RSS

Eledumare

Eledumare,

All knowing,

All seeing.

Earth, your footstool,

Firmament, your blanket.

 

Eledumare,

Slow to anger,

Gracious in mercy.

If man would eulogize you

How perfect will that be?

 

Eledumare,

Your hands are long,

I see them not.

Your legs are mighty,

Where are your footprints?

 

Eledumare,

You answer prayers,

Why turn deaf ears to mine?

You feed on praises,

Are mine not worthy?

 

Eledumare,

Whispers and gossip,

Stares and glance.

But, you fold your arms.

You unlook.

 

Eledumare,

Though my righteousness be like filthy rags,

I am righteous.

Your every commandment,

I have kept.

 

Eledumare,

For as long as you live,

Seed and harvest time shall remain.

I have sown,

Where is my harvest?

 

Eledumare,

I am a mortal,

How dare I question your ways?

But,

Am I not your child?

 

Eledumare,

The cubs of the Lion,

Are always in need.

Those that trust in you,

are not put to shame.

 

Eledumare,

I am in need,

But, I am not a cub.

I am your child,

Your child.

 

Eledumare,

Rise up,

Fight my battles.

Prove to these ones,

You are God. 

Read the rest of this entry »

Advertisements
 
3 Comments

Posted by on July 28, 2015 in Rants

 

Tags: , , , ,

Bruised

Good evening folks, I trust you are looking forward to the long weekend. I know I am.

Today’s post is a poem I wrote with @goldenwura. She blogs here

Enjoy the poem.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It came back to me in a rush

Memories of deeds done

Can’t be spoken, mustn’t be muttered

Whispered, can only float in circles

In the streams of thoughts and subconscious

Sharp pain piercing like icicles on a stormy night

 Putrid smells of antiseptic and blood

assail my nostrils and I’m forced to open my eyes

something is blocking the light which is good

the hazy image clears and takes the shape of father’s head

Worry and fear lining his once beautiful eyes

a tug on my finger has me looking into the eyes of my 6 year old brother

mother is nowhere to be found which is just fine

memories are coming and I don’t want to remember

father answers the unspoken questions in my eyes

questions I have answers to

but what he says stops my blood from flowing for 7 seconds

mother is alive? What?

the relief in his voice and eyes as he says something I didn’t pay attention to

makes my blood boil again.

I’m sure it exists nowhere else but our house

Where the wife is the drunk and abuser

Reversed roles if you please and father would do nothing

Wouldn’t even tell his best friend or see someone

For shame, what they would think of him

I ask to go see mother

I pray that she’s sleeping or unconscious so I can

Finish what I started

Chike lied, the poison was ineffective

She should be dead

I creep into her room

Feels like I’ve hit full potential

In bed she lays, unwashed and unkempt

Her dark sunken eyes open

Chapped lips break into a wry smile

She knew.

Incoherent words follow

She winces in pain

Waves of pity ladened with disgust submerge me within

But it disappears as fast as it came

Like a broken dam, my head is flooded with images

Of every single time she hit us

How can you say you love us

Yet hurt us with in every drunken rage

Odd to say she’ll protect us

But the bruises say otherwise

Father walks in

Places his hand on my back

I burst out in tears

We are free, but still in bondage

For vegetable she’ll remain, the rest of her days.

 
1 Comment

Posted by on July 16, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , ,

Of Emotional Blackmail

Abstract-Painting-034

A wise man once told me, “Never change a winning formula”. I am glad to say, he is right. But not when it comes to Football Manager, your winning formula sometimes gets you trashed at home by a small club. After my last post, some were glad I was back, some liked the idea of the post as I have not written that way before. Long story short, I am sticking with that style again this week. Enjoy.

Emotional blackmail irks me a lot. It is simply a ploy to eat your cake and have it. I love God and I love to be in his presence. However, I do not appreciate it when a man of God who has managed time poorly says “No amount of time we spend in God’s presence is too much.” No Sir! I could not disagree more. Who said the four walls of a man-made building is the only place we are in God’s presence? Why would you disrespect time and want your congregation to pay for it just to fit in all you have planned for the day? If they are all important, you would have planned better. The God you serve is a stickler for time. He does not even joke around with it. Follow his example and stop blaming principalities and powers when church members leave your church because of your time-wasting antics.

