THE RATS IN MY KITCHEN.

Rats always think of themselves as smart,

Smart they are though;

As their foolishness always fall for the traps I set.

They often take their time out to dig.

With their nose so cool to sniff,

They always locate the greener pastures,

A place to restore their soul.

The rats in my kitchen

Wants to be the cook!

Wants to eat the best!

All in their hiding.

But traces they always leave behind,

A gracious way to be noticed.

When the cat is away the rats indeed plays.

Outside, the cat patiently waits

because I don't like cat's either.

On the roof they hide, the rats way
The rat race!

Down from the roof, they climb

Cooking their favourite meal

Eating in bits as the case may be;

Making love to themselves

Giving birth to their kind.

Never to go out!

Always be mine till they die,

The rats in my kitchen!

NATIONAL HIGH FEVER.

Where should the blame start from;

Is it the head?

We all know the head is rotten without missing words.

With missing funds

Missing lands

Missing papers

All for their unborn.

What should be said of the head, headless!

How far is it from the bottom?

The bottom is worse of,

With everyone robbing one another even the blind.

Nothing is ever free; 

Even when it is said to be free,

A hand is stretched out in pride to accept a bribe

Or a delay plays an important role in the frustration already faced.

Perhaps, a lost opportunity if nothing is offered.

It is a sick feeling, a sick attitude!

And I wish we all could all have a quick recovery from this national high fever. 

#corruption #ole #nigeria #africa #world

BLACK IDENTIFIED.

Don't get fair to be noticed,

Being black is original!

With creams that make you smell like the dead;

Why kill yourself to be white?

Black is beautiful and full of life:

Of pride like the lions, we roar;

Why change it to nothing?

Though blackmailed

Blacklisted

And always in the black-maria as a black-sheep

We are still not worse than shit.

Changing from black to white never makes you white either.

We are a community of nations,

Of blood atone in the struggle.

We are a strong team, the undisputed!

The beautiful ones,

The black angels!

#blacks #africans #michaeljackson

AH! THE CAT HAS COME.

I was not told of the days when the rats ate all our food even inside the cooking pot; my eyes witnessed all!

They ate it all and we did nothing but kept our thumb.

Nothing could be done because the rats were;

They even bit beneath our feet and gently blew the breathe of fresh air. 

The rats in their wisdom knew the secret of digging:

And hiding was a gift inherent.

How to recover all, we need the snakes!

So the snakes brought in the cat.

Ah! The cat has come with the snakes as friends.

Guess what's next?

TAKE ME TO CHURCH!

Take me to church!

So that before that glorious altar, my knees;

To alter all my wrongs for long.

My mouth opens of sins untold,

Hands together

With teary eyes please don't scold.

Take me to church!

So that all the demons ni nu aye mi can cast out fast at last.

And my life like a snow, white wash!

Feed me more, the bread of life

And of you make me a glutton like Oliver.

Take me to church!

Where voices sing to thee on high, The Most High!

Of offerings, this token; accept and multiply with no slash,

O my provider!

Take me through the pages of your word

And through the mouth of your Prophet

Speak to the bleak in me to see.

Holy! Holy is your name, heaven and earth are before thee.

Searching for fun but still can't find any

Take me to church!

DEZIANI.

She can't get a slap on her wrist
Because her beauty is so defined
And her speeches, so refined.
How every man wants her to be thine
But wishes are never horses.
Her name is Deziani
And I love to call her name a thousand times.
Even if she stole let her go home whole
Like the woman Jesus saved from the stones.
I don't want to see her cry
That will make her beauty die.
Soft is this spot for her
That even the law sees the beauty in her eyes.

#deziani #nigeria #corruption #buhari #law #beauty

W O R D S.

Words, how sweet they sound

Playing in strings of blues

For it many shiver and quiver:

Hmm! See the strong go so soft for it;

Ah! I can't believe it!

The fox claim to be cunning

But words have proved the fox wrong with the tongue that speaks.

How words stammers not in doubt, No Thomas!

Hold your temper!

Like the clouds hold it ceaseless rains

Because only words can make you loose your mind

Or did you claim to be normal?

Words, how sweet they sound

Gentle, nothing else could ever do

It is a higher fun than Disney land.

How we use it everyday in the languages of men to mend and fence!

