Parable! Parable!
Sow on fertile it says,
But Desert I see.
Can I say more?
Can I harvest here?

Quick sand! Quick sand!
Dynamite?Who cares!
I do sometimes no pretence,
But listen child, even in an arid Desert
Oasis exist.




“I always search for the Hope in seemingly Hopeless situations however hard,
Often times i find it,
More times than not.”





Silence kills?
Kills the negative I would say.
Flip the rug and let them in,
Intense as it may be.
Breathe in;Leave it
You would live after it
I promise.

Why does West sway
When North breathes East I asked
Pressure I would say,
We connect by a thread.
So, keep in check the itch
You would be glad you did.
Believe me.



This poem is about shutting up.

Sometimes it’s okay to shut up and let wisdom guide you.

I used the analogy of the north easterly wind and how It affects the west because of the pressure it generates when it goes clock wise(high) or counter-clock wise(low).

Everyone and everything is connected.
So think of the consequences of your words before you say them.
Be guided.”

The Fourth in the Fire.

You are about me
Like vast vegetation surrounds a mountain,
Your love envelopes me like clouds envelopes Karshi hills.
I am engulfed but not scorched,
With barefoot I draw near.
I am diving in,
At the end is where it starts,
From death was where life sprang,
I perish? I perish.
But like always
You send the fourth in;
You are the fourth,
The fourth in the fire.


(Karshi is a district in Abuja with amazing sceneries )

To Father.

When life’s pendulum lingers near
With it’s churning waves rattling my sail,
It’s thorn and edges
Scaring my view,
When my compass fail
And I lose sight of the shore.
Show me thy star,
Be my guide.

When my sun loses heat
And photosynthesis deems me unfit,
When my eyes grow dim
And I lose sight of my dreams,
When my steps fail me
And my fear becomes king.
Put my feet in the Jordan
Propel me with thy wind.

When I lose my ropes
And my sanity flees,
When expectations mock me
And I lose my place,
When my world becomes crazy.
Be my rehab in view
Help me know you to be true.

When the love I cooked comes undone,
And its taste sprouts bile from my very form,
When my fear truncates my strength
And from the cup of shame I drink,
When my ruder betrays me
And in the sea of doubt I drown.
Show me thy light,
Show me hope.

Dear Father,
Be my guide.


Inspired by John Keats’ Poem (To Hope)

Where I come from


(Sometimes when a child is born, they say a relation has come back or they just name the child after a relation that once was.

Remember that time when Zechariah and Elisabeth said their child would be named John (The Baptist) and people around kept telling them that it wasn’t meant to be so since they had no John among their kins.

So this thing is everywhere. )

Where I come from.
I am from that part of Africa where ancestors come back from time to time;
Where children may be parents and parents parents parent;
Where Iyabo’s, Tatyum’s, Kayum’s, Nnanna’s and Enem’s reign.
Sometimes they come bearing their names so they are never forgotten, like Onma, my Mother’s Mother.
Gender is not a thing; my sister is my Mother’s Father.

From where I come from,
I am my Father’s Mother,
My Mother’s Mother
And sometimes her husband.
I am them, they are me.
We would never be forgotten. .


Becoming a Be

A daily grind, a daily push
Go lower, shovel in, twist and turn
Hurry up, the seasons turn
Dress up, feign the fun,
Fake till you blend,

To be is all that matters.

Theater one or two?
We choose the best to prove.
All actors on stage,
Do till you outdo,
At the end it’s just a play,

But, among is all you require.


Umbrellas? Not for my Mum.

Umbrellas were never meant for my mum.

For as long as I can remember if she took them out, they never followed her back home.

Last Tuesday I left Aunty Fola’s place at Asokoro with four (4) umbrellas my mum left there on previous visits. Aunty Fola sold baking things and she was my mums go to person whenever she needed stuff like that.
The thing is, my mum isn’t a fan of the Sun, so even in dry seasons she had one in the back seat.

In Makurdi, just hug the umbrellas goodbye.

I remember umbrella appearing on our monthly family list like it was a family member ;
1)For Queen
2) For Christy
3) For Umbrella,

but we still lacked umbrellas.
I think it was an eternal decree, “Umbrella out, umbrella lost”.

Umbrellas were never meant for my Mum.


A weakness

I have a weakness for writers,
They breathe life into words,
Capturing moments, fueling your wants
Leaving you in awe
As you lay, panting for more.

I have a weakness for photographers too,
They make time stand still
And hold a million stories in their frame,
They unveil histories
And give memory a face.

I have a weakness for musicians,
Like the Theoi Mousikoi
They weave their mystical web
Into the very core of you
Leaving you open and undone
As you sway to the rhythm of their enchantment.

I have a weakness for them all.


Dark September

It was a September, a normal September evening like any other, the kids were back from school and parents were back from work, dinner was in process, stories were rolling with loud laughters filling the air. It was a September where life was going well with no sign of impending doom. So when the news of how the plane plunged into the lagoon hit them, they were not ready for it. It came like a hurricane with a tsunami in its wake, it raised up and brought down, it happened so fast that they had little time to catch their breath. You see, mama was barely 14 when she married papa and she started having kids right away, it is said that papa pampered her so much that his brothers kept saying he was spoiling her, all mama knew how to be was a wife and a mother and that was okay for her.
It became a noisy September, with the house full of a thousand gloomy faced relations with anty Numa and grandma begging mama to cry and let out the pain, it was certain that life just went downhill, the wailing from next door reenforced the truth, they had been beaten, all the women on that block in the cantonment; 7 to the left, 9 to the right and 17 down the lane.
It was a bloody September, that Hercules plunged into the lagoon not just with their husbands but also with their hopes and dreams; it was a hopeless September. I heard mama Jane from the 5th house went “loco”, she tore from her house to the bush, soldiers had to run after her to contain her. As mama sat there numb, gazing into space I bet she saw her future with 5 kids to care for and one on the way, it was evident that this was just the beginning of the dark years to come.
It was a dark September.

In memory of the Hercules guys, our unsung heroes.

Once every three months

Once every three months
I feel its waves,
Like a flood is in its wake;
A tsunami
Wrecking my reasoning
Tossing caution to the wind.

Once every three months
I feel its heat,
Like fire and breeze
I bask in its Sun.
My senses renew speed,
Colours seem more coloured
As I become antigravity.

Once every three months
I come alive
Like a chandelier I cast light,
I hit the eureka at every turn
I could run a marathon on and on.

Once every three months
I fall in love
And I love how the Grammy feels.


My dear Wordsmith
Break this barrier of silence,
Let your utterance spring life.
Tell me our story,
The future your mind creates,
The mysteries we would unravel,
Lands that would make Columbus marvel.
Tell me about touches;
Touches that untangles answers
And awakens ambers,
Moments that unveils clarity
And dispels obscurity.
My dear Wordsmith,
Put an end to this curse your silence brings.



Have you seen your child?
She stands stranded on life’s way,
Stumbling with dreams too heavy to lift
As Asclepius hides his face .

Have you seen your child?
She sits at Hygieia’s gate,
Crutched, crouched and cramping
Hoping to find her home.

Have you seen your child?
She sits and waits,
Sekhet trails this route they say.
He who tumbles in lays safe.