POEMS: God dey, Most lost, Tears, So, Breeds, Swine, Kishiya & Fever


When I trek with daily rain
To find work or sweet life,
Guardsmen with dogs reign;
Making morning every night.

Where the mouth for food?
Like na only me yawn alone.
Bad laughs and us go good?
I can not stay to boil stone.

Whether life better, money stay;
Owners fold their own mats.
Tomorrow can mirror today
And patience never does lasts.

Families’ eyes pour its pains,
Daily need’s shame they pray.
Yet they wake with last grains,
Again their faith says God dey!


Who says we are most alone
When we are with the most?
And all alone with its none;
Enjoying life at its own worst?

Attempting to be on our own
We had often found its cost;
Sought glories for the stone
And won prizes we had all lost.


Boiling pots let off steam,
Pressured heat sweats a beam.
Merrily down a peopled stream,
Tears must decimate life’s film.


Let us play a game of trading places,
Pausing triggers of mud slinging tongues.
Viewing with glasses that mirror chances,
We’ll find all toes fit the shoes it belongs.


The mind eats, then it sleeps.
Where it sits, there it breeds.
Then it would end and cease,
Leave in hope for some peace.
Still this life ever only breeds,
If what it learns today it heeds.


Who makes the most noise
And is as dirty in his poise?
Who soils his needs as toys
And spoils all his ego hoist?


Haka ta che,
“Wa ni da duk mache,
Kishiya ta ta fi ni.
Ko ya ta yi da shi, da ni?
Ko de na kasa,
Har ya sa ya fasa?
Ko ya zaka fasara,
Kishi ne, ko duniya na maza?”

So she said to I,
“To all women as I,
My mate is better than I,
What did she do to him and I?
Or had I failed him as I,
To make him withdraw from I?
How else do you interpret to I,
It’s envy or it’s all male to I?”


Through eventful years the sticks ever pile,
Hopes with the trunk that vomits emptiness.
The mighty broom swept so long a mile,
Still dirt abounds as its proud fruitfulness.
Mourning tears leave this feeling of numbness.

Eras of evolution has not changed the egg,
The needs of man same and ever will be so.
Maybe a broom will kill lizards on a clay keg
And not break it too like the stick did before.
In this concoction only soluble particles’ temperatures soar.

Promise of the lands are all pointing,
Yet the future is hot food in the mouth.
Bodies buried and alive, had and are, waited and waiting,
For the joy in swallowing and satisfaction they sought.
Over hard filled years waiters without appetite rot.

The dogs in this story are the traitorous pigs,
Their patriotism is fake like sweeping grains with a rake.
Locusts that plunder the field leaving tiny dry twigs,
Their determined whispers stir reasoning ideally fake;
These dishonourable gentle heads that ache.

The locusts ate the grains, the rake wasted the rest.
The broom was left so little in its fold.
In this farm, pigs serve dogs for it’s their best.
The egg will likely shatter in hands that shouldn’t hold.
They chest indifferently the agony of the rest in the cold.

POEMS: Let it rain, It rained, The Spouse of Sentiments, Walls of China, Weird Feet, Elegy of this Mummy’s & Monarch


Clear as skies have ever been,
Then stirred a slight breeze.
Gently woke a dusty scene,
Helpless pedestrians sneeze.

A clouds’ parade is called;
Smoky pawns first appear.
From the horizon they strolled
With a breeze winded in despair.

Officers’ darker mien show,
As an angry thicken sky spread.
The world’s mood goes slow,
For a brief moment, in dread.

Suddenly the tempo is upped,
Like an adrenaline spiked heart.
The living world all robbed
Of all its plans as droplets pat.

The tar-less streets go empty,
As commerce pauses in pain.
Hawkers shelter all so hasty
As the clouds cry, let it rain.


Sleep is death everyday
And dreams, the after life.
Morning wakes Lazarus
Into a very moist terminus.

The birds call out stops,
Jetting in over roof tops.
The sun arrives from the east,
In its twelve hourly haste.

Wingless termites each pair,
From glassy littered floors appear.
Lizards leave damp cracks
Amidst frogs’ conducted croaks.

Each awakes as another
To catch the day younger.
The wet early mood hurried;
For surely last night it rained.


Daddy smiled and coughed light,
Understanding my explained plight.
Men are lonely and they know,
Yet they conspire not to let show.

These women are assisted all through
By their very own sex, unlike you.
Firstly by mothers or sisters, then peers.
All thrust, show or coax their shares.

Ladies understand the bodies’ world well
As they grow so guided, you can tell.
The boy discovers on his very own.
And thus, what he finds is his fun.


The old London Bridge is falling down
Yet everyone still swims back into town.

When the new walls of China do crumble
They won’t stay back there to just cuddle.


Imagine if your feet points inwards
And your heels are aligned outwards.

Your legs do not end with any toes
And look like thin straight fleshy poles.

You walk like a tall naked chicken
And take only small steps for no reason.


The produce of your womb is true,
For this only a mummy are you.
You swell and pine till cords’re cut,
This much dear credit is stolen not.

In the start of it all you were
Willing that all elements be there.
You mothered it all from scratch
To be as no other would match.

The availability of all that’s good
Is so limitless and has no mood.
You were to be of such a mould;
An embodiment of this idea so old.

You saw with your own blind eyes
And discarded others and their lies.
As all came and as all so went,
You blur the real and just dreamt.

Indifference is that able chance
Not just affordable to all hands.
This you grew to learn as all do;
And seek to murder your dead anew.

Compassion has love in its nature,
It lacked in past, present and future.
You are history as an origin is;
History as any Tomb-Mummy’s kiss.

Dead as dreams bubbles in a diamond,
Your aged love will never find them.
Till you died, to these lives you’re death
That came back down to this earth.


From the high trees in Mexico;
On the way back to this Mexico,
The great-grand Monarch will stir
As she, this same time and there
Starts a migration of off-springs
At times winters meets springs.