A healer words claim to be;

With several patients reviving the death of hope.

How it goes beyond the letters to create a being!

We are the spoken word!

Of it we are spoken of;

When I checked again how it plays,

It is a rough play used to burn down that market that still burns today.

How this man, that man, all men are known for it;

A lamp, A stamp! It could even be damp!

Can't just get enough of it with an open ear!

NEVER HELP A SLAVE GAIN FREEDOM!!!

South Africans should be ashamed of themselves. First, they were bullied in their own land and further relegated to a slum by the Whites, (The Apartheid Regime). The whole world cried out against this oppression which they still suffer till date; only a caricature hand over was done to Nelson Mandela but the world knows that the Black South Africans still do not have a say in their so called Republic. The beauty in that land is as a result of an oppressed marriage, that educated their naked women on the need for clothes. Finally, the humilated-oppressed (the black South Africans), now seek the blood of fellow Blacks and Freeborn, who once fought for their rights, when they had none but tears.

#shame #shameonsouthafricans #zuluking #mandela #xenophobic #racism #nigeria #cnn #amanpour

FOR ABA ROAD.

Ha ba Oga!
Why u do me like this?
I help u dis ur enemies;
Even help you arrest and rest many down to 6.
And anytime I see u,
Na so me and my boys dey stand like pole till u go.
Ha ba Oga!
Na wetin u ask wen I never do?
Transfer! I dey transfer dem far-far!
Arrange tins! I nor dey fail at all, at all;
U kw say shit nor dey beg to smell;
As u shit na so we dey pack am, sharp-sharp before dem smell am!
Now u wan make I smell out like shit wen den don flush
Shey na shit I go dey chop?
After I don kill one man for Aba road becos of u.
U say u no wan use eye see me again.
Ha ba Oga!

#ogaatthetop #obey #now

FELA.

Fela is the definition of Black struggle undefined

The metaphor of a prodigal; A Superstar!

Culturally expressive in his mother tongue, the music in his song.

Impressive in the art of music, his inner beat grows Afro.

His girls, the ileke of aye; Shake am! Shake am! Shake am! Shake am! Shake am!!

To the music of the underground spiritual game. 

The Egypt 80s, the melody, the harmony, the root; the root cannot be uprooted because the root is Fela.

Baba 70, the hard truth, Spoken!

Of our daily political menstruation, no tampons.

How the seeds of our past sins still germinates in our leaders of today!

How the prophet of Orisha saw the unbelief of our illiteracy and societal ignorance!

Speaking, he spoke, speaking out the looming problems in its endless profile defiled.

Who cares to listen shall so see the reality of the now!

Abami eda!

Basket mouth!

Water truly has no enemy!

The sax of Baba is still blowing sounds that fights the cancerous corruption, inflation and mental confusion.

Fela, the son of the elites but who are those beneath, in the music of his songs we search and so find.

The sax blowing seek the unknown soldiers who invaded Kalakuta; his ancestral shrine,

Home to Obatala, Home to all.

His sax exposed the nudity of perfect thieves in the light of their perfections.

Then, the jails locked up on him more and more,

So did the koboko a print on his yansh.

But inside Omo Iya Aje is a freedom expressed, a victory assured.

Prison Break, Fela is free!

The scent of the wisdom grass from Kalakuta INHALE,

This Afro music from the imperfect-perfecter!

The underground spiritual game;

The mind of Fela, King of Kalakuta!

Highly, highly spiritual!

NUFF RESPECT TO THE ABAMI EDA!

Fela Anikulapo Kuti.

IN A MAN'S HEAD.

In a man's head
Are many baggages
On his head he carries through the load of life unto death
His will, the strength of his flesh.
His beliefs; the only promise for a new dawn.

In a man's head
The load is so heavy, ever adding!
No help could ever help as the trouble is always shooting.
When I asked why!
They said from the bite he had,
A gift from a woman.

#nowomannocry #life #poetry

THE SMELL OF TROUBLE.

The smell of trouble
Never escapes the nose that noses
It is a bad smell from hell
A smoke of fire that can raze down any building.
The smell of trouble
Is so strong like the wrong itself.
Can you smell it?

THE ART IN ME.

