baby sis

For my little sis, Uche, on her birthday who probably won’t understand this

Let no man or god
dare me. For for you I live,
eat this foul air, breathe


your blisters, my sore
let me act the whore
take it in the butt
from this world of
fumey, wispy smoke and lying mirrors

leave it be . . .

please, leave it be, darling
for it’s for you, I’m living
stooped to pick my bleeding
head from beneath the guillotine.
Headless, head in hand, darling . . .

like a haunting spectre
I traipse rooms and rules, somber
hid my nitrogycerine, saltpetre*
act like I’m a respecter
of genial religio-political mind vandals

let it be . . .
just for you
let it be
*saltpetre- potaaium nitrate, material used in explosives

My head's JISting

Scatter me
gently
real gently,
baby

Random

I. Am. Tired.
Like. GrandDa's
rickety,
wobbly
Methuselah'ed
bicycle

Eff Good Intentions; Grow a conscience

The poor shall always be with you

Good intentions paid the bills last year.
Now I’m paying my debt.
It’s the truth.

The last time I did a good deed was last year
Now, I’m paying the price
It’s the truth

Bukky told me I thought too much
No wonder I stayed a virgin for so long
It’s the truth

I think better than most legislators
You do too. Let’s be candid.
It’s the truth

Like our political bizmen, I’ve never told the truth
I’m telling the truth now. Don’t giggle
It’s the truth

Our truths tire me now
They are in annoying versions like Microsoft Windows

Forgive the word I shall use next but
F**k truth,
Doesn’t it hurt your gut
when a dude with a B.Sced tie and
a suit of almost good English
pleads you for a note in naira, 20?

PS- GROW A CONSCIENCE

With books in my skull
I thought I knew
And understood

I saw Him.
No, Him and thin Him
And understood I never understood.

What does he see with his face to the Sun?
Does he see light like leaves,
in harmattan, hovering and falling to the floors?
Or, does he see light as nothing but
dripping black ink?

When he hears me speak with my baritone
thick like flood crashing down a waterfall,
does he think me well-fed like a Senator’s belly
or, does he see me for what I am-
frustrated, yet testosteroned;
insecure, but cackling;
broom thin with an Adam’s apple
the size of a baby’s head.
Does he see that?

What does he see?
What does he think?
Does he fantasize as I do
about supple, sleekly glossed lips?
Does he see jeaned, feminine bums with his ears
as they scratch-scratch their way in synchrony with their swinging gait?

Do blind men have wet dreams?
They do? What do they SEE when their volcano exudes?-
Dark, doughy, rotund thighs or
Clinking, clanking coins falling into his bowl in staccato?

Photo by a Nikon guru, Rauf Ayodeji Adeleke)

I am not Nigerian

I am not Nigerian,a dot on Europe's drawn map. My heart is. It is, because It represents the learned confusion of the Old, the corrupt survival of Mid-age and the frustrated promise of the young. That is who I am. That is whom my friends are. That is whom my siblings are.
Mish-mashed symbols of what the truth is. 'Truth is truth', I once was told. Sango is evil and the blonde man's God is good, is the truth the Brits told. I know now, 'Power is truth'; 'Money is respect'. Seek ye first the naira in bundles and every other thing shall be added unto thee. Yes, lips to kiss your butt; tongues to sing your praise; bowing heads and award plaques.
I am Nigerian,not as a member of a geographical entity but because my heart is. Because my heart has been taught pessimism and hope on the same side of the coin. My heart is so Nigerian that even when nothing works, I still support the Super Eagles. That's som'n, innit?

A Correlation between our Safety and Gay Marriage

I am,right now,too broke to buy internet access.I had to steal a lil cash from my aunt to do this.I hope you understand.
Are you aware that I wrote an article of sorts,last month on ds blog,about the Nigerian government. I am writing now about the fact that the executive and legislative arms of government despite being very prostitutious consumers of a prodigious amount of our precious semen,sorry,funds are really not,um...let me be candid...are not efficient, on average.
Think about this. There's been no clamour by any gay rights group for their right to a civil union.I know nothing about any gay rights group in Nigeria.If you do let me know.Parents on the streets are scared for their children.No one wants their schooling offsprings blown to smithereens.
And yet,all our dear Senators av to offer us,in this dire times,from their posh,plush seats in Abuja is d fact that they wd not endorse gay marriage.

