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.