from the spirits that roam the ends of the earth,
i have asked these questions o’er and o’er;
the masquerades that bear our hopes and dreams,
i have quizzed them all on this matter.
Continue reading “GREY VERSES”
dear slain soldier,
my ears daily feed on the biggest screens,
where your presence is regularly absent;
your eyelids do not flicker where duds and divas dine,
with the paparazzi’s flashes like flies chasing;
in the galaxies of gala nights your insignia is rarely found,
neither are your deeds drummed
when schoolchildren march on dusty streets;
but you have played your part…
you have walked the very paths
we eye with fear and dread,
you have seen the same spirits
whose ghosts we fast to cast and bind,
you have made friends with pain,
and with hunger, and with nightmares;
and in lieu of us,
you met with Death himself.
you have paid the price for service…
we cannot lay wreaths each day
over your ageing ashes,
your casket we won’t exhume to refresh,
when creatures of the underworld wage wars ‘gainst it,
neither shall your name be painted on our lips
when we meat in the great hall to feast;
but you have definitely played your part…
no love greater than this is found,
for a soul to die that more may rise;
not a light shinier in town,
for a fallen star to light the skies.
i pray rest upon your weary soul.
i pray ease for your bereaved household.
i hope to God their smiles should climb
above the muted heights of their fallen (wo)man
Speak quill, Speak!
Fear not the fury of the horseman,
quiver not at the sight of fiery chariots
who ride to blot out the truth
let your tongue ring true.
Speak quill, Speak!
Silence afflicts gently,
she slays the soul outside the body,
pray, bury not these words…
Till the land, let it spring forth!
Speak quill, Speak!
For the millions who perish daily
kwarshiorkored of truthful vitamins,
speak, for the souls who now stand
at the threshold of ignorant deaths.
Speak quill, Speak!
For your own sake, speak!
Let these words shatter chains
long worn by your father’s fathers;
Speak to earn your peace.
Speak quill, Speak!
Speak now, speak always;
speak for mankind, speak for the heavenlies;
blurt forth the message,
that these words be not taken from you.
Sorry I haven’t blogged in a while, I’ve been weighed down by much weightier matters. And, when I suddenly had time to spare, I was at a loss of what to blog about. But I don’t think any writer or blogger could actually be blank for long, not in this clime anyways. There’ll always be something or another to blog about, even if you have to flag down an Okada on a hot Monday afternoon to find out just what.
And so it happened that I had some urgent business to attend to around the Dugbe Business District area of Ibadan and I felt an Okada would serve me better than those cabs that stopped at virtually every bustop enroute your destination; so I duly waited until one arrived and waved the rider to a stop. We -the Okadaman and I- then proceeded to bargain on the fare but were barely into that when a man who had been standing idly at the bustop even before I got there suddenly walked over and in a swift movement that caught us by surprise removed the Okadaman’s key from the ignition. That was when I knew who he was- he was definitely a Policeman. A plain-cloth Policeman! I’ve seen them make that particular move so many times that I’d actually wondered if it was something they taught them at the Police Academy. Is that what they call it- the Police Academy?
“You are under arrest”, our intruder Policeman bellowed. The Okadaman didn’t reply, I peered closer at his face, he seemed to be smiling. I concluded he probably didn’t know who or what the other man was yet.
“You can’t pick up passengers here”, the Policeman continued, wagging the ‘arrested’ key in the Okadaman’s face. This time the man replied,
“And who would you be”
He was still smiling.
“Which kin question you dey ask me”, the Policeman was livid. But he still answered the other man’s question:
“I am a Police Officer and you must follow me to our station”, he pointed in a particular direction but the Okadaman didn’t look up. He was still smiling and at that point I was beginning to think he probably wasn’t, ‘maybe that’s just the way his face is set’, I thought.
Incredibly, the Okadaman asked to see the Policeman’s ID. It fuelled his anger but he brought them out of his trousers pocket (I thought ID’s should go into the shirt pocket, still…) and showed them to the man who inspected them carefully and then asked which station he was to be taken to. The cop said, “Oluyole” and pointed towards the same direction as he had done earlier.
It was time for the the Okadaman to do some pointing of his own.
“Okay, let’s go”, he said pointing the Policeman to the vacant seat behind him. The cop was baffled and to be honest, I was too!
“My friend you tink say na joke I dey follow you joke?”, the cop obviously had a thing for turning to pidgin when very angry.
“I go carry you go meet my ogas for dere o!”, he threatened, pointing to the other side of the road. I looked and saw a bunch of fat, pot-belied, blue uniformed policemen chatting excitedly under a billboard. (When I walked past there some minutes earlier I overheard one of them telling a man and his son that they couldn’t stand under the billboard while the man asked why he couldn’t stand under a billboard while waiting for someone. I didn’t wait to see how that ended because I was in a hurry. But this time I stayed for two reasons: One, I felt guilty about being the cause of the Okadaman’s arrest and two, I wanted very much to see the end of the drama.
