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.

Poets are liars too

Not a personal letter

Dear darling Bunmi,

            Hope you still are as beautiful as my lips told you

When I last kissed your dutiful cheek in June?

This was never meant to be a de-mobilisation letter, as such..

It, in short, is just a fare-thee-well-ation letter.

I promised to speak only non-untruths from now on..

So, I should say that when my lips told you I loved you

While looking tenderly into your honey-brown eyes

Whilst the twittering birds twittered at dawn..

I would say is my bestest poetic performance-

I guess we could call it a paradox.

Darling (can I still call you darling?),

You were pretty (irony);

Cutely plumpy (at least, not dumply);

Sweet, too (at least, I’m not sighing);

And your smile..oh, your smile(your best asset, if ever best means worst)

At dawn reminds me of, yes, a cute, little poodle vetless with bad-breath.

Understand this, I still do love you-

Why else do you think I’m writing this-

I love you like loving you not can only just be the best thing

Better than loving you.

Do you get it? That’s the depth of this love I have for you.

Your trust in me was not misplaced

During our bouts at my place.

It, obviously, as you can see now

Is safely stowed on my blog

For my pals to see and ogle

For that’s what you are worth…

Something beautiful..to be fought over;

Salivated over but

Left at a safe distance.

You, darling, should be placed on a pedestal.

I did you wrong.. bought you stuff..

I just want to let you know, darling,

That in as much as this love we swam in

Transcends trenches in the oceans.. 

DO NOT GET CARRIED AWAY IN THE CESSPOOLS

And fast spinning currents of heady, titanic love for ..

POETS ARE LIARS TOO.