Hmm!
I cast my mind back to the days
When they chose our subjects
But the art in me had to object.
I never wanted to be a Science student
Because the chemistry between us was not as sweet as history
So in history classes I listened to the endless stories of the god's who bit the dogs to death without shedding blood.
Literature was good
I got emotionally soaked with the lyrics of the poems and the novels I studied.
How the encyclopedia was my friend and through its pages my eyes read.
Fine Art was lovely,
So I tried to draw in the art that later preferred to paint with these words so sweet, so poetic!
Oh LASMOCK!
Lasmock brought it out in me with the preps and silent hour;
On the field we sat and philosophized in silence till our ideas crossed.
My University days was awesome
And my style in the art was pretty handsome.
With the french sharing kissses
So sweet it was to say "je t'aime".
The art in the music I listened
My story, my glory!
The art that acts, Poetry!

#art #ilovemylife #poeticgodson

MY IMAGINATION.

My imagination always takes an helicopter view

Over a range of many options;

Picking all of the most in a flash

The most striking one, make or mar!

Yes it is the spirtual me!

With eyes in the physical.

It is the man of the past, living in the present and working in the future.

Yes, it sets me free and jails me at will.

Your prisoner I will forever be, my jailer!

MY KIND OF MAN.

I am not that kind of man that brings breakfast in bed

But that kind of man that makes poetry a prayer answered;

That kind of man who sits with, eats with poetry his bedsharer.

With sights and sounds, all in poetry bound

No frowns but in expressions when necessary, crown!

This injection I love to share with my seeds,

The home of poetry.

SHOW THY FACE.

Show thy face o lord

And look out for my face

Because in the face of the wicked are many smiles for my folly

And on my face a teary frown

Show thy face o lord

So that on my face, a smile I wear again. 

NO BOUNDARIES.

How blind can we be

when our skin is black

And like glue we can't steak?

We have no boundaries in Africa!

It is a white man's divide.

A selfish act that further breaks the cord that binds.

No boundaries or countries in one land Africa;

This beauty in our identity

Our fathers laboured in unity!

Sad, Bad and Mad is this divide among brothers

Who now lack what they have in abundance; hospitality!

This mentality is poor,

And on the floor their brain drains.

Great foolishness have been felt in the roots of the black soil

And their royal stools have fools as the tools for discord. 

Why did Mandela remain for so long a time in Robin Island?

Why kill and chase your brothers out of one land Africa, where we all belong?

#southafrica #nigeria #stopdiscrimination #onelove #wedontneednotrouble #unitednations #mandela #zulukings #jacobzuma #goodluckjonathan #humanrights #itiswrong #buhari #obama #noboundariesinafrica #weareafricans #onelandafrica

WHEN AGE STRIKES.

When age strikes
It wears a being to tear
Wrinkles of grey appears
Dimness; never the same.
How time flies each day
How age comes with rage.

SWEET FREEDOM.

Why win with the flood of blood?
When you can win with the thumb that prints.
The shout!
Is anyone out there still listening to that still voice that steals our silence?
Silence!
Silence cries out deep out of the deep.
Who will hear the cry of the just and not just scream, Justice!
When the courts are shut,
Where all matters are dressed.
What can the just do to the blind folds that sees the unjust, without striking?
Sweet freedom is bitter than bile,
Thorny and deadly.
And it is always served cold,
After so many warm flesh have fallen into the cold.
Sweet freedom is sweet, not to the oppressed with a broken bone but to the oppressor with a sledge hammer.
For others it is some fun
For others a new dawn
For others a time to be quiet
For others a time to relocate to the greens.
It is our cry, our time to be free!
We are the freeborn, with the freedom speech to teach.
We can't be hungry!
No! No! No! No!
Even if we are, we hope to be fed up with hunger.
Sweet is freedom, Martin said so!
Sweet is freedom only when the just is justified before the unjust whose heart is always bitter.
Tell the world I said so!

MY KNEES, MY PLEASE.

Lead me Lord Jesus, the good shepherd!
For, lost I don't want to be; an insane mind.
Lift me up with your abiding gifts
And like a rainbow, a colourful me.
The pains and rains of the wicked
Like nails pierces me so deep, I bleed!
Help me appear not once more in the camps of staggering laughters
And to their mirrors, a shattered glasses.
Load me with your beauties
Never fading with ages.
Teach me how to fish in deep waters
And in it let me drown in glorious affluence.
Answer me in the cancer of the wicked
And give me breathe in the years of my days.
Help me forgive all but not these two,
Poverty and Bitterness:
They have destroyed man and so his heart is not kind to all, not at all.
Give me your long hand, helping the needy carry on;
And like the birds, no boundaries to their flight,
My wings I spread like your kite.
These and many more, forget not to remember in your release.
So I pray, Amen.