Damien Gray by Mohammed AngelPoet Jide

DAMIEN GRAY
My life is a series of spiral loops, it
has no beginning………no end…..
and so I shall start from the
middle with which I believe would
make the most sense.
My name as you might have
guessed is Damien Gray. Not
unlike the legendary Dorian Gray
who sought to capture
immortality within his portrait.
I too once sought immortality as a
boy, amongst other foolish
dreams of a young lad born into a
world of cruelty.
Perhaps in another life I had been
a poet, for at lonely nights I find
myself longing for the sea; the
parallel lines of the perfect
horizon, the calmness of the black
waters as they
rise………….fall,,,,,,,,,,,,,rise,,,,,,,,,,,,,,fall
…..like the summer haven of the
golden age. Like the swiftness of
the strays of my thoughts and
dreams…………………
And oh! How much I love the
setting sun; the piercing red
shards of the golden Elysium, the
way it dies behind the gentle
horizon, like a beauty queen
hiding behind the veils of a
curtain………. Oh! How much I love
the setting sun…… I wished it was
mine and so it was.
I have schizophrenia or that is
what the doctors say, but there is
far more to my story than just a
tale of a paranoid delusional
doubled personality freak…..
I see people as they are and as
they are no more. In short I see
death…….pale bloodied
doppelgangers of men women
and children………they are lifeless,
soulless, putrid………….i alone see
them, I alone feel them and I
alone am terrified by them.
I first discovered my ‘gift ’when
beautiful Emma, my darling wife
whom I loved dearly even now in
death, departed this world to
reside into the pages of
oblivion………….
I saw Emma’s corpse two days
before she died, not in a dream,
not in a nightmare, but with my
waking eyes. The deceased Emma
loomed in our house, following
Emma everywhere she went like
an obedient dog refusing to
depart the sides of its master; the
cadaver’s neck had been slit, it’s
skull had been bashed, and its
hair had been lank…….. like the
winter leaves of the cedar tree
fallen by time.
It smelled, and with its
hideousness, it brought it
hopelessness……….
Two days later, my ears were
tongued the news that would
forever shatter my soul. My dear
Emma had been found dead by
the lake. Her skull had been
bashed, her throat slit………..
Murdered by an unknown
assailant.
Five years later, through misery
and pain, as I slowly accepted the
curse with which the gods had
seemed fit to punish me, I began
to realize my fate; I was destined
to walk the earth a man………
broken, hopeless………ever seeing
death, never to be believed.
On these warm pages, I bleed my
heart out for Mr. McKenzie, his
beautiful wife laurianne, and their
little Tobias………. Had they headed
my warning they might not have
been burnt to death in their little
cottage at the far edges of the
mountains. And oh! Mr. Gruber
would not impaled by the blades
of his sword. My heart weeps for
Victoria, Keith, Rufus,
Samuel……………
But now as I spill my heart with
the ink of my quill, I now realize
something I had failed to realize
so long ago; maybe these deaths,
these tragedies were fated to
happen………… maybe no amount
of pleading, threats and laments
from my part could have undone
that which had proven inevitable,
for who would believe the
gabbles of a ‘schizophrenic’?
And if so, then my fate is
sealed……………………………
Today is the 14th of May 1914
and I sit in this dark room with
nothing to occupy me with but
my thoughts…………. I let my
dreams, euphoria and exuberance
fill in the ambience of the
deserted room until the footsteps
of the man now approaching me
from the distance diminishes
entirely………..
He moves with the shadows and
breathes with the silence…………
his dead face show subtleties of
peace I had never found in
life…………….
I say nothing as he stares at
me…………. His mundane blue eyes
show a glint of hope that I had
lost on humanity so long
ago…………..
He leaves the room.
My name is Damien Gray and
tonight, I welcome the cold hands
of……..peace. I hope my story finds
its way through time and I hope
that when it does, I shall be
remembered…………. Not as a
prophet, or a supernatural being
of any sort but as a man………
flawed……… a man whose dreams
however maimed, however
diminished, still pumped along
with his beating heart……………..
his dreams to walk the waters
soar the clouds…………… his
dreams to fall in love.
Perhaps my spirit shall find solace
in the warmth of the sun which I
had desired to cleave on to for so
long…………….oh! how much I
loved the beauty of the sun, I
wished it was mine and so it
was…………… and so it was.

