Finding God

I found a god
In a haze of smoke
And a pot of ashes
It brought warmth and nonchalance
A little burn to the front of my lips,
My solace when I’m lost
A god between my fingers
A god I crush under my feet as it fizzles out
A god that kills

I found a god
In red cups and colourful lights
Dark nights, my tunnel
Twists and twirls on poles of vanity
Elation to my senses
Groggy eyes and wobbly feet
Perturbation lost in naïveté
I found a god in my bloodstream
One that fades as the dawn comes
My worries shine with the glory of the morning

I found a god
In hustle and bustle
A god of my time
A god that flies
Sinking daily in the plow of the dunes
Daily digging a bottomless pit
My new god loves for me the scorch of the sun
The cracking of my feet, its enchantment
I found a god etched in my palms
One the shatters my back bone
And suffers my skin the ointment of comfort
One that removes energy and replaces with despair

I found god
I let my soul a-peace
I revel in the pulchritude of the sun
I marvel at the waxing of the skies
I dug my feet in the morning grass
To feel the cool of the dew

I found god
In the tender wings of a Swallowtail Butterfly
As the winds carried it up in love
I found god in fettered waters
In sharks and crayfishes

I found god
In the skin of Baobabs and Elephant grasses
As they emit love for the balance of the earth
I found god in infinitesimal details
I found god in Massive structures

I found god in little “Hellos” and teary “byes”
In careless smiles and teary eyes
In warm hugs and in shared meals
I found god in shoulders I cry on
And in the hands that sponge my tears
I found god in beautiful paintings
And sonorous voices
I found god in injuries and in flawless skins
In our humanity, I found God
The God whom we call Love

Ojú l’ásán O sé se Wèrè

Àkànní’s palmwine is the King’s delight
The bringer of humor and life into the King’s chamber
 Àkànní never disenchants the king
He never tastes of his own brew, but he loves the art of tapping for the King’s helm
Àkànní Olope, the master of the palm tree
The master of the Wine, the master of the King.
Àdùké is the King’s court entertainer
Her waist beads the king’s ecstasy
Her anklets like the rattling of a Snake in the sand dunes of the North
The thoughts of Her oblong face keeps the King warm through the night.
The harmony between her feet and the loamy earth keeps royalty on the edge of his throne
Her bosom a delight to his loins
She never looks him in the eye
She let her feet into lips that mutter beauty as she moves them to the percussion of the night
Àkànní’s palmwine is bliss this dusk
Àdùké’s beads red as palm oil
Her face shone in the moonlight like fresh milk from the cattle
A little more palmwine in the King’s gourd
A little closer Àdùké gets to the King’s chamber
A little closer Àdùké got to the king’s bed
A little farther the spying moon moves in the skies
Not only Àkànní’s palmwine intrigues the king tonight
A gourd of wine and his Aládùké  to dine
Àdùké temi nikan
Warming the bed of the king
Fury and revenge fills the heart of Akanni
He has watched the covetous eyes of the Kings on his woman.
Seasons are born and Seasons die,
The pain he carried around him like a gourd
The king owns all, not his Aládùké
What Madness is it to confront a king?
What cowardice is it look at your property mauled by another?
He remembers the proverb of his father Àjàní
Ojú l’ásán O sé se wèrè (Madness cannot be displayed with normalty)
A gourd of his wine down the throat and two and three
The spying moon, shy of the happenings hides itself in the clouds
The stars travel afar into the Northern skies
Àkànní brandishes his cutlass as if a hoe
And his mind on the King’s head, a yam due for harvesting


 She roams the earth one last time
With foot bare and a face of sorrow
Her skin glows,
Like a newly polished calabash.
She is locked out of the afterlife
Her place in life sold to death
She makes her last journey with others like her on the street of red soil
Her beloved’s face to behold again
With a little veil she shields her face from mortality
She makes way for the River bank
A last splash of cool evening wind thumped her face
She smiled for the cool wind reminded her of her lover’s warm embrace 
There at the River bank they shared a fruit in her third life
Their vows they speak to heart
Their love they interwoven in their fingers
Dusk creeped in
It was time to make the final Odyssey 
Like a mirage, he watched her walk back onto the street of red soil
He waved her goodbye, lost of the notion it was his last
A wryly smile in the corner of her lips and tears in her eyes
She waved a distant goodbye
Her last grasp of mortality
Her last feel of love
In the after life,
She would tell them of her stint by the River bank
With lavish smiles,
She would remind them how beautiful love is
She would let them know how good the red soil made her feet feel.
In our world, it is still gnashing of teeth
And biting of tongue
In our world, she is lowered beneath the red soil to be seen no more
In our world it is a tale of a Young man with whom love has made Mad
In our world, It is a race for whom is farther from the River bank.
In our world, we remain as a blind squirrel running the street of red soil.
Maybe the day after forever, our eyes will be broad to the many frittered nuts.

