People say

People said

the world is flat

has four edges and a strap

Gravity is only a myth

People say

life can exist without love

work all day and pay the bills

lest you sleep under the bridge

people say

it doesn’t matter how you lived your life

the day you die is more important

their insipid hearts glazed over

people say

work and till and earn your bills

go the streets and squander it all

all in a bid to fit right in

people say

there is only one way, ours or none

Only one god, ours or none

rebuke it and you’ll walk the plank

people say

wear mink coats and leather shoes

Your stone cold blinks must blind others

when you die, we’ll judge you still

people say

love yourself just as you are

and if you don’t, go under the knife

but when you die, we’ll judge you more

People say

all kinds of quatsch

pretend they care, yet judge all day

helping each other dig their grave.

People spend all night in the church

shake and tremble under the alter

roll around in dirt and dust

leave that place the same they went

People preach to you at end

You should live your life this way

then lock their doors and do the opposite

while you weep and wonder what’s wrong with you

People judge the dead for how they died

spit and dance on open grave

never mind the way they lived their life

then yell, I am christian.

I’ve learnt to smite what people say

their hearts overrun with wickedness and spite

smile in your face, judge behind your back

the only One to trust is Yahweh

The magpie’s song

Adorned by the brittleness of his aching spirit, the Magpie watches himself in the reflective stream and nods approvingly. His kins would be proud, if they could see him stretch out his nestled wings and glide inches above the water surface.

It is a good day. And it going to get better.

Victory is in the waddling stream, it is in the harvest of the trees rootling. It is in the squeals of the busy beavers. It is in his brother’s pea-sized eyes.

For years and years, his kind had been predated, and hunted down. He remembers his dear mate lying on the zenith of an Alpine mountain, try as he could, her small heart palpated and went silent before she thought of giving up. Stricken down by some hunter fellow. What woes trails the magpie’s life. Loneliness settled faster than the snowy blizzard that brewed on the day that the colours from his flamboyant feathers turned bland…until now.

He gripped the soil underneath his talon and pushed with all his little might. The time to mourn had come and gone. Today he smelt victory in the fields. He’d advocate it all day long

“Hello”, he yelled to the Robin

“Salute”, he tweeted to Frau Puffin

And then he settled on jenny’s windowsill and sang the most serene symphony she’s heard in a while.

When they asked him why he was so ecstatic with curiosity dripping from their lips, he winced and flipped and giggled and said, It’s going to be good day after all, as he pecked off the crust of jenny’s shepherd pie

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.

Stella

In time, we will be nothing but a speck of dust, Buried in the ground, for others to tread upon Leaving a footprint that’ll haunt the living The beauty of life is that print we leave.

Father, Transform her from dust to dove. Release her into the wind. She’ll soar gracefully, through the valley of death

Transform her from dove to angel Heaven has no windows, yet she sees God, As clearly as a neonate opens their eyes for the first time to behold her parent. And she will know peace like never before —the kind the world she left behind could only imagine.

Dearest Stella.

1963 – 2018 .

No Man’s Land

We come from the same land

dear brother,

I trusted you

unheedingly,

We walked through the desert

me, yearning for a new beginning.

 

 

Your skin like mine is dark

your flag like mine is green

I’m not a slave.

But like the Portuguese pirates of the old world

you’ve branded me, a cow

and while you feel safe in your lofty bed

I cry without end, locked in a cell.

 

If dehumanizing me earns you a fortune

then our bureaucracy has failed us

the Nigerian police can’t see us as equals

Buhari is blind

and my brother

even as you stand before me

I know you can’t see as a human

In no man’s land,

only money talks.

 

See my hair,

they twist and curl in the wind like yours.

Oh, how naive I was

to have resurrected hope on sighting you

but when I learned

how  hedonistic you’ve become

With my last strength

I yelped,

My countryman, help me! brother, please.

You told me,

there is no brother in the jungle

before you disposed of my virtue

to a fate worse than repatriating to Nigeria,

Death in the Mediterranean.

 

 

 

 

A piece in light of the ongoing slave trade in Libya.

 

 

Ode to a friend

With my eyes, I saw Orion

sculpted jawline, strong chin

Intelligent & prideful

 we’d compete, and you’d make it to top three

 

I wasn’t fair to you,

 just like he wasn’t fair to her

 I’d been a bad friend

my arrogance lead me

to the point that even when you

 were at your humblest,

 I turned away from you.

                                                                               

We should talk more

 I will call you more,

 sorry, not now. Not today.

                                                                               

 Then I see it

 tears trickle down, down, down

 I called. 

only this  time,

you’re not there to pick.

 You never will.

 

 

If my heart implodes,

it would be because

I couldn’t stop it sooner

from drowning.

Lost seemingly, without you.