Dreams

I got a pocket full of dreams.

If they were currencies,

I would be the richest that ever lived.

But they are like air,

Intangible.

But they are as important as air.

Without them life has no substance,

Nothing to look forward too.

Every night I dream.

They make sleep pleasurable.

The dreams are made of ice creams and chocolates.

It’s a pain to wake,

But they inspire my day.

If I can make it in my sleep.

I can make it any where.

I will cloth the dreams and make them real.

NOVEMBER

my birth month. i soooooo love november.

NOVEMBER
You stand near the tail end,
Of the calendar’s finger,
Slowly, grinding the year to an end,
But you remain my favourite month.
The month I spurt from my mother cocoon,
A powerful sting I am,
Standing between Libra and Sagittarius,
A medley of colours can exist for other months,
But I reserve yellow for you.
You are a vivacious month,
A potpourri of fun,
So I roll at the drums to sing you.
The talking drums spell out your pregnancy.
You are mine,
My beautiful beau,
You make everyday beautiful and 14th stellar.
Even if you crawl,
I revel in your arrival.
Like the coming of summer in Iceland,
So you have come like the new moon.
Let the festival begin,
The dames shall dance,
And we sing our ethnic tune,
Playing the talking drums and atile flute,
Let the feasting and merriment begin.

DEAREST DEPRESSION

Depression you have been a constant friend, always around, so I write you this letter. Like a cloud hovering in my mind, you descend once in while and becloud my joy. You magnify my fears and doubts, and make me lose confidence in myself. My self-worth slaughtered in you altar of sadness.
But when I am in your state you inspire in me sweet literature, prose, poems and plays. So I feed you to my creative imagination, and it turns out something good and I am satisfied. So I defeat you, I use you for good. The dense cloud is lifted by the rays of my creative writing.
So you are not all bad. You are my muse. I have discovered how to use you for pecuniary gains. So in my journal named after you “depression diary”. I go to you when you land on my soul, and fight a battle with you with words and I win.
I confide in you, let you know my thoughts, tell you my fears. In turn, my words give me strength. So when I read you, I see the weakness and see the solution. I expel you on paper, and you leave my soul free.
Then the beauty on your pages is everlasting. It is a sweet cure when you set in and words can’t come out. I read you and I am healed. I learnt from a wise man that anything can be good or bad. It depends on your views. People view you as a bad thing.
But I see you as something that comes like the wind, I see you as good. Turn you to good, change you to good, your complications are broken simple. I conquer you each time you show your ugly (fugly) face. Dearest depression, you don’t set me down no more, I turn you to joy. I rise above your clouds.

Yours truly,
Your Buddy.

WRITING IS LIKE CHESS

Writing is like chess. The main goal is to win, not to lose. And winning is done, when your readership connects with your work, losing is the exact opposite. To win you have to capture their thoughts and imagination.
You have a plot, a game plan, and a strategy, to swing the game your way to capture their awe and attention, the game is played by two, you in white, and your audience in the receiving end.
You arrange your words, in your board or book. In a particular rhythm and order that would ensure you capture the main prize. Which can be a message passed across, and some cases their followership.
Writing is a thinking process, before you use a word. You think of other options, other substitutes, the repercussions, the reaction, all these you have to anticipate carefully and it is a daunting task. Not for the feeble hearted.
Chess players and writers like quiet space, a vent that allows you filter your thoughts in a logically way, to look across the table and expansive mind field, for actions and reaction, for solutions to problems. They like to play with flair/craft, and beauty, maybe that why they call chess, the beautiful game, for beautiful minds. I dare to call writing that too.
Chess is not easy and it comes with hard work and learning. It requires practice, reading and trying to hone out your skills. It the same with writing, you have to read, read and read, to get the rudiments. To get the different styles And To expand your horizons. And then you reach a level where little work is now required.
You have become a grandmaster, at par with the Wole Soyinkas, Toni Morrisons, Chimamanda Adichies, words come to you like a genie, and obey your every wish. Words come to you like water from a spring. And it flows smoothly and swiftly, each time fresh and beautiful. It implies you have reached the zenith, you win prices, and you win fame and money. That’s the state, we writers aspire to reach, just the same way as chess players.

THE NEW ME

I have learnt to stay alone and enjoy myself
In short, I have learnt to enjoy my company.
I have learnt to sit still and listen to the voices in my head
And the good thing is I can control it.
Tell it to shut up, if the voice is suggesting evil.
Learnt it from the screw tape letters by C.S Lewis
I have an erotic love for books.
I buy books as much as a chick buys shoes and bags
I see bookstore as a partygoer sees a club, I go there every week and leave loaded.
Plus, I am so in a deep love affair with African literature.
Especially, the new (young) writers
Partly because I would soon join them
I am so studying how to be a better writer. Plus, I have an accomplished Nigerian writer as a teacher and friend now.
I have learnt how to handle criticism,
"You didn't do it well here, rewrite, or (better) rethink.
It is good (criticism) because you can only get better if you learn from it
Sorry, if I have not been blogging as often as I used too. It’s because I am doing a lot of reading and learning. It is for our good, I would write better and you would be highly entertained.