Today’s world is fast paced. We want things done fast because we have other things that require our attention. It is why we want our downloads to run at 3.5mbps. This fast pace is also mirrored in the work place and personal life. We get busy. In all of this busy, we tend to lose track of things, however, being busy is no justification for having unopened notifications, emails, chats and so on. Those unopened notifications as much as you want to convince yourself are because you are busy, is a big fat lie. If anything, it shows just how uninformed, unorganised, and rude you are. The average person gets at least one hour a day to their self, in this time it is possible to select all those email and mark as read. We get that not every one who sends you a chat is ready for a serious talk, but at least have some courtesy, reply the message and let them know you are busy. Replying after six hours to give the illusion/reality of being busy is simply rude.

Every adult has a memory of what their childhood was like. For me, it was filled with beatings from mum and scoldings from dad. In case it is not obvious, I was a stubborn child. Spare the rod and spoil the child is the saying that justifies all the beatings we got as kids. However, the average Nigerian parent believes “the rod” refers to koboko, pankere, omorogun, belt and the likes. “The rod” is also those moments when you sit your child down and explain the ramifications of their actions. I know every child is different, but for me the scoldings worked better than the beatings. After all, the beating would end. But for scolding, you get sober and you actually understand why your action was wrong. Long story short, it is not every time you should beat your child like a thief at Oshodi market, sometimes talk to them like adults. You will be amazed at how effective it is.

Cake. I love cake. I think sponge cake is the only cake I have a problem with. Every corner today (on Instagram) you have a baker. Cakes ‘n’ Cream, Cookiejar, Nuts about Cakes and their likes have made it easier to surprise loved ones with cakes on that special occasion. Cakes are even delivered at your doorstep. All of this is good, but I feel for the children of the 21st century. Why? Good question. They will probably never know what it is to fight with your friends or siblings for the bowl used for cake batter. They will not understand the struggle to your mum out of the kitchen just to have a taste, and of course, they will miss the stomach ache that sometimes comes with having too much of the cake batter. They do not get to be excited when that cake batter is poured into the baking pan and tucked away neatly in the oven. Forget all these rants, all that matters is the final product.

Do you have any childhood memories you want to share or you have your different/similar opinions to the ones expressed above, do use the comment box.

In conclusion, have a great weekend! Cheers.

 
4 Comments

Posted by on June 26, 2015 in Rants

 

Tags: , , , ,

Random

dev_random

Yes, it has been a while since I posted anything. I can give you a number of excuses, but I would stick to one. I just did not want to write. That is not to say there were not things to write about, I just did not want to. Now that we’ve cleared that, let’s dive into today’s post.

I have absolutely no idea what I plan on writing. I picked up my pencil (I love writing with pencil), and scribbled down some things. I love to write down before typing. This post might make sense to you or not, but make whatever you would of it. Here we go…

I have what I would call a short attention span. I am fickle. Very fickle. My tweets are a testimony of how fickle I am. There are so many thoughts in my head, I sometimes do  not finish with one thought before jumping to another. Like every other thing in life, it has its advantages. One of such is, I find it easy to forget about things because I have too many thoughts. It is one of the reasons why I do not know how to keep a grudge.

The average Nigerian has a problem. Yes, I know, we all have problems. This problem I speak of is actually one that we see from top to bottom. It is the sense of entitlement. The mentality that someone owes you something. Fun fact, NO ONE OWES YOU SHIT! The most guilty set of people with sense of entitlement are security guards. We understand that your employer pays you peanut to cater for your family (which in most cases consists of 1 wife and 8 children). We also understand that you see people around you with a better standard of living and you are aspiring to it. But, why in God’s name should I be the one to bear the brunt of your aspirations? Why do I have to pay you for doing a job you are already being paid for?

