early Christendom.

She was summoned before the council board and accused of sleeping with a nightmare-demon, among other grievous crimes, to which she confessed none.

The man with a black hood and a heavy axe vowed to be both her enemy and saviour wrapped nicely with a demented bow. She swore she hated him when he chopped off her tongue, but hatred consumed her when he crushes her joint and shove her into a sarcophagus. He said, “Your friend wants you to acknowledge your fate and curse your very soul”.

She screamed day after day and week after week. Even in the times she lost her voice, her breath panted on her behalf. For four months she was subjected to every kind of torture imaginable, including sitting on a spiky witches chair that had been exposed to heat. The young girl was dying , and much to the executioner’s rage, without a confession.

She was melting away. She didn’t look so young anymore, wasn’t so sweet either, more like a tattered condemned wench. The executioner got tired of waiting so he stripped her naked and flogged her so her will would be crushed. Then he made her walk in the market square wearing a bulky confession around her neck.

She walked through the rowdy market, only a faded ensemble of her former self, leaving footprints on the dirt as she headed towards the gallows. Death pecked her supple cheeks like they were destined to be lovers. It was no news that she didn’t belong to the universe dominated of humans.

No one who smiles different, or walks different does. In time, they would be escorted on deaths powerful wings to a place, where it didn’t matter so much to be different.

Moon river

How I love to hate the full moon.

The day I cease believing was when I start dying. Dying for a touch. Dying for a kiss. Dying close to your reach. Dying within you. And I remember sinking into bitumen, yelling out a language that I could not speak. I was wandering down the hallways of a light house, I thought I would see you. I would hear you. I could turn into you. Rummaging through wuthering heights. packaging together the ripe and the rotting. The jade and the purple. The insanes and the artefacts.

I bid you, fuel my abstract lucidity. Incoherent raspy words seep out of the pit of my black velveteen dreams. Forget the smoke of reality that fills the room and feeds my ego, I know that feeling of escaping into a void that only grows hollower. I see the full moon feeding off the crevices of my soul and forming dark version of me from it’s shadow. It brightens my heart yet send impulses down my spine. It is the part of me I wish to never confront

And once in a while my friend Intuition comes to visit. He borrows a hole in the middle of my forehead thats why I like to think i’m a unicorn baby, yet even at it’s strongest it cannot quench the sardonic flames of the moons strong pull. Once in every few hours I wail out in deep agony like a woman close to full cervical dilation in a labour ward.

Labels Labels. There isn’t just one for Heinz ketchup but one for you and one for me too. You name a personality, and as sure as the sky is blue, there is a label attached to it. So they termed me highly sensitive slash empath slash intuitive slash they ran out of labels and slashes. Pretty fancy terms for being the universe’s forced experimental guinea pig in a double-blind controlled experiment.

As sure as the day will end, I will not cave to my big bad bully. I will cry but I must be brave while crying. Perhaps this is my body’s attempt to feel something other than the rowdy noise of the grim reaper’s sharpened blade. But I’m half hoping my tears pool into a river that runs between twin valleys and snuffs out the moon silently as it rises above the alpines before it can claim my soul.

The Hour Peace Vanished

It is already six O’clock. The river flows along the winding path like a slithering serpent guarded on either sides by twin mountains. It’s ebbing waves splashes against rocks like a mathyr throwing himself at the mercy of his convictors. It then flows through the crevices and penetrates the ground layer of the earth. This is where the stillness of peace lies, this is where our source of vitality vacates.

The is the beginning of the journey to the ever flowing spring of life but it is also the end.

Buried under the ground layer are sediments of red clay clumped together in scrambled forms, yet fossils of decayed hope are just a layer below. That hope represented you and I, before we melted together into thick goo and formed a viscous path like magma scourging through naturally existing elements.

1…2…3…4….5…6. Did I say 6? it will be six more before the church-bell announces a minute past 6.

And how could we forget the volcano that cleared a thick forest so that it could conquer every breathing critter. It threatens to heave it’s rage and stir up an imbalanced velocity — a rotary malefic wave-form floating adrift. Nevertheless, the wind kissed its knots and soothed its ego, but a day came where she could pretend no more.

Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. The church-bell went off like peace was shredded in a time machine, traipsing in rebellion to uncertain extinction.

The volcano bellowed and shot magma as if to challenge the wind and curse the ground. She set the forest ablaze for she envied her raw thickness and beauty. She rained larva like dainty soft snow flakes free falling on the Alpine.

Who has the power to redeem balance? to rat out the volcano on the full moon for it’s incandesce nostalgic traps. Alas when the charade is over, the entropy of the Volcanic magma settles into an unorganised pile of pebbles, Glistening at the bottom of the sea like the snake’s eggs. they’ve become the fixed currency of our disrupted peace.

Five…Six. Everything is still again like a defiant witch that is condemned to the stakes to be disassembled into ashes and dispersed into the winding river. Gone like they never were.