It doesn't cost a thing

(A gorgeous child tries to sell me
gum at a traffic light)
Red!
I have 15 seconds to watch you:
15
your brown eyes
cry stories
14
your brown eyes
fake stories
13
you.are.ignored.
you.give.up.
12
your butt cheeks kiss the tumbac
pavement
kiss it good, hard with
frustration
11
you look down to the dry maps
of your sole
scrape them off the atlas that
carries you
10
scrape
9
scrape
8
scrape
7
brown flakes surround your feet
dry flakes surround your feet
6
you lock eyes with me
you dart towards me
5
swooshing, swishing
brown, dry flakes in the air
4
you’ve done this so many times
your feet don’t hurt
3
knock, knock
gum? only one pound!
2
I smile
because you don’t know I think
chewing gum is stupid
1
I smile
because your brown eyes force
me to.
Green!
I have 8 seconds before you
disappear:
1
I squirm
because the beep, beep, beep is
deafening me
2
I cry
because I want to hug your cries
even if they’re lies
3
I scan my side mirror,
rear view mirror
4
I can’t find you
5
damn you, blind spot
let me see the child
6
there! there you are
I find you
7
I smile
you smile
8
it doesn’t cost a thing.

A Year in Paradise by Desiree Craig

As we drove past the
Orphanage, I smiled. It wasn’t a
happy smile, neither sad, simply
nostalgic. I could never pass an
Orphanage without
remembering. The bus driver
slowed down for a speed bump
and I got a clearer look. Through
the metal bars of the gate, I could
see children playing. A few boys
were playing ‘three-aside soccer’
with a tattered ball; some girls
had gathered together, by the
look of things they were listening
with rapt attention to a girl of
about eight, as she gesticulated,
no doubt telling them an
incredulous story. The others
were preoccupied with climbing
the mango tree or riding the
shiny red bicycle; most probably
a recent donation. I shuddered
as my heart filled with emotion I
didn’t realise I still carried. That
feeling of depending on
strangers for sustenance was
not one I’d wish on anybody.
Deep down, I still felt the same
fear I’d felt that fateful morning.
Tears welled up in my eyes and I
feigned tiredness. A quick yawn
should dispel anyone’s
suspicions. As the bus moved
along leaving the orphanage
behind it seemed as though the
hurt, pain and fear were also
being left behind. I took a deep
breath as I settled in my seat
more comfortably, with the
resolve to enjoy the bus ride, as
much as anyone can possibly
enjoy a commercial one; and for
the first time in decades, I cast
my mind back to that dreadful
morning.
*******
“David, David, wake up!”
I heard my brother’s half-
frantic whisper. In my half-sleepy
state I was still deciding on
whether to give him a knock on
the head or a slap when the next
words cleared any vestige of
sleep from my eyes.
“There are strange men in
the house!”
I jerked up immediately,
shoving him aside. Part of me
was mortified. I was the “man”
of the house yet it took my
younger brother to let me know
we had not just strangers but
male strangers in the house.
Since I had no Father the onus of
defending our family fell on me.
Whether my Mother was a
divorcee, a widower or an
‘outside wife’ I had no idea. The
kind of environment I was born
in did not leave room for being
inquisitive, most especially about
‘such issues’. I walked to the
sitting room of our room-and-
parlour apartment and there I
saw a sight I would never forget.
My mother still in her wrapper
and faded t-shirt, on her knees,
crying silently as she rubbed her
palms together in a manner not
unlike African women, begging
the two ‘thugs’ in the room.
Transfixed by fear and
embarrassment I watched as one
by one, the thugs threw our
meagre belongings out of our
house.
My Mother’s pleading
didn’t help, even the tear-stained
faces of Ayo and I did nothing to
move the thugs. The Landlord’s
orders were clear. Our rent was
six months overdue and he was
tired of hearing
‘tomorrow….tomorrow’. By
afternoon Ayo and I had stacked
our property in a corner of a
sympathetic neighbour’s
compound.
“I’ll find a way” Mother
said as she got ready to leave in
a quest to find a solution. We
waited for her for hours, feeling
the hostile glares of the gardener
and the house-help as they went
around their errands. Didn’t they
know we weren’t interested in
usurping them? They could keep
their filthy jobs! By evening,
Mother returned looking five
years older. Tears filled my eyes.
She waved to us and went
straight to the main house to see
“Oga”. A few minutes later she
came out with a weary smile, the
best she could muster I was
certain. Holding each our hands
she said confidently:
“You’re going to
Paradise.” She gave us a look that
said ‘no questions allowed’ and
we followed her obediently, like
lambs to the slaughter. Soon
enough we were at ‘Paradise’,
literally. It was a recently opened
orphanage with air-conditioning,
toys and even a bus to take the
children to school. There was
also the option for parents who
couldn’t take care of their
children to leave them and visit
once a week. This, Mother did for
a year. It was only years later,
when I was graduating from
University that she decided to
open up as to what she did
during that year. She had taken
the job I had despised and
offered her services to all as a
“House help”.