In flight onto the vastness of Texas,
They will briefly settle in Texas;
As did cows, boys and their wives,
Like an established glow of life’s.
Waving cloud of flickering beauty,
Floating yellow specks, so mighty.

The first generation will here pupa,
Here crops feed and protect proper.
Well fed, they cover up and mutate.
These Milk-weeds they do cultivate
Dictates their site, flight and path;
After it, the caterpillars had sought.

Another generation is alone and going,
Together following meals and dieing.
Onward northeast with their destiny,
Eighty kilometers a day their mystery.
Their next route only goes on forth;
The generation that returns is fourth.

They had congregated in far Canada,
This generation is journey harder.
Their numbers much as to boast,
As they wait out storms at the coast.
At last in the Augusts’ clear season,
They sprint four thousand miles of ocean.

If Human restlessness keeps its place,
Together like they left this place;
With earth where it was again in orbit
And nature its only possible culprit,
Southwest this living cloud always returns,
To the same trees the Monarch returns.



I am a reluctant Coach. The first time I tried coaching was in school. I was the tertiary institution’s Basketball team captain and we had a non-official Coach; a short middle-aged fellow, who was not a staff of the institution and only lived behind the school’s main campus. We were not sure he had played the game competitively himself and tolerated his feeble attempt at guiding us out of respect. I was looked up to by my fellow team mates, and most especially by the female Basketball team.

I liked that. If getting all that attention from pretty girls came with it, why not? It was just a game I played then. Not the Basketball, but the coaching. The presumed remuneration was cosy and quite good! It came in doves of willing babes, hyped up campus status, popularity, travelling and fun. It was unlimited fun my parents paid for with my school fees. It was free fun like campus life always would be and life never ever is.

The second stage of my Coaching-hood dawned on a prolonged holiday. In the pigs ‘invaded’ slump my father housed our entire family in, was a group of young men who played amateur soccer. Out of idleness, not even youthful curiosity and certainly not professional pursuit, I teamed up with them.

I was the least skilful of the whole lot, but was respected mainly because my family had a posh status in the ghetto community, and also because of my higher education and maybe also my relative advanced age. I was allowed to play, even in competitions. Though my knowledge of the game exceeded my physical display of it, I gave a good account of myself with the number of goals I scored and the lots more I ‘almost’ scored.

One day, the oldest and most experienced leader of the team; who we obviously called Coach, suddenly named me his assistant. That was it. My first solo assignment was to handle our junior male team. I made a show of it, encouraged some idle girls to join in on the fun as well and started a female team too. This time though, these girls were a lot younger and I was sincerely interested in only improving myself as a soccer Coach with the work I did with the younger players. This I continued to do pretty well, while I finished school and waited to farther my education or get a job, still much the reluctant Coach.

The third stage was longer. My young female team played in its first competition. We did well and got rewarded with a friendly match against a State sponsored side. Afterwards some of my players were asked to play for the State side and I was asked to join the managerial crew of the team. The State team did well, but it soon got off-loaded by the State and a group of tradesmen took over the players. I willingly stayed with the players on a part-time basis, while I worked and schooled full-time.

We won a National competition and did well in another National contest. This brought me and the team a drop of national recognition and I was offered a regional role in a National programme by a prominent National soccer Coach.

I would work at my job as well as pursued a full time advanced course in the city’s polytechnic on week days, while at weekends I spent hours coaching young children under the National soccer programme. I was able to polish my coaching abilities under the tutelage of an ex-professional player, now an established seasoned soccer Coach. Taking it one day at a time, I managed my time according to my prevailing priorities. It was always work first, school next and coaching last.

I had made it the quest of my reluctant coaching career during this period to improve the general lives of all the young players I handled. My principle was simple: ‘Sports is recreational and recreation is temporal.’ Hence, I ensured that all my wards pursued a more permanent career alongside sports. Mainly it was schooling, but some learnt other trades too. My quest became a means of recreation for me too. And though by my actions I had assisted in ensuring that the aspirations of many families for their young ones were achieved, it was always a past time to me too. Soon it developed into something special as I simply dedicated myself more to it. It became more important to me than actually coaching soccer. I will coach for a lucrative package when I got the chance, but I am still a reluctant Coach.


It was a secondary schools’ female soccer competition match and our team was winning with four goals. But though our team was five goals up by half time, we were still worried about a skilful, natural left footed girl in our opponents’ midfield. She had repeatedly dribbled, waltzed and shot through our entire defence line like we were playing against her alone and not another team of eleven girls. We won the match by a whooping seven-nil, but everyone was looking at that talented girl like she had netted all the seven goals we scored against her team.

I wanted her in our team and I tried to get her by every legal means conceivable. Every attempt to get her interested in our school was foiled by her then handlers. I got to know that she had played that match illegally because she had not even been a student of the school she played for and had indeed dropped out of an entirely different junior school two years earlier. It only made me even more interested in her.

I tailed her home from her local training field one evening and met her parents with my very ‘palatable’ offer. Unknown to me, they were prepared for me. The girl’s then handlers had falsified some details about me and warned her, and her parents about me. They had been told that I was a profiteering schemer who wanted to deceive them, and that I had no good intensions for their daughter. I was then disappointed that I had probably seen (maybe) the most talented female soccer player ever identified in my country and she was wasting away, out of school, hawking sugarcane, flirting around and utterly poorly handled.

She could have very easily been schooling on a full scholarship in one of the best schools in the country like I had offered her. She could be polished and managed into becoming an educated success in both sports and in any other career of her choice. It hurt me, but there wasn’t much I could do but wait and hope.

I didn’t have that long to wait though. In sports two years is not a long time. In sports we remember and forget too easily. I had stopped to change a flattened wheel and habitually responded to greetings from behind me, as I changed the punctured tyre. At first I didn’t recognise any of the girls sitting behind full trays of neatly stacked well cut sugarcane sticks, they were selling.