I have just considered ripping off the page I am writing on. I am starting to come off as harsh.

As much as I hate to say this, I am not sure I understand what feminism is all about. Here is why: How can a movement meant to educate people on the “evils” of gender inequality be so disorganised. Feminism is not philosophy that we can say it is has different schools of thought, it is a social construct. Why is there no acceptable standard for feminism? Why are there factions? Why are most people only feminist when it works to their advantage? You do not see a man only being a man when it is convenient. The behaviour of being a conditional feminist reflects poorly on the people who actually understand the cause of feminism. By the way, I keep telling people that not only women can be regarded as feminists, but of course, not every woman who is a feminist agrees to that. Do not even get me started on e-feminists.

The world’s plan to eradicate poverty is an admirable one. It is also one that looks doable based on the plans bodies like the UN, UNICEF, and other acronyms have planned out. I am not going biblical on this case, but even in the bible, there were always poor people. The bible only referred to them as needy. It is my first evidence in saying poverty cannot be totally eradicated. My second evidence, poverty is more mental than physical. If the average man cannot see beyond his nose or aspire beyond the limitations his background and environment has set for him, no amount of handouts, aids or loans can rescue him from the clutches of poverty.

The worst set of people after those who ask “Is it not just football?” (No, it is not) are those who tell emotional stories to blackmail the audience to back them during talent shows. We understand that the emotional appeal will help improve the ratings of the show, but come on, it is a talent show not a Lets-See-Who-Has-The Saddest-Story show. Let the millions of people judge you based on your talent and not because they feel pity for you. You might say the end justifies the means but how would you feel if a colleague at work is promoted because he lost his father over you who has actually outperformed him in every aspect. It is daylight robbery when someone who is talented actually loses out to a less-talented fellow with a sad story.

I have imagined myself several times playing for Manchester United (the best club in the world). I have imagined after we (Yes, WE) have lost a match how I would come on as a super sub to rescue the match. I hate losing. I do agree that a man might be able to change his wife, but he can never change his football club. There is just something inexplicable about the blind devotion one has towards his favourite football club.

In conclusion, I do hope you have enjoyed this. It is not possible for you to have the same opinion as I do. If you have contrary opinions or you just want to bare your mind, feel free to use the comment section. Obrigado.

 
7 Comments

Posted by on June 18, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

Grieve

Grieve

Hey folks. It has been a while. Work and work has been hectic. Today’s post was sent in some days back. If you are looking for some mind boggling piece, then this is it. Enjoy.

It’d been so long since Femi threw pebbles at her window, almost three months. She smiled.

She ran down to meet him, throwing herself on his neck, his arms around her driving all the months of loneliness away, something the soap operas, and the ice-cream and her friends had been failing to do.

She pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes. She leaned in to kiss him.

He pulled back.

Fear shot through her setting off her body on alarm systems,

“Do you have a girlfriend?” She asked him.

“No.” The question confused him. “Do you?”

She shook her head. “So why did you…?” she asked.

Femi smiled. “I just want to see you”

She laughed, an easy laugh, a farewell to the hell of the past 3 months.

“We can’t continue this way. How long will you be gone this time?”

She was lying down on the couch, her head in his lap as his hands played with her braids.

“About 4 months.”

Her heart sank.

“I can’t wait that long again.” She’s lying. She will. She knows she will.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Black. It’s curious how it’s called the color of death. The dead don’t see, can’t appreciate the solemnity of a funeral, the crowd of bodies arrayed in black, holding onto every bit of memory of the deceased, a glaring revelation of their own mortality.

She stood in the corner, trying her best to look inconspicuous. She probably shouldn’t have worn the peep-toe pumps though. Her yellow legs rode high, a sharp contrast to her black dress. Eyes glanced regularly her way. From experience, she knew where to place her eyes when people stared.

She couldn’t talk to anyone.

Femi’s mother stood in the corner, fighting back the tears, Femi’s sister lending her moral support. His friends and other family members filled out the room.