Left Alone by Farinde Fabs Obafemi

Left alone
It feels just lyk yesterday
When I was but
A chubby naughty little baby
In the arms of busty bra-less aunt
Ngozi
I some times wonder
why Mama's face always folded
with frowns
She would cradle me to sleep
Singing slurry soulful lullabies
As I watched her lovely lips
Breaking into sparkling smiles
Cherry kisses and lavender hugs
Through half open lids
Memories still linger
Of waves and heart gladdening
breeze
From noons and eves
Spent at the beach
before the clutch of death
took her with the sands
I remember,
Papa would hold me
Swing me,
Till this young butterfly believed
he belonged with the birds
In his arms I could fly
But he was too busy
Paper and ink, ties and bonds
Mama's Egusi started getting cold
Night after night, her bed wet
with regret
Day after day
Then these theatrical set of men
All claiming to be 'Uncle
Acting nice when I walk in
With their hands on Mama's chest
lipsticks smeared on their white
shirts
Trousers swollen
as though they had batons
hidden in them
Dancing dangerous and wicked
On Papa's bed
Making Mama cry
For they bent her in awkward
positions
A dance of shame
I tried to tell Papa
But his ears were distant
Distorted and different
Like the lies of the perfumes
That clung to his skin every time I
hugged him at midnight......
Now they barely even speak
I feel lyk a bird who has lost its
beak
Winglessly hoping for sunshine
And wind to bring back
Aunt Ngozi and the love we once
shared

Polygamy, my therapy

bloodywrits.blogspot.com

another speakable excerpt from something trashy

Woman, I want to love you

Love you in ways, more than one

Love you in ways, less than a million

Love you in ways, one-tenth of a zillion

Love you in ways, in length, Amazonian

Love you in ways, in breadth, Sino-Russian

Love you in ways that leave you stuttering

Love you in ways that leave your lips lisping, lapping, listening, sipping

From this great gourd of liquid, lilting, lily-white loving

I want to love you

          Like a fool loves foolery

          Like women love finery

          Like ARISI* loves men’s blood

          Like the chicken’s love for the grain

          Like me, dying, without veins

          Like the Rift valley and earthquakes

          Like celebrities and sunshades

          Like our politicians and rape (of us)

That’s what my loving is

Me, singing you this . . . this . . .