WITH MY EYES ON THE HILLS.

Not so long time ago

I visited Jalingo from the heartbeat,

Through the big heart;

And then to the light of the nation, we continued through not in the dark!

For a while; to make some peace 

And so we did with our urine as we heat the Coal City.

The journey continued again,

Until we arrived at the food basket to eat;

With food in my mouth so I journeyed through into the nature's gift to the nation. 

Countless hills greeted me like I was the new Sairiki, 

Freshly green, were the vegetations housed by the several hills; 

Healing it brought into the atmosphere as everywhere was as cool as the breeze.

Climbing one of these great stones was like cooking beans, how it takes a long time to done!

With friends cheering me up in hausa

Up I go, Gongola!

Until I was finally up:

Up, I had a belle view of Jalingo.

The hills were as far as my eyes could see; exceeding the lots of Solomon!

So no mourn, So much fun!

See the sun set

See the wind talk

See the chill come

See the people, all!

All I still see! 

See with my eyes on the hills.

NYEM ARA BIKONU!

Nyem Ara bikonu!

I know say I bi adult:

But like your baby, I want to be!

Scratching my head to the sweetness as I draw from your straw;

I long for your Ara in tears

Because I am friendly not only in the sixth month

But in my adulthood I still beg in tears.

Nyem-Ara bikonu!

So I can stop behaving like mumu;

Take off the guard that hide those beauties inside;

In my hands I love to hold and fold

In my mouth I love to seize like the Customs,

And my head I love to scratch to the sweetness as I draw from your straw!

Nyem ara bikonu, oyi natum o!

I AM NOT A SILENT POET.

Mute!

Did you say quiet?

No, I don't think so!

I am not a silent poet

So do not think I will be quiet, 

That diet is obviously not for me but for those who quit!

Writing poetry is an oath to depth; 

To make you feel alright when all is not, 

My pen will riot and to the right it will write not.

Rightly I speak of the bitter truth and the witnesses within me agrees to what I write rightly.

I am not a silent poet

What kind of man will I be if I can't talk about what I see and hear.

Why am I here? 

To observe and keep silent?

No, not at all!

Speaking is leaking what the eyes sees, what the ears hear and then the silence breaks.

I am not a silent poet

Caution is a threat to the just, an auction of the only ice in our freezer. 

And the peace we so seek is never guaranteed but piss;

I speak with my beak bitter and sweet; that is poetry! 

Never always on anyone's side

Only writes when it is time to write

A glamour of divers beauty unveiled.

MAZI OKONWO.

Mazi Okonwo is a wrestler in the village of Umadike.

The size of hairy chest gave other men a fright;

And for his strength showing, every woman wanted his warm.

Mazi Okonwo has a fight today,

It is a big fight between Umadike and Ofon villages.

Music were made; the drums, the oja, the agogo, all gave their tunes

And that further set the tone for supremacy.

Four people served as referees

Two trainers and two just men from the two villages gave the rules of engagement.

In the middle were they surrounded by a large cheer from the villagers who watched closely and referred to Mazi Okonwo as a cat:

But Jatto, as the stubborn rat of Ofon.

The fight was a fierce fight 

As they both studied the mathematics of their every moves,

Every one was so busy; the referees with their restless eyeballs, the trainers with their mouths and lurking eyes and the teaming villagers cheering.

Palm wine never finished as all drank with no one missing any of the energetic moves. 

The fight continued until the moon was noon;

Still everyone was so busy in anticipation!

Mazi Okonwo finally as usual, with a great lift took Jatto off his feet and to the ground his back, a big defeat!

So everyone cheered their loudest!

Okonwo! Okonwo! Okonwo!

But when Mazi Okonwo was asked about his secret in several victories

He simply replied "meruru jedudu makuku"- meaning a weak man with a weak heart.

And so it became a story for the god's,

Who after burying their dead found their foot on top of the grave.