When I finished changing the tyre and had put the flat tyre away in the car’s rear compartment, one of the girls came over with some water for me to wash my dirtied hands with. It was then I recognised the talented left footer. After holding up the water for me to wash my hands, she insisted I took at least a stick of her sugarcane with me. Before I drove off she shyly asked me if she could come to see me sometime. She claimed to know my office and pleaded that I gave her a few minutes when I could. I gave her an appointment, drove off whistling. Patience does pay.

She came early, in time. I gave her something to drink, which she didn’t touch eventually. She wept as she told me how she regretted not joining our school and what a mess her handlers had made of her prospects as a promising talent. She then wanted to join up with us but didn’t have the courage to face me until she met me recently. Though I knew it was too late to get her admitted into the private school where I coached part-time, after the proprietor had given seventeen girls from my team admissions on full scholarship. Since he died in a car crash on his way for an inaugural meeting of a federal sports panel, the school hadn’t taken any more students on sports scholarships.

I was so thankful that his family held up to their end of the arrangement and still allowed all the girls (and some boys) to complete their studies on full scholarship. To request for an additional space, at that time, was asking for too much.

I however asked her to return with photocopies of her most recent academic credentials and lied that I will try to get her accepted into the school. I had however explained to her the difficult situation truthfully. I just wanted her in our team first, so that I could have a shot at handling her properly. I was certain I could make her an outstanding future star.


A year passed and she was now fully part of our team. I finally had to get her settled into a public school and assisted her ‘struggling’ parents in paying her school fees. She blossomed into a wonderful team player and she travelled with our team everywhere, playing in both local and national competitions for the private school’s team too. She was the toast of every match she played in and I started getting doves of hugely promising requests for her from big professional club sides.

My refusal to accept any of these offers started a feud with her parents. They had been told that their girl will earn a lot if she joined a professional side. Though this is partially true, I had my reasons for refusing. This I explained to her parents. But against my best advice her parents soon insisted she joins a professional club. I had two reasons for not wanting her to go just yet. Firstly, I thought she was still rather young and inexperienced in the dirty ‘game’ behind the sports scene.

Secondly, she had to finish secondary school to enable her continue her education any farther. If she is to have a decent life after her very limited sporting career, then furthering her education was paramount. This I considered was appropriate then and not at any other non-feasible time in the future.

I lost her, but happily not her trust. Her parents made her join a big club in the south of the country for their own selfish reason. I was given some money to sign her mandatory release papers, which I took and did. She was gone for only one calendar year and though she is an incredibly talented player, she never got to play in even one competitive game for the club. She was not even registered for the national league in two abridged seasons.

It was soon revealed that one of her Coaches there wanted sexual favours from her and the other considered her a threat to his most favoured player. Then she broke her leg in training and had to return home untreated and without any savings to fall back on. Her folks had used up every dime she had sent home. I got a specialist to treat and manage her leg. And in those eight months, while she healed and rehabilitated, I got her re-admitted to finish her secondary education in her last school. I paid for her extra lessons and her examination fees too. She was able to resume training exactly nine months after she returned home.

Three months later, her results were out. She had passed averagely and it coincided with her regaining her previous playing form. By the time we started processing her admission into a tertiary institution on a sports ticket; she had healed completely and was thrilled to have attained the ‘form of her life’. Then she did the unexpected. You just never know with young girls and lying cute good looking boys. She called to tell me that she had ‘run-off’ with her mechanic boyfriend, who just got employed into an engineering firm somewhere in the biggest city in the west of the country. It was a huge blow.

The necessity of sports in teenagers’ lives can not be over emphasised. It makes them burn up their excess energy, tow the line of good behaviour, stay healthy, imbibe important values in their characters and provide an immediate alternate means of livelihood, and if they are among the lucky talented few. Sports could also ensure a comfortable life subsequently.

I had always insisted that my players get a proper education, the highest possible when obtainable. The risk and luck involved in making it in sports hugely out-weights that involved in making it straight from a proper education. I pursued the same course myself; thus I subjected all my players to the same pursuit. Most turned out well, but a few derailed. She was no exception, though hers hurt me a lot because of the promise she personified.

Five months later she returned, visibly pregnant and sent away by her boyfriend, who she told us had moved in with another girl. Her father came to me and I followed him. Amidst her entire family’s continuous onslaught of curses, I insisted she is allowed to pick up her life and not discouraged by our disappointment or indeed hers; not even considered. I was secretly certain that this experience will serve a good purpose in the future; for others too, through her.


To keep her mind off things and in an attempt to give her some confidence, I got her enrolled into a Computer school. She finished the brief course just in time for the birth of her baby. Three months after her son’s birth, she started a two years course it a tertiary institution in our town. Eight months later she was back in training, her son weaned and in her mother’s care, most of the time. She made the institution’s team to its biannual national competition, which they won. She was a member of the State’s team to the national sports festival, a team I was given the privilege of handling.

She was simply so brilliant at the tournament that she couldn’t be ignored by our country’s junior national team selectors. The two years of her course ended swiftly and she was invited to join the junior national team in preparing for the world cup. Everyone was excited but I advised that she took her final exams first and wait for another chance in the future. She was still young and officially eligible, even if she should be younger. I expected some resistance but I got none as she readily agreed.

I however made her understand that it had to be her choice, not minding that I was assisting her with her education. She replied me with what is the most touching response I have ever received from any of my players. She said I was her guiding angel, sent by God to steer her through life. She added that she was not the only person I handled, but I had dedicated most of my time, effort and money to her and her troubles.

She did not go to that juniors’ world cup. Instead she finished her academic course and proudly got a National Diploma. It was afterwards easy for her to get into a National females’ League club side. The next two years were quite great. She actually won every competition she was featured in.

The National female soccer league and The National Football Association female clubs’ tourney, The National Sports Festival soccer and a women soccer tournament in Europe were all won by her teams that year, with her playing a very prominent part. She was to later play in the very next edition of the junior world cup she had missed previously, and later won a female soccer continental championship. She became an instant big star and was well off with her financial earnings now.