Lady, mine, your eyes can clearly see

That my love, enough for us, drowns the seas

Fells the Rockies; bathes the Pyrenees;

Rides the Alps; tears the Himalayas in teeny halves

My love lasts long

And I  survive when you say no

I survive even when my alveoli

Collapses and pleads my lungs

And nostrils for more air . . .

For just a yes . . . for just a yes . . .for just a yes

I survive for my leucocytes are polygamous

I survive for polygamy resides in my marrows and femurs

There, love for my mother’s slowly deflating paps

There, love for everything scribbled down by hell on pads

There, love for the experience garnered by thighs and thighs of older women

There, love for ephemerals- highs, highs and highs that my money can’t buy yet

There, love for follicles, skin pores and downs on skin of corrupt of forever 18s

There, tears, tears and tears I would never cry, forced into this pen

infused with tannins and lali*, crying on these sheets

what my lachrymals would never do . . . never do . . . will never do.

P.S- Polygamy, my therapy, my vaccine

Forgotten

bloodywrits.blogspot.com

an excerpt, to be spoken, from something trashy

Someone called me a genius once.

She lied, I think she meant my tongue.

Another called me a boring bookworm

She knew nothing: I read the reviews,

pick up books, skip to the coital scenes

I re-read these scenes until pages innumberable

are etched in rolls of vellums in my memory

Now when I speak, my words come coital

They loiter in the air just outside my labia-

majora …injuring my friends,

my selfish friends who know I

am ‘selfisher’ and stink of 3

day old, low class members of the fish club-

sawa*.

That is not all.

My mind is a see-saw.

I see, I saw, I wonder . . .my momma

came, she bore, I sauntered

out into a field of mostly scorched, brown

grass

some go from grass to grace

I just hobble and trek from one paddock of scrapes

to another where pleasure tastes like hot brine

and the hurts, pain and rejection make me smile

chai! The clock chimes into my glass-

cup in ticks and tocks

it’s half-full, there’s no time to waste

If, perchance, I die with my spectacles on the bridge of my nose

without making you, babe, score a big O;

without scribbling into your eyes and mind words , profound;

without making worthwhile the acre-wide frowns

you for my sake, sometimes, bear

          I shall be that silly dude

who has sex, miaow, on his mind when he sees a nun;

who reneges tax, steals from the government and gives a tenth to God;

who, depressive, thinks suicide is stupid but bought a magnum;

who sneers at magic, gifts it his middle finger but feeds his leprechaun . . .

          just for the gold

 I shall be just that silly dude

who speaks and writes these monophthongs and syllables with

molecules from glands and gentian dye that you see on your monitor

grin at . . .and you forget

I just might be that silly dude

who your minds, ganglia and brains refuses

to embrace . . .forgotten

*Sawa- pronounced sha-wa in yoruba, a fish I truthfully am piscist about.

I saw beauty

bloodywrits.blogspot.com

for Ajet Nurdin Adewale and Anastasia Ajetunmobi who just taught me what beauty means by the birth of their son

I

teach me again, Sire, what beauty means.

I earned, learned the lessons, passed the tests

but the beauty you taught me left

and the markings, smiles it carved

on my features are no more

denuded, eroded  by

my calumny and irresponsibilities.

I stand 6 feet tall

and now see beauty in the most ephemeral-

cleaved, winking busts; crookedly smiling butts

belly-buttons, pierced, peeping, mischievously, from below tank-tops.

I still see wrong though my eyes are spectacled.

II

I saw his picture on my wall

and my eyes spoke tears while I stared

at this beauty in a shawl grown from

          a single pollen planted in a loving soil-

I can see him now, a sweet smelling rose bush smiling from his cot.

I know what this beauty is.

Copycats or Imaginationless?

