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Showing posts from January, 2020

IF WISDOM HAD A SMELL (A POEM)

If wisdom had a smell It would smell of old books Passed down from generation to generation Revealing the truths about the enigma called time. The truths which cannot be purchased Even by the highest bidder. That smell that unveils the arduous work of writers Known and unknown. That smell that reveals family trees of readers Seen and unseen. That smell that conquers ignorance Once knowledge is sought. If wisdom had a smell It would smell like an old, well-read copy of Uncle Tom's Cabin Revealing the evil behind the thoughts and actions of slavery. That smell that encompasses sacrifice. That smell that brings words and characters to life. That smell that raises positive movements that will In time, save humankind. If wisdom had a smell It would smell of old wrappers Worn by mothers and even fathers, Instinctively used to wipe the tears Of their children away, Used with love to cover them from the rain or sun. Oh, the smell of that long piece of fabric With drawings of horses, stars,...
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MARIERE

MARIERE It was said that she had this ravishing beauty that made suitors hover around her father’s compound. They would come prepared with gifts and entourages only to be frequently turned down by her. Few gave up the trial while many continued, unsuccessfully. The villagers waited to see the day and the lad who would win their untitled princess at last.  This one, he came out of the blue. He came like a king who could not be refused. He came prepared from a faraway land that even you cannot guess. He came for the taking and nothing less. Many had lost but he was called to win. Voila! The unpleasable damsel eventually was defeated by the affluence, charisma, debonair and gaiety of this lad. They gracefully were married without further ado. It was a quick wedding as the groom could not wait to consummate the union. A bit uneasy, mother and brother to the bride decide to accompany the couple to their home in Lagos to be familiar with where their blood would be inhabiting h...
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A MOTHER'S PERSPECTIVE

I am a married woman and I have just had my first baby 👶. I got pregnant during my service year and gave birth just after I had passed out. My husband is a teacher and owns a coaching center for primary school children. I intend getting a job after my daughter clocks one but I have this voice in my head that keeps telling me to face reality. The reality here is that my chances of getting a job are slim as a married woman and a mother and a low-class citizen. Once a year or two passes and I am still unemployed, it would take the grace of God to get a suitable job without being tossed around like a tennis ball by employers. I am scared that my reality will be ending up as a housewife which is not a bad thing if only that’s what I want for myself. On the contrary, I want to be an educationist. I want to work with a school not because it is the best job for a married woman with a child but because I am one of the ones who love teaching and want it as a career path 😏. Recen...
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IF HAIR COULD TALK

  “You know, I get nervous by the sight of unkempt hair” “And why’s that?” “Well, it makes me imagine the worst of the man or woman in question.” “But you can’t always have clean cut or well-made hair. It’s hard work and who has time for such beauty strife. Or why do you think Beyonce sang that beauty hurts?” “I’m not talking about beauty. Rather I mean responsibility. Bad hair must surely birth a bad day. Look, I hate seeing my wife without her hair done or at least covered. I blame it on Medusa. Should have never seen that movie, T he Clash of the Titans .” “Hahaha, that’s just cracking! Now you blame your sick theory on a movie? Buddy, your wife must be tolerating a whole lot of shit from you. Cut her some slack and leave her hair alone. If you continue shaving yours all the time, you’d be bald before you’re even 40, man.” I’ve been thinking. A thousand tongues there would be if our hair could talk. Imagine, a million heads would have a zillion tongues and more! The ...
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MAKEOVER

  When she realized her hair was gone, the barber had increased the volume of his radio and India Arie’s ‘I am not my hair’ filled the room. ‘If I can manage the situation like a professional, my construction contract with her father will hold tomorrow,’ I thought. I breathe in and out, a logic that never works for me, but I do it anyway. I rehearse my words, changing each sound to a softer version of the previous one - aligning my looks to the words so that my eyes become half closed and there is a faint smile on my face. I wait for the explosion. All the while, the barber is busy touching what is left on her head with his clipper. He says it is the final addition and calls it the moon look. He fumbles with the chair, turning Stella from left to right like a child’s play. The large mirror in front of us escalates the mishap and the fumes on my girlfriend’s face seem to be burning the white walls. It was meant to be a makeover since her 25 th birthday was the next day. Now it...
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MORALITY IN TRANSIT

It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
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