I sort of managed her affairs for her back home and supervised the construction of the two residential flats she built. Her parents moved into part of the building, leaving the rented abode they had been living in all this long while. She had the other flat fitted and furnished for her own private use.

She agreed with my suggestion to buy a small commercial bus for her first vehicle, instead of the family utility van her father preferred. This was a sore point between her father and I, but she saw the sense in generating money with the vehicle to maintain itself, while it still served the family’s needs. When she returned for her annual holiday, I suggested that she changed her club so that she could farther her education while she still played actively. She did. She was now a big star and it was easy to get into just any other club she so desired.

So she moved to another club, secured an admission into an institution in her new club’s home city and in another two and a half years, she graduated with a university degree. I went for her graduation alongside her brother and father, in the same vehicle she bought. Then she changed clubs again, this time to the city she was posted to for her mandatory National Youth Service. In those two years she made the senior national team, won the continental nations’ cup, and featured in the Olympic Games and in the senior female world cup.

She was soon engaged by a small club in Europe for a two years contract. One year into the contract, her contract was sold by the club to a much bigger club in a different European country for a heart warming sum that was assessed a world record for a female player then. Her new personal package was quite huge. I asked her to take an insurance policy for disability and retirement, and with the assistance of her new foreign club’s secretary, she did. It was such a great idea as the unfolding events that soon followed was to show.

Returning home for an off-season holiday, her plane had to make an emergency landing. As a result of the ensuing crash, she was among the few that got injured when her right femur was fractured in two places. She had stayed behind at home since then. The insurance company paid up and with the statutory settlements she got from her big European club and the Airline’s insurers, she had enough to retire many times over.

She healed well in four months and wanted to play again, but I made her realize that her whole soccer career will end eventually and she would then want to start off in another field. She might never make more money than she had already made and it was a perfect time to start off in a life long career that will define her future status as someone other than just an entertainer.

We looked at all the options opened to her and concluded that she invests most of her considerable fortune in landed structures and pursue a career in the field she already studied. So because she had read Banking and Finance and had a favourable public image, we had; with a little persuasion, got her employed as a junior manager in a bank she had also invested heavily in. She bought a small store and built a small office structure, which she rented out. Now her son is doing very well in the private school she couldn’t get into and I am as proud as a stuffed bear.

The Coach isn’t selfless but human too,
He is the person with a plan for everyone.
With abilities as experience all learnt anew;
He is an optimist, patient as sure as the sun.

The Player obeys the norms and urge,
Enjoying the dreamt up living, yet real.
Dancing to all songs with a new surge,
Blinding days are lit with a light to feel.

The Sport is heartless and demanding,
All companies it keeps are envious of it.
Consuming lust filled, never satisfying;
On its sure ride it will keep every bit.

The Game is simple and easy to chase,
Embraced in choices to choose and make.
Stages of gains at every level of the race
Made the whole thing Sports for players’.

POEMS: A Hole in the Sun, Jiggle Bells, Date, Masses, Predator, Zoo Keepers, Sir & True


Dancers in the sun’s light
Amaze my privileged sight
And fill my heart with delight.

Floating in some physical void,
Dazzling the spectacle they lord;
Visible in the air I cannot avoid.

What I see likens a light dust,
Entertaining my eyes’ own lust
As the ray blows them all out.

A comet must have just gone by
And beamed pass my open eye,
From the bright splendor up high.

Its mild rays’ lonely lights tread
On a woven lit path boldly made
To awaken the soul’s long dead.

The mystery is doubt’s glory
That yields an affectionate story
Daring every notion’s theory.


Single hell, triple fell;
Wiggled yet it didn’t jell.
Oh, what rings that little bell
That tries and ever fails to tell?


Silly days made our teens,
Sorting out our teething genes.
Over those moons, new till old
Our hormones shiver their cold.

Tasting all those many dishes;
Many we met with their witches,
Others we borrowed and mended,
But lots we created and trended.

The sting of disappointments sore,
Betrayal and pain and much more.
Ageing fear is sour but caught;
Yet still we trove amidst death.

To all morrows we cherished
That date we shared perished,
And thank it so for that spice
It puts into this new date so nice.


Where the eagles dare
The vulture does fear.
We’re weaklings there,
Patience stole our lair.

Anthills grew where
A colony learns to bear.
That beach is so near
When a lost ship cheer.


Wisdom is the Owl’s,
Opened eyed it saw
Cooking sun bowels
Blurs its sight more.

Little shows the moon,
Like stars in the dark.
To hunt it glides as soon
As dusk shows its back.

The prey that hides
From shine of day
See less of the rides
And the Owl’s hurray.


The chimps’re gaily as will ever
As the fauna king will rule never.
Penned in a checkered metal home,
Their chatter and roar just a hum.

Huge trumpeters cupped for show
As archaic aquatic lizard’s flow.
Their mud puddles not more free
Than the walled rivers to be or see.

Eagle soars only in its mind
And serpents share their kind.
All the skies they see and saw
Lost like their choices as before.


The world is that common mirror
That our reflection bounces off.
All these people we all so follow
Always seem to show us enough.

When I see my reflections ever,
I climbed your mountain so rare.
Then I found honour owns never
And where you were come I sir.


That man isn’t God;
Who flaunts not his might,
That secret is mere mud;
To the truth I can bite.

Silence as a weapon is my right;
The trophy of loot in man’s fight.

POEMS: Time Concept, Worthless, Tall Dream, Widowed Dreams, The Coloured Sheep, Own to Owe, Cheats & Fools of Africa


Six seeds of time dropped from its void,
They arrived as miniatures of old cut-out foil.
Once here they germinated into its concept;
Those half dozen hideous monsters we accept.

They search for the lovely maiden in man.
In her flowery easy gown she now ran
Towards the mirror at the end of time,
Where ends all life-sweet misery’s crime.

First time they caught up with her in a pool.
As she bathes they unleashed their fierce tool;
The devouring mystic swamp behind their teeth
Swallowed the whole lake’s water in a breath.