When Isaac Newton, the English mathematician and physicist, made the statement,' if I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants', he was referring to men like Robert Hooke who, if you did not play truant you should know, made scientific discoveries, was an architect slash engineer of note in his time. World famous Isaac Newton did not hesitate to acknowledge the fact that he was not, totally, original . . . and yet published his own uniquely flavoured findings.
My country stands on the shoulders of giants- hypocritical, self-serving, wobbling giants. I am not here to rail against such issues as the so-called negative effect of 'western' culture and mores on the material aspect of our society. No, I could care less, at the moment.
A government governing without understanding or wanting to understand that it has to don a thinking cap, to make provisions for 'it's' own ambient and unique socio-economic topography, when adopting a foreign or exo-nationally-generated scheme slash programme is, unarguably, not one any-sane-body would call wise or smart, I think.
Not to distract from whatever points I would bring up, I will make my points as linear as possible, neglecting to cite such issues as diversion of funds for developmental schemes into full, private pockets or diversion of such funds into private pockets(sic).
The National Youth Service programme is a point to note. I would point out no merits or demerits. Let the dead Youth Corpers, victims of the 2011 elections, be the only biased evidence of this programme, roughly xeroxed from the Israelis.
The NHIS is one of such cloned programmes, mimicking the failing British NHS. It was amusing to note that proponents of NHIS, conveniently, did not bother to relay the funding problems the Brits were grappling with while vigorously shoving it into our throats with its supposed advantages. My head cannot but shake in wonder each time adverts come up on national TV keeping alive the charade of a dysfunctional and non-functional transplanted scheme.
You just can't but cover your face in shame when your country's domestic and foreign policy isn't clear-cut, a leaf buffeted by changing winds, dependent on the G-8's sneeze and whim. Isn't it wonderful? Endorsing rebels in a country, infringing on their sovereignty, when back in the 60s our dear country declared war on 'its' own citizens in the name of unity. 'Its' own citizens that it refused to succour when they sought protection from their own cannibalistic nationals in genocide, pre- and post-Aburi. Why would a government 'for the people by the people(?)' recognise rebels in Libya who were responsible for the death of Nigerians?
Oh, I remember now. The US and the Occidental bruvs after carousing, partying, patting and tickling Gadaffi's puffed, rotund butt have decided he is not democratic enough to attend their parties and eat from their platters of hors d'oeveur. My government without a mind of 'its' own lip syncs as usual.
Since 'it' has decided to give legitimacy to Libya's rebels, I guess 'it' is high time 'it' gave 'its' own separationist groups- MASSOB and, maybe, MEND- leeway for the fulfilment of their aspirations, a separate existence. Abi?

We shall smile tho we cry

bloodywrits.blogspot.com

for a friend, her family, her DAD and my AUNT

For seeds to rise, they die,

I’m told

For good to come, sometimes,

the bad unfolds

I am told

Why do babies,

those chubby, giggling, pudgy,

sweet, little things,

die?

I wonder . . . I have wondered

Now my thoughts wander

In circles of seamy, sartorial stitches . . .

I wander, wonder clothed in all the seeming philosophical reasons

postulated by man . . .

          for why the prettiest of blooming flowers wither;

          for why my love for my wow friend has gone sour, bitter;

          for why the Magi divorce Reason when it comes to sex;

          for why the genius in his ingenuity never gets heard

                   by the rich

                             moron.

Still wandering, wondering . . .

 Philosophy and the holy books have made no difference;

I shall weep anyway . . .

PS- Tears spilled in remembrance of smiles

          And times we dined, wined, loved, loved and loved

We still shall love and smile.

My Suicide Note

I know bridges, links of destruction to insanity- ‘Seun Ige.

Dear everybody,

          This would be the last time any of you would hear from me. And since it is going to be the last, I feel I have to make a few things clear before taking my life as it is. I will in the process try as much as possible not to give you any gory detail about how my life sucks.

          Since taking your life or murdering yourself, as the case may be, is a personal decision, I will try as I humanly can to not make suicide an attractive option for as many of you as are or that would go through what I, personally, am encased and trapped in.

          Life or fate is not to blame for this decision I am making. It is a decision I am making with my faculties intact. Those around me can testify to that. I just concluded a very intellectual discussion with a friend, I guess that should tell you that I still am in control of my reasoning and decision-making facilities. Life is not to blame. I just can’t go on living the way I am.

