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 its 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 it’s waves,
Like a flood is in it’s wake;
A tsunami
Wrecking my reasoning
Tossing caution in the wind.
Once every three months
I feel it’s heat,
Like fire and breeze
I bask in it’s 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.



The beauty in channeling,
The inflow of peace.
I made a pact with him
Now i feel divine.
Cosmic energy
The Waves of divinity
An Illusion that breeds insanity.

Then they came for me
Just me, a felon,
Reckless heavenly hosts!
What an army!
Propelled by love they said.
Darkness and light,
I’m never alone,
I’m followed.

(Inspired by “Piercing the darkness” by Frank Peretti)

Let’s Do 8thMile Again

Last week i swam in love, love so deep i came alive.
Oka autonomous community in Isiala Mbano Imo state was where 8th mile held.
On reaching the residence for volunteers i was in awe, prior to that i envisioned that since we were going to a village, we would probably get to sleep in a “village looking” house or community hall (like we always did on geological field trips), we didn’t.

I remember the cool Doctors i met on my way to the village; the begining of an amazing friendship.
Throughout the love-outreach, i was a Doctor, 😎


Okay, fine i served with the Vitals team. I felt like a Doctor, i mean i got to check blood sugar, BP. The name “Dr” got dropped on me here and there by the locals so i picked it up. 😎

Love was in the air, love so thick i could cut it if i tried.

From the laughter that sprinted from a local’s mouth when Joy said; “Ba Igbo” to a woman who kept speaking Igbo to her to Nono helping a woman walk towards a Doctor.

I saw wonder mixed with contentment in the smile of some of the local’s when they got treated and issued glasses, it was as though they saw the world for the very first time.
I remember loving the patience in Dr Ogo’s eyes, readily listening and the humor in Dr Ada’s eyes ready to burst with laughter, the fire in Dr Williams eyes ready to set diseases ablaze, the compassion in Dr Emma’s eyes, spelling hope.
I remember trying to fill a form for a 78years old man and i asked if he was married, he started laughing and kept laughing telling me it was impossible for a 78yrs old man to be single.
I can still feel the joy that poured in with testimonies from young folks in the school stepping forward and making Jesus their all.
It was a total love experience for me, everything seemed to fit, every step generated the next like organs relating in unison from my roommates, three to be precise ( A talker, a gist partner and an untroubled water) to the rest of the volunteers, different characters coming together to spread love.

8th mile was like a solved puzzle, each act leading to another act of love.

Let’s do 8thMile again for that woman who dropped her brokenness and sorrows at the feet of Jesus, i tell you there are more like her.
Let’s do 8thMile again for the kids that got drugs,

Let’s do 8thMile again for the 786 persons that were treated,

Let’s do 8thMile again for the 544 people that made Jesus their all.

Let’s do 8th again,


let’s do 8thMile again.

*( The YWAP (Youth With A Purpose) 8th Mile Project is built on the foundation of practical love of Jesus Christ in Matthew 25:35-36. We make available tokens of free medical, surgical care and welfare relief materials for residents in rural areas as well as urban slums in Nigeria and Africa. )