Then they missed her in the air’s grip,
As she flew in a dream with her sleep.
Again their devouring teeth slashed all wide,
And ate the skies winds as she fell off to hide.

She found the drawn carriage and rode it,
In hot pursuit they caught up and bit at it.
The transport means and yield it coughs up,
And land the horses pulled, they chewed all up.

Lastly the depth of earth sneeze its protection
And its molten heat threw out its combustion.
Though it covered her all up, they still did more;
Devoured fire’s fury and left her alone for sure.

She made it to that final aged tunnel of the old
And had to walk its slow dense forest alone bold.
Behind her, the quick hunger of time reaches on;
The future’s uneasy peace mirrored unknown.

Just as she did make it and melt inside it,
The milky embrace silvery end didn’t admit;
The monsters that had made her their bait,
All six; love, pain, joy, sorrow, need and hate.

She ends the long journey just as she began,
As a little helpless babe time held in its hand.
Time will always be a bountiful bondless chain,
Releasing yet holding its ever shortening reign.


What profits this mind,
To its end it never finds.
When it says its heart’s pain
It looses the grip of its chains.

Am I always on trial,
My soul alone on its isle?
I am mindful more than less
That is the value of the worthless.


Closed eyes clasp the warm darkness,
Shutting out the silvery glow of the moon smile.
The cantata contest invade with its happiness,
Carrying all in the still air of the mating mile.

Oh how simple the peace of this revelry,
The mind and ears wonder the vastness of it all.
Clinging on sanity with man’s overt mystery,
Wishing all love melts into this dream so tall.


What claims have dreams, each on its scale?
One solemn day they all see and they fail;
The egg they lay carries another’s shell.

Thank goodness for a glance at posh’s hell,
When lust toyed with life’s curtains’ rail;
Behold the widowed dreams yet trail.


Bah, bah black sheep, they always point you;
Wolf in your clothing or something ever new.

Rainbow and gold pot in your closet is true,
If you’re concerned, skies aren’t ever blue.

The skeletons you cupboard are there for show,
Honeycombed for Bees, you Bearnessly shoo!


I have always wondered
What goes through the mind
Of the infant we so conceive?

If he know he is or if he was
And how then I can never tell
If he wanted or wish to need?

I need not wonder to know
All about the known conceivers;
Their want, wish and need they say.

I know the person as a being;
His want, his wish, his need.
These same I didn’t know before.

I couldn’t tell before he is,
From where he is or has been.
His hopes are all lost to me.

I then can not justify
All this favour I’ll do him;
If I do know he knows not.

If it is all I, mine and me;
His life ever has been mine
To want, to wish, to make?

I owe him more than knowledge!
What is more human and selfish
Than to owe who you own?


To a mass we wore those frowns again,
Webbing lines on our brows with pain.
These insects spanned and trapped we are,
Drunken hulks with secular cheats we spar.


Were you named as you sat on a shelf?
Who named you what you call yourself?
Are you really what you say you are?
Or basically you just turned out as you are?

Every man has only his fingers and toes
And they are to be thanked for all numbers.
His logic of senses beyond his own shores
Made perception a bias heap of blunders.

When the timing of the African’s existence
Is entirely based on another race’s perception,
Then his foolish identity by every instance,
Likens his time; another European conception.


Father had been very angry all day. It is so clear that mother must have said something to upset him again, like she does again and again. You could see his effort to stay in control of his emotions, not to do anything rash, to be polite and keep a smile on his face. It always gave him away, every time.

We had a flat tyre and stopped behind a parked lorry on the highway. I saw the little monkey too, as it swung and played beside the huge lorry’s doubled rear tyres. It was swinging from a rope which was keeping it fastened to the lorry’s roofless wooden cargo-hold caging. The monkey made a grotesque picture against the amateurish painting of a fighter jet spread across the lorry’s big rear door. That notwithstanding, it was a sight to savour; and if father hadn’t need of my help with the flat tyre, I would have gladly enjoyed the sight more than I had.

The large nuts tightly holding our vehicle’s flattened wheel were rusty. Father had to ‘tap’ some oil from the car’s engine to lubricate them before he could finally loosen them. In between the wait, I had to help Sani ease his six years old bladder beside the highway and back inside his wide lonely back seat again. Sani and I had made silly noises at the playing monkey before I hurriedly returned round, to help father with the flat tyre.

I remembered seeing Sani toss pieces of his lunch-bread at the monkey, through the open rear window he was seated beside; his window was on the other side of car, away from the sparingly moderate traffic that sped past our car in seemingly endless hurry. Their speed gave such force to the gust of hurled air that blew at us in short busts, as it literally shook our stationary car, while we worked at changing the flat tyre.

Father had dirty hands after the flat tyre had been changed and I held up a bottle of water for him to wash his soiled hands. We both eased ourselves beside the highway too, in front of the car, in the small space between the parked lorry and our car, by the edge of the graveled highway side-walk. Then we hurried back into our front seats and father drove us off home. It was my first holiday back from my new boarding school. Father had come along with my younger brother Sani, to pick me up.

Twenty quiet miles later and we were home. I got out of the car first and was opening the huge metal gate to our house when I heard father’s shout. Sani wasn’t in the back seat! We lost Sani that day and twenty long years later, the pain and regret of that single incident killed father. It is still a mystery to this day and every single possible theory had been discussed and pursued to its logical human and orthodox end, all to no avail.

Mother blamed father and he agreed. He had accepted that his absentminded state had made him less vigilant. The anger in him had made him lose his little boy so strangely. Nothing we did brought Sani back to us. Mother changed her thoughts much later, rather belatedly. It always feels good to recollect that she made father’s last few years less painful with her support and love. But for father, all through those twenty miserable years, there was no worse crime in the world than to be angry:

Yearning not out loud,
Judgment does complain.
The verdict is yet proud,
Its picture coloured in pain.

Wisdom suddenly goes up,
Patience flew its balloon.
Decision flirts with hope,
But it’s still so much alone.