NIGERIA AT 49

Today is the forest’s birthday; the lion, the king of the forest, would come out of his cave, and roar loudly. He would stroll round the vast forest, roaring his greatness, His benevolence and good leadership. He would be joined by his family, they would hobnob, about their achievements, drink and be merry.
But it all sounds like the same old music, the real song is been sung by the birds.
The baby has refused to grow
She still crawls at forty-nine
The leaders brought her to this state
They have given her nothing
Corrupt in everything
Politics of the few
They enslave the masses
Eating the national cake in chunks
Leaving crumbs for the hoi polloi
Hope is but a mirage
They are deaf to the song, blind to the truth. So they puff their shoulders and brag of all the good they have done, all they hope to do. Mutter some promises.
My friend the snail (Fr. Mathew Kukah) calls them “accidental leaders”, a colossal misfortune to rule the forest. We all agree. We just hope they realize and things get better. We don’t smile and celebrate the independence, because there is nothing to celebrate, we are rather happy for the free day.

UNTITLED

UNTITLED
I walk on the nonexistent path
No maps, no paths
I just go north
And keep right
I would say the road is tough
But there is no road
So I tread on
Towards the sun
I want to moon walk
And dine with the stars
Dance with success
Touch her
Caress her nipples
Make her smile and giggle coyly
I would be radiant
In my elements
I would start now on my upward journey.

FOR ALCOHOL

FOR ALCOHOL
I love alcohol, I drink quite frequently, I love hanging out. I love the music blaring loud from the speakers, love the suya and pepper soup served in bars. What I love more is the high, alcohol gives me, it cures my depression, makes me happy and a jolly fellow. It feeds my muse; some of my best writings come, when I am drinking or later at night/dawn when the effect has rubbed off. So this poem came in one of my drinking binges, it was composed for a chick bursting my brains; the chick is Night train, an alcoholic brand. Enjoy.

In the cool breeze of harmattan
You are my warmth
In the harshness of the wind
You are my shield
In the hurt of my pain
You are my strength
In the tears of my heart
You are my laughter
In the emptiness of my heart
You make me full
When the storm goes rough
You are my shelter
When my heart has been broken to splinters
You keep me together
When I am depressed and gloomy
You make me laugh
When I want to hang out with friends
You are there to keep us happy
When there is no inspiration
You are my muse

DEPRESSION

From writer's block to depression, these are not happy times for me, but i would conquer, i have had wonderful ideas on articles to write, and short stories too, but when i put pen to paper, the words desert me, but poems always solve my probelms, so as always, this poem unlocked the doors of my prison.enjoy it

DEPRESSION

Gnaws me down
Making me feel naught
All my weaknesses enlarge
And my failures underscored
My successes feel minute
My achievement even smaller
Makes me down
I light my smoke
To exhale depression out
But instead it increases
Like cancer in my soul
And my life tape plays
Reeling backward
My flops are highlighted
In red ink
My heart is dense
And I am so down

Drought of words

writer's block is a disease that affects every writer, similar to the pox, children must always have. ideas would come, topics abound, but the words to clothe them would desert me, i would spend hours on end with my biro but nothing, then i struggled to compose this poem, and the walls of the dam came tumbling down, and words were liberated.

Drought of words
For a great while,
Thoughts took great flight,
Like those migratory yearly flights birds do.
My writings fall flatly,
The crashed parts never found.
My muse never lands,
Dancing in my mind,
Never leaving something concrete,
It never ends like an Indian love dance,
With the pretty girl in her lovers arms,
It ends with a hide and seek game,
Leaving me desolate and bare,
Nothing good to deposit on my writing pad,
So I embarked on an odyssey,
To find my missing muse.
It was a stormy voyage,
Fought many hydra-headed monsters,
Lost a number of my crewmen,
To the vicissitudes of life
But I berthed in fine,
Saw my muse in a spring,
She gave me fresh words to drink,
Good songs to sing,
Now I set out on a fresh course,
To spread my gospel of words.

The beach

The beach,

i am floating in sand

the colour of pureness

only white can rival

i write my sins on sand

so they can be washed ashore.