          I have too much questions with no answers. I am bored of this whole charade of living held down by shackles of what is expected of me by a hypocritical society-YOU. I was told the GOOD are rewarded while the BAD are punished. I was lied to, obviously. The ‘bad’ have everything I don’t have-money, sex, women and fame. I, still, am here, a voice, screaming to be heard amidst the noisy din of a punk rock gig. No one listens.

Is this what living is supposed to be? Sleeping, waking, walking, wooing, rebuffed, writing, condemned, reading, speaking, typing, hoping, hoping and hoping? Is this what it is? Chatting, flirting, seeking, searching, texting, tweeting, trusting, thrusting, writing, hoping, hoping? Too much unanswered questions-

·        Is there a God?

·        Why do babies die?

·        Why do little pre-pubescent girls, who have done no wrong, get raped and killed?

·        Why am I thinking of murdering me?

·        Why do the bad get all the good?

·        Is there a heaven or hell?

·        Would I be allowed into any of them were I to kill myself?

·        If there is no hell, was it concocted to keep us good? (If yes, it hasn’t done its job?)

·        Why can’t I say what I think without being looked at as weird?

·        Why can’t I express my desire for sex without being told, ‘oh that’s crude!’ by those who do the do?

·        Is suicide a crime?

·        Where do manic depressive women go when they commit suicide? Heaven, hell or somewhere in between?

·        Are Alzheimer patients rewarded for good and evil deeds performed when they lose their memories?

·        Why do people never listen?

·        Why do people never learn?

·        Why are people so ignorant and easily deceived?

I can’t go on anymore. It ends in 15 minutes. Just in case I told you I loved you when I lived, I lied, I wanted something else (dead men don’t lie, you know?). I am not sorry I’m doing this (you should heave a sigh of relief with me gone. At least you won’t have to shake your head and say, ‘Rolands! You can never change’ when I do the me). I am only sorry I’ll be leaving without paying some of the debts I owe-money, kisses, bottles of beer, favours and sex.

                                                                                                Bye,

Rolands.

PS- I hate candle light processions, RIP facebook pages and a host of other ish.

NB: my laptop I leave to my brother, Venatus, let him do what he wants with its content; my books, the ones on varying topics should be given out; my handwritten poems and short stories should be burnt (My handwriting is bad, anyways).

Enjoy your eternal Robben Island!

Does God understand infantile brains?

for the suicide bomber of the UN house and his cohorts

I was fed my first taste of love

from mother’s breast . . .

I sucked, maybe, a tad greedily;

I nipped her pitted nipples, hurting her, with gums

that shouldn’t have known wrong . . .

I was innocent (?)

I should have been innocent.

I was not alone.

Men with brains like mine

still breathe, thumb in mouth;

Remote control in hand

detonating mines and minds . . .

. . . leaving us bloodied, in pieces, smithereens.

Does God understand these infantile brains?

Movies, Hollywood and the Middle East

Dead men, resurrected, walking-Hollywood. . .

Shooting hits to my veins via eyes, mine, through the tube. . .

High, I do not see the graffiti of gloom grimed

On the walls. I am a

Whorled flower in bud

Unfurling . . . unfurling.

Adolescents need exercise, calories and

Protein to grow good heads. I

Get my exercise, no coins

To taxi with, I

Trudged 2 miles home with

My wheels, my feet.

I get my Daily Requirement of

Necessaries from garri*, my protein

From Nicole Kidman’s ever

Changing bust line and her

Moans in falsetto. Her moans

Like oxygen giving me

Wings to escape deprecating

Stares of girls my

Age.

There are newer movies

Now. Away from Hollywood. Villains

REALer than the prints

On my palms, my fingers. Villains

Painted with extra horns to elicit the

Wrath of us, the world.

            Teach me democracy. Is

It fiction dramatized to

Exaggerate the wrongs of

Men I should not like?

Arise and applaud the new industry. . .

Painters of lips where eyes should be.

Cc: CNN, Al Jazeera, France24, BBC

*garri-for Nigerians, processed cassava that could be a meal or a snack. A problem exists when you snack on it so much that it becomes a meal.