Restrain the wild stallion,
With a branding hand about.
Hurts enough to melt iron;
As penned up heat cries out.

Tomorrow returns somehow,
Mindful of its joyous winning.
And consequences whistle now,
So it all sits to wait for morning.

On my wall now, as just before I got married, is a picture of Sani. It was taken earlier that same year he got lost. The family had mourned him for so long; for too long. As the only child ever again, I knew just how much he was missed. In those long twenty, laughter-less years of an endless stretch of mournful sore existence, the three of us mentioned Sani like he was still there with us, through the nearest open door, in the next room.

I have since grown up to fully comprehend all sorts of feelings like pain, joy, disappointment etc. Most of my experiences had been of the kind that renders the mind skeptical of happy possibilities. Those that question every sad event with a resignation that says it is just fate. Life became a vast open field under an ever mobile parade of tears filled clouds and living is a ceaseless downpour of pain and timeless rain.

I have lacked so much, that I have come to miss my family so much more now. They had all left me alone on my own. First it was Sani then father, and mother is most recent. It isn’t strange that I should remember her least of all, she being the last one with me. Her death was weird in a sense. Though I did cast soil into her stuffed grave like I did father’s too, I was completely unprepared in her case. One moment she was nagging about my childless marriage and the next moment I was fully parentless.

But then she was always just my mother. Unlike my dear wife, who is more of the finest breed and is so inappropriate for me or her family; which I never got along with. She is as different from me as an Ant is to a Spider. She is the ever searching, busy and industrious type but I am not. I scheme and wait. Most times I wonder why she had a thought for me. On this one point I agree with her folks wholly, for I had been brought up spoilt and calmly bred to take things as they come and wait forever for fate and destiny. She faces her fate and makes her destiny.

Mild as milk yet sharp as acid, my life and mind respectively contrast the existence I grew in. I had naively conspired to be wrongly trained in a neglected field that it seems my inherited intelligence was being wasted. In my wife I found purpose and direction; most of all, patience. These were both comforting and conforming as I trove mentally and to a great extend, spiritually.

Her simple smiles spoke in invisible words that showed and said her daily looks of profound angelic niceness wakes up mean vengeful gods in fair moods. Her face steers nature’s soul with its uncomplicated beauty in a mythological sense. Her eyes lit sceneries that warm every heart that meets them, know them and experience the internal simplicity they mirror.

It was like a joke of some sort when my Best man gave my wife and me a puppy as a wedding gift, right there at our wedding guests’ reception. He had the puppy brought in just before he made the customary toast, which he choose to conclude with the cheeky lines; “The little pup is now about; May the little Bob soon pop out.” So when my wife named the puppy ‘Nisa’, meaning ‘Far’, I guessed she saw the dog as a symbol of our union and made a statement with its name to all and sundry, that our marriage will go all the distance. I guessed wrongly.

Nisa became the little ‘Bob’ that hasn’t popped out yet. But it filled our early years of coupled existence with fun, love and joy. The dog turned out to be a witty, disciplined, smart and dedicated animal. He was just a dog to everyone else but to me and especially, to my wife. She and Nisa were practically together all day long and if I didn’t love the animal too, I would have really had enough reasons to dislike him.

Some of our regular guests had sworn the dog was more human than canine. He has been known to sit in his four legged way beside our two rooms’ front door for hours without moving an inch because he noticed we were both out of our modest abode and had forgotten to lock up. He once incredibly guided a desperate visitor to a nearby house where my wife and I had both gone for a neighbourly chit-chat.

Not a trained dog by any means conceivable, it incredibly had an almost human like intelligence. He ate everything he was fed, never stole or sat close to anyone eating, like local dogs are fond of doing. He would dutifully guard a tray of meat or fish laid outside to dry or cool off, barking away interested lizards, chickens and other dogs with as much dedication as any of us would. Built like a prized sheep, he had a beach-sand coloured thin hide that looked almost faded yellow in visibly poor light.

When very lean months soon engulfed us, as it is usually the case for most people of average means, I became so ill from malaria that my wife feared the worse. We had no money for food or drugs and she was at a complete loss of what to do. She called Nisa into our inner most room and he came in reluctantly. It was the first time he had entered any of our rooms, ever. I was barely awake but I could hear her whisper to him that she was going out to borrow some money for drugs.

As silly as I thought it must have sounded, even to her obviously confused mind, she still went ahead to converse with him. I knew they were quite close but as a matter of fact, I doubted her sanity at that instant. I watched them in a bemused pain induced stupor, as she further instructed him to come and look for her if I got any worse. I called her back, as she was about to leave and a very brief one-sided argument ensued.

As we spoke I would have sworn Nisa was following our exchanges with much more than his eyes and head. She retuned a couple of hours later; I was barely conscious and moaning in pain when she entered the room. She had been unsuccessful and broke down in tears as soon as she saw me twisting in pain beside a tensely still Nisa. I tried consoling her but it was such a pathetic attempt. She ran out again and sped into our empty compound in the huge cosmopolitan low-rent, many tenants building we resided in. She was in one big panic as she dashed about, hoping for assistance from any of our many neighbours.

Everyone of our fellow tenants was home that early evening hour, yet the best they could all do was give her a small cup full of raw rice and lots of kind words of encouragement. She somehow cooked up a miracle dish with the cup of rice, throwing in some left over fungus infested spices and some old forgotten dried fish. It smelt nice and it must have tasted good too, but I couldn’t swallow anything but warm water.

Her tears spoke to me words that hurt and I feared for her like I never thought possible. As death wooed me for that brief point in time, I momentarily was selfishly glad that I wasn’t going to see her leave me, like I have always dreaded. In the quiet mazy-whirls of my mind I saw my father dieing again and my old questions all came up for answers again;

Baba, mutuwa na da wuya?
Mun amince duniyar ka da wuya.

Father, is it hard to die?
We acknowledge the hassles of your world.
With life’s wards always roams a lie,
We all are reproductions of its mould.