The beach,

i feel its anger,

when it comes to the sand.

the waves swiftly swash.

and reluctantly retreats.

taking some sand hostage

i see the beach,

kissing the sky

somewhere not to far away.

silently speaking romantic words

that only the sky hears.

wind strokes the waters

like a lover stroking his solemates hair

and when the sky is angry

it creates a storm,

rocking the turbulent waves

ceasing when the beach apologies

i love the beach,

coz it teaches my heart

how to love a woman.

silently whispering love songs

in to her heart.

thats why i take my love,

to the beach,

so that she may love me

like the sky and the beach.

RIPPLING EFFECT

RIPPLING EFFECT
The cool, calm, serene lake looked at me with its idyllic gaze. Envy gripped me like a fork, my evil mind wants to shatter, the smug glow of self-satisfaction, of inner peace, the feeling of utter contentment.
I threw the pebble into the water, and I smiled as I saw the rings, increasing, and each circle bigger than the previous, spreading eons away, I was pleased, that I have disturbed the lake’s world, giving it a little turmoil, instant gratification for me.
I was a pure, innocent juvenile, in love, the first love disease spread by the love bug, had beaten me, I was plagued by the normal symptoms; poem writing, daydreaming, feeling all lovey-dovey, doing foolish deeds to make the love last.
But like an earthquake, my heart was shattered, the ground shifted under me, and I was desolate, I felt my first love would be my last, but I was played, used and dumped.
So I built rocks all over my heart, and was reborn as a Casanova, a Don Juan, as my friends called me a Don Solomon, had a sweet tongue, and with it conquered many women, like the biblical Solomon.
So I set forth at dawn(apologies to Wole Soyinka), spread the ripples, changing girls, the way I change clothes, the numbers piling up by the dozen, and breaking many hearts.
All in a bid, to avenge the first love gone wrong, but it was instant gratification, fleeting, and so like cocaine addict, I went for more, imparting more sadness, to get happiness. But it was all vanity and fleeting joy, gone with the wind.
Now I have turned a new leaf, dropped my player’s card, retired from the game, trying to right my wrongs, and painstakingly search for the right one and be true to her, and maybe get a lasting joy this time.

STOP AND STARE

Stop and stare
At that girl with enormous breasts
They bounce and jiggle as she sways
Tempting me to touch
To know her
And dally with her

Stop and stare
At that lady with oval-shaped face
An epitome of African beauty
Alluring me to own her
To behold her dailyAs my trophy wife


Stop and stare
At that plump dame with large behind
Her gait accentuates her curves
Inviting me to touch it
To play with it and praise it
To go to bed with it



Stop and stare
At yourself lusting and staring
Your loins are at attention
Sin dancing in your mind
You didn’t see the car
That cleared you to the curb

NO NETWORK, NO SERVICE

I rarely write about Nigeria, the country depresses me a lot, but I have made a round-about turn, because this country, gives me a lot of things to write about, And I also hope through my writing change would come.
The country has a way of taking a step forward, and then retrogress ten steps backward, so any improvement, would later come around to sting you in the face, take the telecommunication industry for example, it was with a lot of pomp and pageantry, that we celebrated the coming of the GSM.
Before then, we had to bear with, an ineffectual landline telephony, and grossly inept postal service, to get a phone line in the nineties, was a bribe game, you bribe to get the number, you bribe to get it installed, you bribe to keep it working, you bribe to get it repaired after it is damaged, or is it the postal service, where it will take weeks to get your mail delivered within Nigeria, and almost impossible to get it delivered abroad.
So we were so happy when mobile telephony came, we ignored the high costs, and rushed it, then the players in the industry became plenty, and the prices dropped, but with it we started having problems, a lot of dropped calls, no value for your money, poor customer care, and of cause, the most annoying of all bad interconnectivity and no service/no network.
Sometimes it is easier to let a camel pass the eye of a needle, than for a call to go to another network, difficult to send text messages, people would have as many lines, so they can reach people with similar networks, is it suppose to be so? Countries within African and abroad don’t have these problems, they use one line, and even enjoy cheaper rates.
The bane of the matter, is the inadequate regulating from the bodies in charge, they fail to remind them to give us good service, they fail to call them to book, when the transgress, it is possible for the industry to be trouble-free, it is possible for seamless communication between networks, as obtainable everywhere but Nigeria, we need to put things right in this country starting from the telecommunication industry.