She caught someone looking at her, a man. He had the look in his eye, as if he maybe recognized her, however unlikely. Nobody could know her. She’d never met anyone of his family, never been introduced to anyone in his life even his friends. She’d been his best kept secret.

Strange thing about funerals. Grief and loss wear out the heart but company makes it a little bit bearable and these people were milking every ounce of respite from one another. A symbiotic gathering, if there ever was one. Her heart was the only one which stood out, unable to connect with the room of strangers, shattering and aching viciously in a looping vacuum.

When she finally decided she’d had as much as she could take, she headed for Femi’s mother to pay her respects.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

The mom blinked away tears.” Thank you my daughter. I don’t know you. Were you close friends with him?”

“Yes, I knew him,” she wasn’t sure how or if to proceed further. “He was an amazing person.”

The mother nodded solemnly, managing a smile.

She left immediately after.

When she got into her car, the noise of the outside world receded. And then as though in slow motion, her face broke its steely frame, her countenance finally yielding to her heart after so long, tears flowing liberally. The weight pressed down on her till she pressed her head against the steering, the car’s blaring horn in the background to her farewell ode to the love of her life.

Ibukun Taiwo is a Freelance Editor and Ghostwriter. He’s been on the hunt for the perfect sentence since he figured out how Word Processors works. A huge science fiction fan, he loves book recommendations. And fanta. 
 
2 Comments

Posted by on December 8, 2014 in Short Story

 

Tags: , ,

Stranger

This is a really short piece, I hope you enjoy it. Kindly leave your comments. Thank you. Have a lovely read.

 

Stranger,
Come by once,
Stay a while,
Touch me,
Ease the pain.

With your clumsy hands,
Unfold me like rose petals,
Layer after layer,
Fold after fold,
Till you get my core.

Leave your mark,
Make me yours,
Say it loud,
Say it proud,
Only you can,
No one but you.

 
3 Comments

Posted by on October 15, 2014 in Rants

 

Tags: , , ,

Of Love and Pain

Disclaimer: This post is purely fictional. Any resemblance to any real life situation or event is purely coincidental. It is just a work of my imagination.

He knew he loved her from the moment he saw her. The rain was heavy and there she stood at the bus stop all alone, lost. For a moment he hesitated as it was Lagos and one cannot be too sure, but he took the risk. She also hesitated, but had no choice. She had already flunked the job interview when she refused to show the manager her boobs. Adding to that experience was the rain that had started on her way to the bus stop, she was drenched by the time she got there. It seemed out of place for her to be all alone in a shed during such a heavy downpour, but it was the last thing on her mind.

It was definitely not the hard nipples prominent through her wet blouse that set his pulse racing nor was it the lips that seemed to beg to be dipped in caramel before being kissed. It was her innocent eyes and the way they shone when she said thank you. He could tell from her eyes that at every point in time, she would have something clever to say, but wouldn’t. He felt the earth move when he looked at her, her words held him in a trance when she spoke. He was lost in her presence and nothing could describe those 20 minutes they spent during that drive.
           ………………………………………………………

She gave birth to their daughter. It was a day he would never forget. Though she was born premature, he knew they will dote on her. They finally brought her home after she spent 3 weeks under intensive care, the home was filled with joy. They had a blessing for their union.

It was shocking when on the third day, she stopped breathing. They had left her in her cot and gone to bed. He woke up in the middle of the night just to check on that bundle of joy, but noticed she was not breathing. He woke his wife and like a maniac, he drove to the hospital not minding how many traffic laws he broke. All that mattered was his daughter. She was pronounced dead on arrival, there was nothing to be done. She threw herself on the floor, sprawled, rolled from left to right and cursed the day she was born. She was inconsolable.
             “Why would you let me have a child and take her away from me?” she asked.

He tried his best to hold the tears but they flowed out like a river. He could not bear to see her so distraught, sprawled on the floor and weeping like a baby who had just had their best toy taken away. Her screams could be heard from miles. She had to be sedated and kept under observation at the hospital. He drove home in silence, though he screamed on the inside.
            ………………………………………………………

It was a trial, something they would move on from. It had been six months since their daughter passed. Two months since she returned from the psychiatric hospital. The death had left her devastated. She could not cope but he stayed with her. She was back home but he could feel the distance between them.