The Okadaman was still saying,
He was still pointing to the empty space. And it dawned on me that the man must be well connected or worked somewhere important- maybe a Policeman himself. Co-incidentally, the Policeman was thinking the same thing because the next thing he said was:
“What do you do? Where do you work”.
“I’m a pressman”, the Okadaman replied.
“A what?”, the cop strained his ears to listen.
“A pressman”, the man repeated.
“You mean a journalist?” the cop asked stupidly.
“Yes”, came the soft reply.
The policeman asked to see his ID and the Okadaman brought one out from his TROUSERS POCKET… Like what is wrong with these people!!!
The Policeman stared at the ID for a while, and then dramatically, the bass went out from his voice all of a sudden…
“Dis one nor mean anything na, rules na rules”, he now sounded soft, more like a Latin opera singer.
It was the Pressman’s turn to sound bellowing.
“Which one did I break? Is this not a bustop?”, he queried.
“Dis one nor mean anything”, the Policeman repeated, handing the man’s keys and ID back to him. He turned to look at me, and then, as if realising for the first time that I was still present, turned to the Okadaman who was now motioning for me to climb astride the motorcycle also known as an Okada…
“Next time don’t do that again o!”, the Policeman tried to sound tough again for my sake.
He was too late. I was already roaring with laughter as the Okadaman rode off!
The Okadaman managed a short laugh,
“Awon Ole!”, he remarked.
As I sat in the barber’s shop and saw the mirrored reflection of my precious dark gentle hair being marooned off by a confused barber who could not try to understand why I had to cut off what had for two months running become a distinctive feature of an otherwise regular face-look, I wondered if I really, really had to have this haircut.
Of course I had to, If I wanted to survive another day in Christianity, or I could have left it that way and run the risk of going to hell when the trump suddenly sounds. That’s actually what they all tell me -my fellow Christian brothers, sisters and most importantly the mummies and daddies who seemed to think I was becoming impossible to correct as my hair grew higher. Was I? I didn’t think so.
My hairstyle, a simple remix of the ol’skool black American punk, had at this point irked so many, something I noticed as I walked into a church service on Sunday morning. Actually it was meant to be some kind of test run as I was due to minister alongside my music crew (THE BELIEVERS’ CREW, please like us on facebook;-)) in that same church the next Sunday. After painfully enduring a service full of crucifying looks from all angles, I decided to go have my hair cut low so as to prevent an historic embarrassing occassion when a presiding pastor would ask me to drop the microphone and leave the church with my crew as it would be sinful to allow me minister with my ‘devilish’ haircut. More importantly I have come to understand over the years that the message is bigger than the messanger so if my hair had to go for me to be able to pass the message accross, then I HAD to do it.
But as I sat there in the barber’s shop and watch belatedly as more thick patches of hair trickled down my laps I couldn’t help but wonder if we aren’t actually missing the point here. I mean does my haircut affect my thinking or my actions or the words I speak? Does it make me any less than the person I am? Would Jesus refuse me because I had a punk haircut? I’m still wondering so you guys could help me out on this one.
The Black Man.
The longest waiting period I’ve ever had to scrape through is come and gone and frankly speaking, it wasn’t worth the buzz or even the fuss.
Dubbed “potentially explosive” by many, including social media chaps who couldn’t help but find a common thread linking both countries… Terrorism. Explosive it wasn’t. Dry will be a better choice of word when one tries to describe what happened in that particular match.
Going into the World Cup I complained about Keshi’s tactical ability and questioned his old fashioned methods. The Iranian were certainly not the better equiped team but being coached by Carlos Queiroz, an experienced and modern tactician, they suceeded in setting themselves to nullify the Super Eagles attacking threat, which wasn’t much to begin with.
It wasn’t the fact that we played without a creative force in the middle that irked me most, neither was it because our players played like inexperienced amateurs, no. What was so annoying was the fact that we didn’t seem to have a plan. We could have played that game without an Iranian goalpost and no one would have noticed! It was that bad.
The only good thing about this match is that it will help erase every lingering strand of expectation that many might have bore in their minds about the ability of their darling team to cause an upset at this World Cup. Surely we can do that, in the next edition because we as good as out of this one.
Let us now try to enjoy the rest of the World Cup as neutrals.
Hello there, greetings from The Black Man. It is my pleasure to welcome you this pleasant jungle of mine.
You are free to swing around from tree to tree as you wish, bananas are much in supply so eat as much as your belly can take.
I really hope that you enjoy your stay in The Black Man’s jungle and that you will find time to visit again as soon as you can.
Thank you very much_
The Black Man.