RITA’S PLAYLIST

I came from the burial, in a somber mood, sat on the coach on my expansive parlour, in pensive and reflective mood I was in, when I spotted my iPod, sitting on the table in the living room.
I switch the iPod on, scrolled down to Rita’s playlist. The first song was in big contrast with my mood, it was upbeat, loud and danceable, and she always favoured, this kind of songs.
“You like commercial songs, songs with no meaning, songs just meant for you to dance” I said.
“Darling, you take life too serious, you prefer slow songs, songs with deep meaning”
She would pull me up, and we would dance to Dbanj, Faze, and lot of dancehall music, she was a jovial persona, always making me happy, we would go to parties and clubs together, I did all this with her and it was great fun.
We were poles apart, and like opposites we attracted, we were a perfect match, a mix of my introvert self with her extrovert self, everyday was an adventure, into a realm of discovery of each other, she could be the joker, full of funny tricks, she grow to be a necessary drug, like cocaine, and I couldn’t do with her.
Occasionally, I would give a dose of my quiet nature, we would stay in my bedroom and I would play jazz and some classic music, and she would lie in my arms and I would read her a story, from my repertoire of works, she would be glad and whisper in my ears, how much she loves me, We would stay like that with no care in the world.
This song broke me out of my reverie, it can’t be in her playlist, the song was I Miss you by Aaliyah. It was too slow, and was never there in her playlist.
“Could this be a message?” I wondered.
“Did she know she was going to leave me?”
The questions kept pouring in my mind; did she know she was going to die soon?

TWO WRITERS

TWO WRITERS
To be a writer is to journey on the road less travelled, it an arduous task, fraught with internal battles, conflicts with your mind. So it’s a thing off joy to interact with people, who have travelled on the road, and have reach El Dorado.
I am going to be talking about two of my writer friends, named ON and JD. ON and I met for lunch in one of the eateries around Lagos, for him to spare time out for me is well-appreciated, because as a celebrity he is a busy person, with a lot of travelling to do, book-in-progress, and what-not. The discussion was centered on literature and the book I am working on.
Our discussion revolved round, the idea of my book, point of view, voice, style, and he was very helpful, it was clear, he wanted to help and support, he gave me a suggestion of books to read, ideas to take note of, how to go about publishing, when my work is done.
I am indeed thankful for his contribution, because in this field of ours, there is no support structure, no mentoring from the established acts to the upcoming ones, those up the ladder, rarely give a helping hand. He also told me when he was working on his book; he was greatly assisted by JD.
JD is a senior colleague, he has won many accolades and awards for his writing, he is also a friend, even though I have not met him physically, he has aided this writing ambition of mine, by teaching me the intricacies of the game, I have not had any formal training on writing, reading his blog is the closest to learning I have ever had. I have read his blog cover to cover.
I would say he is a masterful teacher, indirectly given me a list of books to read, and I have read most of them, and taught me most of the things I need to know to be able to evoke a “wow” from readers. It is through him, I got to know, what plot, character, style theme, and narrative perspectives etc are? He is one of the few, who gives unrequited assistance to coming writers. Thank you JD.
Already established writers are busy people that we know, but then they need to give back to upcoming ones, I would like to call it a writers social responsibility (WSF) coined out of the word corporate social responsibility, they should try to give back by mentoring, giving seminars, and offering general help and assistance, to make the road smoother for the upcoming ones.
How would it be, if there are no writers to fill the void of the Wole Soyinkas, Ben Okris, Chinua Achebes and the likes, when they are gone?

Accident at maingate

Accident at maingate
chaos and bloodshed
shrieks of pain
cries of sorrow
panic attack of fear
strolling to an end
smoke and fire
impact and collision
metal hittting metal
man killing man
me a passerby
from my vantage position
saw the accident at maingate
saw recklessness rule
saw impatience decide
to bring injuries and death
to people at maingate
and tears fell from my eyes
seeing people i don't know
in so much pain and sorrow
i suspect the driver was drunk
or perhaps his brakes failed
but he fled unhurt
but the victims couldn't.

THOUGHTS ABOUT DATING

I am at war with the love of my life, but that’s not the big issue, it the way, she is taking it, she wants to leave me over a small disagreement, it seems she has adopted an attitude that there many fishes in the river, why would I waste my time with you, I feel it a terrible attitude that has crept into the world, people want to take the easy way out in relationships, there is no room for another chance, they never want to stick with the one they love and try and work things out.
I feel that’s the reason for the many break-ups and divorce in the society, gone are the days, it is for better for worse, I feel maybe because she is very beautiful, even as we were dating, she has many “toasters”, but moving to another may bring different issues, and she would still move on to another, that’s how the movement goes on, she keeps changing hands like money. I have a belief the different guys you date the more you keep moving because you would never be satisfied. As different as the sun is to the moon, so is the variation in different men.
I feel it high time we take dating as serious as courtship, if you know you can’t marry the person, then don’t date, it a waste of time, and it diminishes your worth for your dream partner, let chose our partners, by careful accessing if he is the right person, I mean if he or she is the kind of person you would like to marry before you date him.