A page from my book

If you want it to be

Life can be both a blessing

and a lesson

But,

It is impossible to read a book

whose pages have never been opened.

some of mine has got sands between the pages

and others have shaggy dogged ears

because I scribbled words I couldn’t speak

and watered-down thoughts I couldn’t share

Crucifying oneself is the prince of bio-weapon

One sting, eternally addicting to the soul

Seemingly infectious it is too

that’s why I easily scare on my walk alone.

The song of my dreams is none but a cacophony,

a mixture of voices that drowns purpose

sometimes a ghost serenades me with incoherent karaoke

other times I’m enchanted by a siren’s song.

I scribbled dried blood on my sleeves

yet you’ll need a kaleidoscope of sorts to view my art

It is enough the way it is

because I was made for Earth’s treasure chest

Every day

Every day I hear a melody of thespian dreams floating away

I find a thousand children smile through your eyes

and applaud every movie I see before the end credit roll

to revel with a swirly glass of Merlot, that’s dinner

and try to change the end of every day

I lay on the grass and see forms of the deceased and breathful in the stars

and if rain decides it’s too proud to stay hidden

I stay because it’s my hair’s bestie

It’s been long I had to sneak to watch late night movies

it’s been a while I had to hold onto a secret

still secrets find a way to bore a hole in my shadow

and in light they stand brave and unconfrontable

talking about secret I just remembered

it’s been long I heard your voice

in my head we’ve already made up

It was stupid. it’s stupider now

but that’s my ego whispering it verbatim to my soul’s ears

you know I love that white noise

I could let it go but I don’t want to

because it’s texture is raw and unadulterated

and I stopped having those dreams

the ones where I’m afraid to fly

I started having new ones

where I have a voice but nothing comes out

I don’t prefer the ones that I have to run from faceless beings either

I’m still trying get myself free you know

I’ve suffered a deep scar to my left shoulder

it’s ugly and bold but I’ve stopped hiding it

it has become more than a hyperkeratotic scar

it is the embers of an emotional reactor

from which I rose from

and it fuels the footsteps into tomorrow

so my everyday is better than my previous everyday

it’s like sweet strawberries soaked in coconut milk

and to top it up rainbows decorate my days

even in the non-succumbing winter freeze

I have a feeling that this more than a season

these rainbows will be drowning in my eye for longer than my era.

I’d love to not be wrong this time.

Happy 1st

No one lives forever. Imminently our life essence escapes like a fleeting wisp of air with no warning, or justification.My beloved Aunty Stella was too beautiful for this world.

We had our own Christmas tradition

On 26th December I would call and wish her a happy birthday, she’d ask me about school (she passed away 5 months to my graduation), when I’m coming to visit. Then, we’d talk about her husband, and the girls.

Except last year, I broke that tradition. I don’t know what I was confronted with, or if I simply waved it away and thought, ” there’s always next year.”

How naive!

I and my cousins were never particularly close, but it doesn’t take a psychoanalyst to tell that the source of their holiday delight is around no longer, kinda like the Inn-keeper’s son.

For them, every Christmas tree is a reminder that theirs is still boxed in the garage. That no gifts were under it signed by Santa aka mom—even though all of her daughters are in their mid-late 20s. No matching pyjamas. No holiday crackers on the dinner table, or a game like caricature drawing after the meal. And no celebration of her 56th the day after Christmas.

But today I celebrate her life, her family and the joy she brought to mine.

Today is my Aunty’s Stella’s first Birthday in Heaven.

Thank you for reading, and best wishes this festive season 🙂

happy 1st
happy first

Blindsight

Some would argue that the eyes are the soul’s camera. many claim, “seeing is believing’.

But is it really?

It often happens that the things we crave the most  prevents us from attaining any substantial truth about life

Of course books are stimulating but experiences bridge the  gateway of knowledge, and wisdom is wholesome where experience isn’t sufficient.