Choking in the presence of its grip,
The inscrutable crux not familiarized.
Do we sit out the stages of its trip
Like your peaceful love that wasn’t recognized?

From the weep the baby wails
To the whip’s lashes life hails,
These tastes we own and inherit.
Say oh father, is there better to merit?

The strangest thing happened. My wife sang a prayer as I took in long deep breaths. Nisa stood up on all his four limbs from where he was half sitting. He gave a curt bark and licked her arm before running out. He kept barking inside the compound and no one could shut him up. My wife hurried out impatiently, cursing him for not knowing better. Nisa came at her swiftly and tugged at her wrapper with his teeth.

She didn’t call him her son for nothing, she recounted was her very thought when the urge to let him lead her on overwhelmed her. She followed him; filled with curiousity, as he walked on determined and unhesitant, head down in a solemn meditation like posture. He led her to the local dog-meat butcher’s stall, where he folded his limbs and laid still on the soft ground.

She came over to his head with her eyes instantly tears filled. He closed his eyes firmly and licked at her hand as she patted his motionless cone-shaped face. It was such a very pathetic and uncommon sight that it lost the dog-butcher lots of dedicated patrons later. She was paid handsomely by the unrepentant meat merchants because he was a fairly big dog. Though she didn’t see Nisa slaughtered, but we were told later that he ‘cooperated’ fully. That word had never sounded so inappropriate.

The next morning I woke up feeling much better. The drugs she had bought and given me the night before had worked well for me. She cleaned me up and fed me a hot, sweet smelling and good tasting breakfast as she sang a popular funeral hymn. Still in the dark about Nisa’s strange demise, I was quiet all the while until I saw the single tear drop float out of her eye and run down her cheek. Then I tried to ‘break the ice’ with a joke. I asked her if she was rehearsing for my funeral. She replied, with so much feeling, that she was not rehearsing, but was singing for real. I guessed she meant I had died and was ‘reborn’ again, after our ordeal the day before. I guessed wrongly again.

This time she didn’t keep me in the dark for long. She couldn’t hold back her tears as she told me everything. It was then I learnt that she had named him Nisa in memory of Sani, my late and only brother. She knew from the stories we told that a big chunk of our lives disappeared with Sani and in her own way she preempted the family’s preference for a name for my future male child and named the dog after Sani, without desecrating our memories. There it is, as it always is and will always be. Life congregates us in one loving hub of family and friends, wooing us to have and share love for one another, as it educates us with the knowledge of our inevitable end and final separation. But it never empowers us with the secret of bearing its insipid emptiness and harsh betrayal. It is cruel and just not fair.

This we can only experience; life comes and then it is gone also. Like all those I have come to accept as mine, life will all too soon be eventually gone. It is discomforting to know the endless list of those gone is never ever complete, one way or the other.

They had all gone,
I only heard how.
They made the home
That I have now.

They met my sun
At its very dawn.
Made day my own,
As their night’s done.

They are all gone,
I saw them all go.
Where they’re borne
I will come to know

POEMS: Presently Old, Déjà vu, Singled Out, The World of Forgetfulness, Harvesters, One Big Sport & My Friend


The bud’s blossom is past glossy,
Time passing has folded its shiver.
Age wither and dry up the rosy
In certain preparation for shivah.

The past left without all of its,
As the present live any place else.
And now, always alone like this;
How then can the old ever bless?

Dryness of thirst spoke its waste
As all bare feet thorns had hurt.
Peacefully alone, wait for fate
With memories in a bodily hut.

When time has consumed its old
As water passes under the bridge;
This route for all, floods any hold
And water must pass under the bridge.


They always return like it’s shown,
Somehow better, on their very own.

When they were nothing, they knew.
And as they were begotten, they threw.

Just like such was predestined,
Man’s priorities shifts ascertained.

It was seen and again it will be,
Like again repeats all tides at sea.

They’ve always forgotten man feeds
Just like water kills and still it breeds.


Found out amidst the threshing stones,
Sort out of the cupboard of bones.
Where the situation was doctored
Fell out that one not to be mastered.

Revenge consumes like any fire
And depends on sentimental air.
An action sought to set any aside
Is vengeful if reason and sense coincide.

When anybody is singled out
The stone-casters dance about,
Exposing ignorance and malice;
Ironically with the drummer’s piece.


Amazing how easily we forgot
The cold as soon as it’s again hot,
Or the raw feel of our thirst
As soon as we had water first.

Pain, only as long as it linger;
Ends when joy points a finger.
The many promises we had sworn
Are as soon not again our own.

The personal stories we told
Long before we got this old,
Or plans we drew up and made
Before we realized what we said.

The friendship’s wasted hugs
As quickly, is all stale and bugs.
That shoulder we so cried on
We now see and as quickly run.

Those hands that shook ours
We now reach out to from towers,
As soon as we forgot again;
It’s dry, but again it will rain.


Whistling by the lined woody pine;
The only one who doesn’t see me mad.
I finally see that which all this time
Had been there, glad to see me sad.

Constant change can make it possible
For my senses’ to see and finally hear,
The breath and living of man’s trouble;
Like the sounds of reason ever there.

Bodily quests had blunted all the men;
Had made our sharp seasons cut less.
And we reap when we sow and then
Make worldly riches more aimless.


How easily the same are the different,
The serious life trends and fun learnt.
Common norms evolve, made as nurtured;
Incorporated as accepted and featured.

The giant loom that is our society
Is loomed with its pretence of piety.
A course is unset as it is assumed,
Thus the winner is just only presumed.

In their sameness we see a shortcoming;
Of macro life as against the sporting.
Like we may never ever put to its sort,
We find life is one big contact sport.


Again and again it’s replayed,
Assistance not even repaid.
Acquaintance that made an Us,
Not maintained with new status.

But I heard your smile
Come across another mile.
I saw your heart and felt
Your mind like mine, melt.