Last stop: Hope

Ms dukings hung her head outside the moving van. Eyes darting from scrub to scrub. Hill to hill. As though he would pop up. She didn’t want to miss any moment. The journey from Ibadan to Lagos central was four hours, out of which they had exhausted 2. Detective Kozak had attempted making small talks with the distressed mother earlier during their Journey despite being overwhelming bad at it himself. He eventually gave up. If psychology had taught him anything, it was that if you couldn’t distract the mind from it’s ongoing war, you would consequently excite it.

At this point of the journey everything was beginning to look like tumbleweed to Ms dukings yet she couldn’t let herself blink until she noticed Kozak slowing down at the end of the roundabout and turning into the roadside gas station on the outskirt of Kaduna island. The Automobile was coming to a halt when she started;

Wh— what are you doing?

The detective heaved, “your mind could use a break and frankly I’d like a cup of coffee myself”

“I’ll wait here”, she objected.

Knowing there was nothing he could do to convince her, the detective opened the door to elit the vehicle as Dukings held his hand and squeezed them as tight as she could. As their eyes met she confirmed her fears;

“You are my Last hope. We have to find my son”

“This is the last stop before we enter Lagos. Ms Dukings”, `Said the detective as he observed at the vast horizon.” Be prepared for what we’ll find”.

Temi’s smile

Her middle name could have been hope for she saw beauty in the strangest of phenomenas too. She’d lay side by side to monsters and infect them with her twitchy smile. Her name was Temioluwa and that was her super power

Temi,s eyes was like the sun erupting from behind forest grooves on a lusty morning breeze. When she tilted her head to say hello, I felt bubbles within my oesophagus forcing me to sing.

Her hands were the warmth of a thousand melting pots and she gave the most graceful curtseys. It wasn’t hard for her to captivate my attention and bend me into the forms that she so pleased. It wasn’t hard to always want to revel in her imperfect perfection and twitchy smile.

Thick is her bouncy mane, a new level of kinky unlocked. She’d sweep the playground with her presence like the high priestess performing Aphrodite’s sacred rites. Welcoming in sumptuous vibes.

She took to the hills like she dominated my heart. unapologetic and savage in every way. Vain and vengeful as if Venus held a mirror to her likeness. She traipses into the Aula. A tunic in one hand and a cape in the other ready to conceptualise her essence.

Her Grandmother was her favourite person. The first time they met was when her power was activated. She’d sit at her feet, climb around her neck and bounce on her back. When it’s time for grandma to go, she’d wear an uncommon upside down smile.

Grandma tugged on her chin and gazed on her with smiling eyes. “I’ll come tomorrow, before you wake up”. Temi’s teeth lighted up like a chandelier that could not be hidden. Grandma was coming back and that was all that mattered.

Two hours and counting, the lion was growing impatient. She played until her feet ached in the hot Lagos sand. By midnight she was alert. Any minute now Grandma would walk in through those doors. A minute that did not arrive.

She waited until daybreak with a hopeful smile. Sometime between the cock’s crows, Temi realised Grandma wasn’t coming. Like Pollen her smile began withered with the open space.

The courage of the lion has been mangled. It changed her in ways she never knew. Rejection became Temi’s achilles heel.

She didn’t stop smiling, in every picture it is upside down. Permanently.

Sexual Telepathy

Dear Motown Lover,

We’ve been gambling in dangerous territory for a while now. Submitting to the flirtatious hands of seduction as I throw my chin up and toss my shoulders back. Seemingly intoxicated on laudanum and each other’s high coos.

My back pressed against the counter top, as you slow grind between my fleshy thighs. Remember that one time we tried it with head stand as your hand cradling my buttocks? Explicit memories on the stairs, in the car — and really everywhere in between.

Then there are times when we play it safe —not too safe, abandoning our thoughts on another astral plane, where we sorta resonate on a wavelength. Confined to the pleasure of a telepathic game.

One thing I know is there’s no compass to measure the latitude  — no device that confirms the magnitude of these nostalgic vibes.

I especially revel in getting undressed by your lustful eyes. Almost as much as I love the sight of your naked bum. In the end, we’re clothed with each other’s skin and the night.

We share our secrets with the creatures of the night and our wobbly bed, addicted to the scent of each other skin, so that even when the sky weeps and we’re caught out in the rain, there will always be something I look forward to.

I feel fuzzy at the thought of you and my jaw softens into a beaming smile. Though I’m not one for the thespian romance, the virus spreads even to the strongest of us.

Your kiss jeopardises the core of my buttress. I’m trapped in the cervices of our bond.

Yet I’m not willing to be saved.

One thing I know is there’s no compass to measure the latitude  — no device that confirms the magnitude of these nostalgic vibes.

Without you

Without you the sun wouldn’t shine

the ocean couldn’t generate waves

Roses would grow bleak and wither

Without you I would not be writing this

My blood would sizzle and evaporate

Evil people would be dancing over my tombstone

Without you the birds wouldn’t sing so sweetly

the dogs wouldn’t boast with their barks

man would be wandering aimlessly

Without you I wouldn’t have my wonderful man

two weird sisters that are pretty cheeky

and my awesome brothers I love so

Without you, love wouldn’t have any meaning

Joy would just be an obvious word

and peace would sound like a fairytale in a bad dream

Without you everyday would look the same

the lights in the sky would wane

Mankind would be doomed to abysmal limbo