If you think about it, you’ll realise that each day,  life wraps a little gift for you and I. All we have to do is extract the diamond from a coal mine. Sometimes knowing where to look may seem like a real superpower.

It is and it’s not.

Seeing is believing, but where did you look today?

When the bad happening in our lives seem like they outweigh the good times, and nothing adds up, man must risk considering every nugget of  perspective.

By the end of the week, we are supposed to be swimming in gold jasmine water but most of the time, we are drowning in molten hot larva. How sad.

As a coterie, we are  genetically predisposed with abundant potential. Conversely, We happen to also be blind

No not literally.

However, we allow fear to intrude and mask who we are, the people around us, and certainly the power within us

A simple, yet fairly impractical example of  what I mean is when Mufasa appeared to Simba and presented him with a little hindsight. Except our lives are neither linear timeline like stories, nor is any one gonna appear be brutally honest (except for me, your carefree godmother)

And What is this power you ask?

For one, hope is the tree from our unique potential shines through. If we never hope then we will never see. Supplementing  hope are endurance and love. I like to think of them as the trinity of  human race

You couldn’t find it because you were either not looking or didn’t know where to look. But now that you are, can you see it ?

Oracle

 

Oracle

 

Perhaps it’s is glaringly obvious that I’m a tad fascinated with the occult.This time I decided to focus on  communities like the illuminati in an aboriginal perspective with a short story of an oracle.  This takes place in the Urban tribe of Asaba in Nigeria.

Share your lovely thoughts, how do you think it should play out, Should my protagonist  accept her fate or confront it?.

Cheers to the long weekend!

 


 

 

“Be keen on your decision” said the hag to Chioma, “there’s no turning back from this”.

 

Chioma’s mind was in pieces, she couldn’t stop wondering  how she got into this predicament. She was hoping that the hag was only trolling her.

 

Ha! that’s it. In a few minutes a camera crew is going to burst through the tent and her, and this fake-ass oracle woman will have a jolly laugh

 

Eyes ever so intently fixed on the entrance.

 

“Chil—,” The hag snapped her fingers in an attempt to get the girl’s attention.

“Where’s the camera?,” Chioma was frustrated. “Is it in that deplorable head wrap of yours? II mean, what is your game here?”

“THIS IS NOT A GAME!,” the hag spat. ” I’m offering you a resolution.

“This is hardly a solution,” Chioma spoke in a fear-gripped tone, realising that there is all too real. “Taking one part of my life to replace another is not fair”

“The spirits are never fair, silly girl, You must accept your fate with dignity. Only one man has dared to challenge the oracle and lived to tell.”

 

As Chioma sat there deep in thoughts, she began to reminisce of what a beautiful life she was having until this moment. She started her week in such high spirits,  Entertaining others have always been a dream of hers. She was determined to challenge pending adversary.

It was while she was on her way to her betrothed’s, that she saw the tent. She had shrugged it off and continued her trip when she stumbled across the witch who said to her;

“Do you believe I can make your heart desire come to pass?”

 

She had followed the hag back to the tent and attempted to pay her for a prediction.

 

The woman spat; “Your coins are worth nothing to the spirit. This is no  prediction child. What you surely ask, the oracle will generously deliver…. but be forewarned for the price is heavy. Do you accept?”

 

Chioma nodded.

 

“Ayeye ayayah keke nyin.
Ayeyeyeyah ndibe nzu kwa ti mutele.
Ndi ndo udo udi keke nyin kwa mutele.
Nzu mkpe amadu ndibe kwa ti mutele.”

The hag continued to recite the incantation and then proceeded to mark Chioma’s temple with a coal talisman.

 

“The spirit invite you to say your wish”

“I want to be the greatest performer of all time”.

 

The hag whistled for damn near 30 minutes.

 

“What you wish for  is done, in return, your first child will the son of the oracle.”

Chioma argued, “I’ve given myself, isn’t it enough?”

“You are merely  the down payment. Give up your first child, this is the deal the oracle is willing to make.”