Skies Of Grey


 Skies of Grey

Devoid of silver linings

Lightnings and Hail 

No twinkle little star
Prejudiced  patches of cloud
Hovering and pacing through the skies 
I get nervous at its sight
The skies as though holding so much in
So high up are the Skies of grey, yet trampled upon from down below
Tears it let down freely
Lightning and thunder
A loud sob to remember 
Sniffs and loud outburst
As the wind from the northern hemisphere 
Oh Skies of Grey!
Wipe your tears
Oh Skies of Grey!
I see a rainbow just beneath your eyelids
Oh Skies of Grey!
I see a golden sunshine just at the tip of your lips.
Oh Skies of Grey!
Listen to my song of goodbyes 
Oh Skies of Grey! 
Never to be seen again.
Welcome, Skies of Blue

When Is Tomorrow?


Though beautiful and adorned
A mannequin clothed in royal apparel can never become king
Until the apparel is worn on a befitting body.

I ask myself When will “Tomorrow” ever come?
A retrospect into past years
“The Leaders of Tomorrow” the title each and every kid had as an embroidery in their hearts
The ones who will take the nation to another phase, all they said we were
At the desk which we were given this title
Sits the same “king maker”
Without shifting an inch
How do we ever want to achieve “Tomorrow”?

When will Tomorrow come?
When all our youthful energy has been wasted on frivolities?
When another generation of future leaders are here?
When the “King Makers” destroy all the inheritance of the heir?
Are we not in an abyss of eternal mental slavery?

The heir to the throne is clothed in the apparel of a palace guard
And yes, the heir rejoices because he hasn’t realized he is “Tomorrow”
He is given weapons of war by the “king makers”
And he gladly uses it for his own destruction
He roams the streets, glad to “know” the king makers
Our freedom is fragile.
Our Ignorance a solid Rock


Black and white prints
Smears the heart with gore
We seek for glory in the pages
Gory tales we find.
We seek for hope
Death and war knocking at our doors in the stead.


Trivialising the commoner’s life
Their health or wealth a parochial gospel
It is not called hard life anymore
It is just a norm in the streets
Where a smile is as an expensive ointment
Hugs are like incense, only employed to perform rites
Time is a luxury everyone can afford
But are scared to waste on love
Because poverty is a disease that makes us hospitalized on beds of delusion.
Delusions not of grandeur
Delusions not of ecstasy
Delusions not of nobility.


There is a hope
A glimmer that usurps the darkness
Like moths, we move towards illumination
We smile at the harbinger of hope
We embrace the calm upsurging feel of change
Blood we refuse to shed
A tear whatsoever we refuse to let go
There is a hope
A new flame that fires our bones
Like the Sheep, we confront our Lion
We fight for what is ours
We refuse to be carried away by the Euphoria of lasciviousness
Kumbaya! with our fists held high
It is our time.


Photos and Inspiration by GB pixels



The incest called love
‘Détóún the young girls envy
Even through the warning of Ìyá àgbà
She did court Aríyíbí
The furor called Love
Nights they sneaked to the palm wine shed
Just for him to show off his “Arewa”
The young men ignoring their game of ayo to catch a glimpse of the night fly that allures.
Ìyá àgbà’s knowledge lost in her sleep
The Abomination called Love
She gave Aríyíbí herself
Even without being espoused out by Ìyá àgbà
A commonplace it was under the guava tree every available dusk
The infamy called Love
Àníyìkáyé’s smiles and gifts bedevils Aríyíbí
‘Détóún’s shyly smiles at Àníyìkáyé annoys him most
Surely, Àníyìkáyé enjoys the fruit under the guava too
What better revenge could he get?
A mischievous chill down the spine of the wicked
Like fetched water from a stream not yet flustered
The thought of Àníyìkáyé crowing like a cock or the thought of him summersaulting?
Soothing! Eternally Soothing
Decisions left for Baba to make
What happens when the Guava is only a commonplace for Aríyíbí and ‘Détóún ?
When it is laid on ‘Détóún
Somebody has to pay
Màgùn, aarun ti o gbogun