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?