“Never!”

“Then you may choose success or  save your child”.

” Or what?” she frowned

“You will lose your life in a fortnight,” cautioned the witch.


Early the next morning, Chioma hung a satchel over her shoulder and set out.

Before midday, she was going to cross the first  of many rivers.

The woman wasn’t clever telling her that the oracle had been defeated. She must  convince this warrior to do it all again, or become a victim of circumstance.Whether she liked it or not, her purpose has been changed forever.

 

 

 

Ready to let it go

Yesterday was a considerably long day because I made a phone call. This phone call was one which is particularly important to me.

It was my brother’s birthday, and I needed to confront parts of myself that is connected to him. If you haven’t already, please visit my post titled; Young. If you gave that a read and you were wondering what that was about, here’s the other part I purposely omitted because I wasn’t ready to go into depths that day I published Young.

My brother started behaving different when I was maybe 8 and he was 10. I was prolly the only one who noticed at the time until his grades came in.

We went from being best friends to me wondering why he was so withdrawn. He wasn’t talking much and I spent a lot of time hypothesising what it could be, I just couldn’t fathom it.

I was mad. I was resentful, I eventually became withdrawn as well.

When folks ask questions about my family, I’m always avoidant. A lot of people actually think I’m the first born until I get too comfortable and spill, something I regret immediately after, they would then go; ” Oh, you have an older brother? what’s he doing, where’s he at?

And I would deflect and feel ashamed

The authorities, doctors in Nigeria didn’t know either. When I learnt about Autism and Autism spectrum disorders, I began comparing it with his routine and repetitive mannerism and I was so sure I’ve diagnosed it.

The more I researched Autism and Asperger’s, and compared with him, the more I realised this wasn’t it. But for lack of better diagnosis , I stuck with it.

When his MRI scans came out, it showed that the plump parts of  the internal capsule that connects the left and right hemispheres of the brain did not develop completely, so called agenesis or hypogenesis of the Corpus callosum. Extremely rare tho

Finding the pathology brought a touch of closure for me, I guess. Since I was 8, I’ve only ever wanted to understand what it was. For those interested, I will leave a link here and below.

Odudu didn’t go to uni or technical college because he doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with it.

Nevertheless, his meek soul is one I’m proud of.  A lot of our childhood experiences taunted me with guilt, shame and with a touch of inadequacy, feelings I’m all too familiar with and extremely tired of. Right now, I’m working on  building a new ,unbreakable relationship with my brother again

When I struggle to get my life together and to get a continuous stream of income, only 30%  is about my future.

Life is not fair but my brother deserves a future and it’s up to God and me to bring it into fulfilment.

Thanks for reading my daily thought <3

Here’s the link on Ageneis of Corpus Callosum

Strangers on A bridge

After the rain, the town bell chimed on that cold morning

Susie stumbled across the street in a drunken daze.

Last night was just one in several that she had collapsed at the tavern.

An ambiguous fog loomed in the street

Her heels clicked on grubby cobblestone

There were  no body in them

No  birds in the sky

no wind in the air

she could barely see ahead.

But then she saw him. A figure sitting on the bridge

when she got closer she saw the fear and loss in his face

He leaned back against the air, and released one hand from the rails

“Don’t!” she yelled

He acknowledged  her presence by reaching for the rails,  like his life depended on it, and it did. “If I do it, every thing will go back to normal”

“No!” Susie who had fully snapped out of her high now and was hyper alert said, “Nothing is worth this”

The man began to cackle which led Susie to conclude that he maybe relapsing from paranoid schizophrenia

She got closer, she noted that he was middle-aged. He was handsome in an eccentric way. “What’s so funny?” she demanded

“Birds don’t know what to do when you have no need for them”, he said, “you won’t understand why I have to do this….”

“What is it? Susie interrupted ,”dead beat dad? or was your mum a pill hoarder? did she hang herself in the middle of your one room flat and left you with starving mouths to feed? No wait! that’s me! so I’d be damned if you tell me I don’t understand.”