WHAT WILL OGUN EAT?

Ogun will not eat bread

Or that egg sauce garnished with carrot and green-peas.

Ogun will not eat that fruit salad buttered with cream

Or that pizza from the freezer;

That will obviously cause him jedi-jedi, a lover of the white bowl and not the bush.

Ogun is very angry o!

Because the food before him is not well pounded but stupidly spiced and smelling.

No palm oil to eat the roasted yam!

No palm wine to wet the hot iron, the staff of Ogun!

Ogun needs blood!

The blood Ogun needs is not only that of the ram's heart still pounding in the calabash of Ogun;

Ogun needs that of the leopard and the cheetah for a drink.

Ogun has began to dance, the dance of anger

Who can handle his wrath that wrought like a dancing fire.

Ogun needs dogoyaro in his ogogoro

No! Not that hopeless tea with milk and sugar inside.

Ogun is smiling!

Because his food inside the calabash is red.

Ogun is frowning

What has happened again this time?

He ate from the calabash, the plate of the god's,

Yam boiled with sugar!

Ah! Tufiakwa!

THE IJAWS HAVE NO JAWS

The Ijaws have no jaws because their jaws were lost in the battle of Mosanga.
Lost and snatched off their mouths;
How will they chew?
Their mouths that use to close no longer closes.
With eyes shot out!
Still it refuses to close because of the shock, it is electric!
Closed is this door at the Ijaws who suddenly have no jaws to chew.
The promised land we entered; promised all but gave nothing.
Do you know? Promises never pregnates a woman, it is a waste of words.
The Ijaws no longer have jaws to chew!
How will they find food in a drowning 'fishless' water?
How will they swim and not drown?

THE VALLEY.

I have past through many valleys

Many of which were the shadow of death

But a shadow it was

Following me

But it could not be me at heart

So it hid behind me

While his light daily shines on me. 

In this valley again

I need an angel! 

DEATH HARVESTERS.

Motionless dust!

And yet another breathe is cut short

With bullets piercing

The heart stops pounding;

It is politics

A polite selection of choice.

But these death harvesters wouldn't let it be;

From their big Oga

Arms are made for their arms:

And when you are the opposition

With bullets piercing

The heart stops pounding

Yet another breathe is cut short.

Motionless dust!

#riversstate #nigeria #politics

THE HONEYMOON.

My dear President,
The honeymoon you currently enjoy in the bedroom of hearts
Never last, ask the former!
It passes away when you don't take the issues of our heart to heart.
We the people love a daily romance to show
But it is so sad to note that we've been so raped, so caged in
Until we chose you, the thumb revolution!
Please lead us don't leave us
Hold our hands and help us stand.
Be the general of our hearts
Fighting all that is wrong.
The promise land we love to live in
Help us live in it
These and all we ask nothing less, Amen!

#buhari #nigeria #honeymoon #truth #amen

GOOD FRIDAY.

A child was born in a manger

A smart kid, he was;

As he grew, in knowledge he flew.

He even taught his elders some proverbs,

Everyone asked for his father, the carpenter;

Who marveled as well at his son.

With water turning into wine,

His crown as King of Kings and Lord of Lords he wore,

And it so fitted.

Fishes he caught without using a net,

Just spoken word like poetry

And soon everyone became fishers of men.

At age thirty three,

He was traded for a kiss

A kiss from a rose

And so he rose for our victory.

But before he rose and ascended

A tragic thing happened to this young man.

He was hung on the cross with two rugged bandits;

The scars of brutality

Who can treat? No nurse!

His blood painted many city streets

And soon it became a pool of flood.

He was so beaten

He was so weak

Helpless were his folks who watched him die.

The cock crowed thrice

How his dear friend feared to die so he lied!

Sadly, he was without a child of his own

Without a woman to hold;

He was so murdered in front of his mother.

Oh no! His wish for a long life was cut short.

So sad it was for a Friday,

But we call it Good Friday.

How?

CREATION

God is an artist better than Leonardo Da Vinci

He made different people, different reasoning

A bitter sweet mix he ever made

PAPA PEACE.

Though all who were once pissed like me
Have come to see the true peace in you.
You've shown peace not in silence
but before our eye lenses we've seen so clearly your peace
That special love for peace that worth no drop.

Nuff Respect PAPA PEACE.