I’m in harmony with you
And I perceive this as true.
You’re my friend come pain,
Or still over and over again.

POEMS: Piggies, Tempestuous Tranquility, Death, Waters, Wean, Santa, This Fear Of Joy & Man


When I go to market, another stays at home.
If you had roast beef, another had the bone.
Funny how all cry (we); and still end with none.


The wisdom in every beauty
Is not buried within its scenery,
For its goodness and overt sincerity
Consoles every form of misery
And looses every kind of enmity,
To love its sheer sight and merry.


Cruel, cruel death
We have never met.

I only just heard
Of the fear in tears you said.

You’ve been about the herd
And oh the wonder you fed.

Who tells if you’re sent
When you only just left?


Look at the waters, compare and see
How like man it turns out to be.
With substances or matters joint,
It changes form and focus point.

Piffling people see evil before it reveals,
And all good only after it has surfaced.
From unlikely substances pain heals
And old valuable matter, are defaced.

No action without its consequence,
Then this love is basically insanity.
Take a dip and the source is essence;
Faith’s indulgence keeps humanity.


Bo! Little weenie, boo!
Has Mama whispered the scores?
Love draws its busy bow
Over the horizons of many bores.

The taste of many sowed
Weaponed you for battle, yee ha!
Your taste buds tempted and woed
Cried your resistance thus far.

Shh, little one sleep.
You’ll know good won’t always win.
Flesh for teeth, yet grass for sheep;
You, surely Mama will wean.


When you say yes or nay,
He beams okay and offers to pay.

Your nappy ever neat and white
To his nostrils, wit and sight.

Though sheared, running all naked;
Of all to busy the streets, you he mated.

Put the (n) behind at the end;
Lucky fellow, you know your friend.


Bleeding trees don’t all die.
Into our lives a lot will pry.

The driest seed will germinate,
Its pains would compensate.

All leaves die, dry and fall,
Surely will those today so tall.

The little shoots rises we know,
So will all small people grow.

Every growing bud has its own day,
Eluding this fear of joy is our way.


Man is built and made to a form,
Yet he so searches to end this norm.

POEMS: Eclipse, Pearl, Manna, Divine Human, Isn’t Human, Ceasar’s Own, Raca & The Whore


Master though you be,
Lord over life as it’s set.
Moments looms for we;
Conquered mortals, you we net.


Oyster sitting on the sea bed
Is invaded by a tiny sand grain.
The instant healing power it’ll send
Is a Pearl, its exquisite product of pain.

Marshalled by the little mollusc
And only as this harsh time is close,
At the point of such danger and peril;
The small oyster gathers as it feel.

It exudes a precious secretion
By its act of self desperation;
To heal, mend and save its life,
The result is a rare Pearl for life.


Is to live a curse or gift?
If you wonder, you need a lift;
Up to the skies of living memory,
Back and forth man’s own glory.


This very same old moon
Is ever again so young.
Surely as man has a head on
To his own nature it belongs.

Forever always he forgets
And not succeed in the sacred.
It is as human as he ever gets,
For divinity isn’t as he is bred.

For nothing forgets like man,
Far as he’s concerned, it’s fine.
Indeed to forget is so human
And to truly forgive is divine.


If man is made in God’s physical image only
Then every one resembles God’s looks wholly
With all the imperfections that our looks have
Which we had no part in, from cook to serve
Then we must wrongly view God as us all
A single personification; all of us in one roll

Now also look at man’s inability to be alike
In all his abilities to solely take and make
Then surely we can’t then resemble God here
With our divers capabilities here and there
Certainly we do not see that image of His
In our hugely depleted mental capabilities

Then there’s Justice not being same as fairness
Man gets it all wrong and in a very huge mess
Man merely is egoistic and Grace isn’t human
Who is only as good as his word like man?
The likeness here too is blur and all none
God’s monopoly dominates here too, all alone

This image, is it then compassion or apathy?
Could be faith, truth, love, humility or sympathy
Here too in fits and starts man grinds to a halt
Sieving grains his scales retains the shaft
And the God advocated Greek agape love;
He abuses, confuses, misuses, diffuses to solve.

In giving its all, to find it all; love is deepest
Unconditionally compassionate, patient at best
Unselfishly forgiving, indiscriminately generous
To trust this image in man is surely dangerous
Then what is this image to which man so likens;
God-like yet human when raw till he ripens.

Man has choice like all living fauna do
But it is all he has and allowed old as new
Life is definitely the wonder that is common
In one huge miracle of creation God summon
His likeness made man’s trinity transcend age
Life, soul, conscience is this transparent image.
GENESIS 1:26-28


As constant as the northern star,
Glowing close but won’t be reached.
It is not only guests from a far
A household betrayed and ditched.

Beware the Ides of March
Ringing like bells in Rome.
Inherit, merit or yet search,
Either way it all ends at home.

What name is born not to die?
Praise sang so close, steps are silent.
As to bury and forget drew by,
What’s to be or not to be are learnt.

Some slaughtered sheep are mourned,
Insignificant a life as they had had.
Their wives did not dream or warned,
Their lust did not make their ears hard.

Give unto him what is his,
Is his proud face not on it?
Off a gigantic face, stars are a piece.
Like all had and will, they return their bit.


The words mouths say not
Are alive within and about.
Thought is first of all itself;
Certainly, initially it is safe.

The evident risk in freedom
Is as criminal as is boredom.
In these our unending quests,
Cost unveils their own beasts.

Their hunger feeds or burst,
They live off needs and lust.
Their prayers edge into skies,
Barren with doubts and lies.

In the game life plays us
We know who is at a loss.
Momentary gasp for breath
Akins grasp of life by death.

The only failure story told
Is solely told new as old;
Man seeks profit to excel,
Falls again because he fell.

In perfection man will fall,
It is only because after all;
The nature of man is rude,
It is so, so hard to be good.


With dunes like empty breasts,
The victim is her own lost foe.
Agony as sorrow is her guests’,
For in her womb no one sow;
Surely the land is made a whore.