Susie was seething with ire, how dare this ruggedly quaint idiot act like his life was hard, enough to fall to his doom when she hadn’t slept on her bed in seven years. Her warm soft bed felt grubby and lonely. If any body should be sitting on the bridge counting down to meet the grim ripper, it should be her.

She rushed towards the bridge and hoisted herself to seat beside him

“Whoo oo there!, the stranger stuttered, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“Talking with you reminded me of how much  simpler life would be if I just disappeared.

“Hey,  I was teasing. Ha ha. I wasn’t really going to do it”, he said jumping down “see, give me your hand. please”

“No! you said it yourself, if I feel this worthless, I probably am”

“look at yourself”, the stranger started, “you  courageous woman, I can’t pull the value from within you, but I can promise you  that it is there, you feel culpable and clearly we’ve got a ton of similar problems that Dr. Jekyll couldn’t fix, So let’s head to the tavern and share a cheroot”.

Susie was both impressed and  hesitant by his aphoristic banter

If you feel no different afterwards, I will personally hoist you up there” , he  vowed

“I guess you’re right”, Susie conceded grabbing his wrist.

He placed his jacket over her shoulders, “the name’s Vickram”

“Susie”, she said staring into his cinereous eyes, risking a smile, “there’s something about you”, she admitted.

“That, dear Susie is called hope”, he said as they disappeared into the fog, towards the direction of  Dean’s tavern

Humanoids

Vulnerable beings in a human world. As many as the shades of the sky, we revel to the atonement of abysmal asunder.

Complex as the hand of Midas, but who decides how to count seconds, and who yelled; Oh look! it’s sand. We braze in the knowledge passed on by people about what we think we know, slowly crouching a bottomless pit because the earth is devoid of  edges.

You’ve conquered an incredulous journey; they may orate, but after that, what next? the future is uncertain and the past cannot be rewritten, even the present is omnimously arcane, projecting little of our influence.

To each, his time capsule afloat. Yesterday we were here, tomorrow we are gone. Only knowing what we were told from the moment of conception, assuming that philosophers and mathematicians of old already did the work, believing a customised template  dreadfully gifted by life — oder the galaxy, whichever seems more plausible.

So forgive me for believing that we exist in a matrix-like state. Our minds being programmed by a universal force. A system that balances peace, chaos, and war.

For all we know we are floating in a tube, force-fed the red pill, waiting to be presented the blue bill at our last wisp of air. A bitter-sweet moment of heavenly wonder.

Metamorphosis

A blank slate.  I’ve hit a wall and I’m intently searching the recesses of my mind for anything worth writing, a scribble even. Really, it’s not that I’ve hit a wall. Quite the opposite actually, I am a dreamer, I hope my visions will never cease, but the block is irrefutable. Communication being a tool I am yet to master efficiently,  perhaps this block in itself is actually a call for notable change.

 

I admire bloggers that have mastered this skill I am reaching for. To turn a seemingly mundane story into something captivating. I need to be as good someday; hmm someday. A multitude of ideas is, in fact, vacant without the right prose, grammar; and that subtle finesse, the icing on the cake.

 

Looking at my week, It was chilled! felt chilled at least, but there is a turmoil. An elephant in the room of some sort. I am close to obtaining my degree and a prescient of transition tides  approaches;

what if these last steps are the hardest”

Sigh.

Nevertheless, even changes breed inspiration.  Here is a spontaneous piece;

 

 

A phantom in the room

An apparition of nightmares

I hear it wading

 

It follows me everywhere

from when I awake

in sweaty fits of night terrors

’till when my head drops

after inebriating on laudanum

 

An elusive illusion

remorseless as he is

Comes to steal

To destroy and kill.

 

Out of nowhere

A glint of light

Cherubic and luminous

Comforts me peacefully

Reminding me that this cul-de-sac

Will breed notability.