She still looked out at the cot as if the baby would miraculously appear in it. She still held on to the clothes in the hope that she would feel her baby’s warmth. It was heart-breaking. She was emaciated. He tried his best to get her to eat but it seemed to make the situation worse. He appealed to her family, they all tried to talk to her but it fell on deaf ears.

He came back from work one day to find her naked on the floor of the kitchen. He feared the worst.

            ………………………………………………………

No news is good news he thought as he sat at the reception of the hospital. At least she had a weak pulse when she found her and there had been no suicide note. He felt relief even in that dire situation.  
    “She was just dehydrated but there will be more scans” the doctor told him.

She was out of danger, he sighed and felt an air of relief blow over him, and it calmed him. He walked into her private ward, and there she was, still with those beautiful eyes that had brought him so much joy and pain. He could remember how she brought tears to his eyes as she walked to him hand in hand with her father the day they got married. It had been a small ceremony with few friends and family.

She smiled weakly at him as she saw him enter. It was her first smile in months. His heart fluttered with joy. All he saw was his wife. The intravenous fluid hanging by her side was a blur, the tubes around her were non-existent to him. He just saw his wife.
           ………………………………………………………

She apologized. But every time she did, it annoyed him and made him die a little bit inside. It was not her fault. Yes, she could have handled it better, but how does one handle the death of an offspring? She cried. He hated to see her cry. Slowly but confidently, they made plans to try again. They would have that bundle of joy but he could tell she was still scarred. Who wouldn’t? He still had nightmares about the night but he had to stay strong for her. They felt reconnected and planned to renew their vows. They had been married for five years.

The phone lit up and her name appeared. He had just thought about her and she called. They were in sync. He would never forget the quivering in her voice that day.
             ………………………………………………………

The news left him numb. Just like that, without warning or premonition, they had to battle cancer. She had been feeling fatigued, bloated and the back pain had been unbearable. She had gone to get tested in the hope of being pregnant.

Stage ІІa ovarian cancer was what she had. The appointment with the doctor left them happy and sad. She was one in seventy-three women to have ovarian cancer, but she had a survival rate of 78%. It was the silver lining in their dark cloud. 78%. 78 became the number of hope and faith.

She started chemotherapy, and slowly, her hair began to fall off. Friends became few as they could not relate with their sufferings. She begged him to shave off her hair and save the torture of watching it fall off. He kissed her bald head when he was done. The tears streamed down their faces as they both whispered 78.
          ………………………………………………………

She had gone into remission for only 2 months before the cancer came back. Her survival rates dwindled has the cancer had spread to other parts of her system. They had weeks or months to spend together.

She had planned to visit Paris before her death, but now, it was not possible. They had depleted their funds, and she was even too weak to fly. He tried to bring Paris to her with the help of a recipe he found. Even though it was disastrous, she loved it. He tried for her. He made an effort for her. They spent each day knowing fully well it could be her last.
           ………………………………………………………

Five weeks after they renewed their vows, she passed on. The vow renewal had been another low key event, just both of them, the priest and their family. It was a preface to the funeral he thought as he stared at her lifeless body in the open casket. Her death was expected but still, he was unprepared for it.  It left him devastated. His wife was gone. His best friend was gone and had felt his world shattered. Words of encouragement flew around like airplanes at a RAF air show. Where were they when it was most needed? They did not choose the battle, it chose them. He buried her and life was never as he knew it. He struggled day in and out.

He knew what he had to do. It did not seem ideal but he had to. He had to feel the same pain she felt. It might not measure up to it, but he had to feel some pain. He went through the pictures of them as the fire he lit in the corner of the bedroom was getting wilder and closer to him. The flames engulfed him and he smiled as he felt the pain.

He was gone.

He would meet her and they would be together again.

 
7 Comments

Posted by on September 29, 2014 in Short Story

 

Tags: , , , ,