 

 

 

 

The Preacher’s Daughter

Matilda sat on the first row. Clasped hands to her midriff, the holy book at her heel, listening to congregate voices, bellowing a tone she’d known since was born with all their energy, they sounded like an approaching thunderstorm.  The man she called father sat on a pulpit, glaring earnestly at the crowd who sat with their heads bowed. Not a minute later, he erupts from his place, yelling at the rolling thunderstorm to cease, the heads dare not raise. He starts;

“You  depraved unruly wantons, surely not only four people have ten shillings for the offering basket, for it is not I, but he, who commands us to give in order to see his glory.”

In unison, the congregation lurched towards the basket, including the leper who could barely move unaided, for they yearned to be worthy.

Satisfied with his deed, the preacher wore a pleasing simper. The choir continues. Matilda was deep in thought, for the family did not give, they were only benefactors of the offering, as preaching was her father’s sole profession. The church dispersed, wearing a dolorous aura after the sermon, for father had told them that they were sacrilegious and the Lord died for the righteous, like him. He told them that they were fortunate, for he served as a light, leading sinners to righteousness.

Ma would do a big cook-out after church, every Sunday, usually Matilda would be delighted, but she was older now, she felt contrition, perhaps due to insomnia and night terrors she had each night, or perhaps she was befuddled by the travesty of her family’s faith.

In the following week, Matilda stirred a ruckus at home by refusing to go to church.  In her family, there was no bigger offense. Ma pleaded and cried. The preacher reiterated;

“Listen to your mother, foolish girl. This burst of rebellion is a ploy from Satan to destroy your righteous soul, if I do not see you in that front seat, then you might as well not be home when we return”. Satisfied that he has scared her straight, he yanked on his wife’s arm and they left, for where could she run to, she had no friends.

Matilda sought this golden moment, she slung a bag over her shoulder and set off to discover life without looking back.

Over the next months, Matilda lived in a shelter, she met with all categories of people, a disgraced former militant named Joel, and Katya, a trollop and mother of three were her best friends. They had such ample life experiences that it moved her to keep a journal. One day, she would publish their stories.

In the following year, Matilda moved in with her boyfriend, Harry. His affections for her were questionable, but she figured that inviting her to live in proved them. She relied on him and soon exhibited a proclivity for debauchery, like Harry. Over the next three years, a more brusque, sullen part of him began to unfurl. He’d criticize her for everything, including what she dared to think.  Consequently, the night terrors reappeared.  She had an epiphany of why she left her family, Harry was no different from the preacher.  By morning, she was gone.

Two years after rehab, she started working in a small scale company that rented qualified potential employees to big scale companies who need employees on a short-term contract. In rehab, she had learned to focus through meditation. She got to interact with people, channeling back her hobby, journaling.

Matilda made decent money with her job, she quite enjoyed it too. It was at work that she met Paul, who became her life partner. She was content, but one night, the night terrors resurfaced. Paul woke up to see her in frantic tears, he prompted her to talk about the most dreaded topic; her past, her parents. Paul intuitively discerned the source of her panic, that weekend, he took her to his fellowship. She worshipped with believers and for the first time, a glimmer of peace like no other intruded her heart.

Over the following weeks, she studied the holy book and to her amazement, she found a deeper understanding, in contrast to what her father taught. She realized she needed to forgive her Pa, so she prayed about it daily until she became whole.

She became an Associate Manager at her company. One tumultuous day, Judit, a colleague requested for her. Judit informed her of a man seeking a menial job to make ends meet. Matilda went out to see a gaunt version of her father. His eyes leered on her,  a deep cry fell out his mouth as he fell to his knees, disdain overtook him, but she looked at him with compassion and declared;

“I forgive you, but I am not God.”

 

 

This story delineates the hypocrisy of religion, as in Africa and most nations. Most times, budding believers lose their faith because of the scrutiny. The morality of our actions doesn’t inhibit Christianity from being an individual race; Moreover, we are not our parents.