- Reading saved my life. A book is so much more than words, it is medication, it heals.

-Music is not just sound for me,
it is a Journey.
It has taken me to places
i have never been to.

Tears Of My Mother

I grew up with the idea that only the weak cry. It worked for me. I wasn’t one of those kids that cried all the time when they didn’t get what they want, I sit and strategize and I always end up getting what I wanted. I was a smart kid like that. I blame my father tho, he bought me books that thought me to be smart.

Tears are like rain in summer, I look at it as beauty. You know when it rains and you want to sit down and read a book or just go to sleep, that’s tears for me. It’s a rare comfort I am not blessed with having the company of all the time, whenever I cry, I always end up sleeping the day away, I saw my mother do this when her friend died. As she cried out her friends’ name, I sat on the couch and hugged my knees. I tried to watch the show going on on the tv but all I could hear wear my mothers cries, I could feel the tears streaming down her face forming a pool of anguish at her feet. It wasn’t a pool I could swim, I couldn’t save her. I was only 5. I sat and listened as her other friend hugged her and comforted her. That is how I learned the beauty of hugs. Even in the most painful moments, I hug could lift your spirits. My mothers’ sobs subsided and she wore her iron mask. We were not a very touchy feely family. My mother taught us to swallow our pain and only let it out when it was most necessary. Whenever I did something wrong and my mother hits me, she always follows it up in her very cultured mother tongue “swallow those tears”. I grew up swallowing my pain, at a point I drowned in my pain. In cases when I was allowed to cry, I learned were when the source of my anguish is beyond my control, I had to sit in the waiting room and listen to my mother in the theater with the doctor while I held her purse. I listened as my mother cried out for her own mother when the doctors’ blade sliced her finger to remove the puss from her infected whitlow. I could not save my mother. I felt the doctors lift of the blade and I felt it coming down on her finger and I heard her blood flow from it, I listened to it flow like an ocean wave, it was chaotic, between the sound of the blade, the flash of its silver tip, the ocean of blood flowing from my mothers finger and her sobs. I sat in the waiting room and held her purse and drowned in my ocean of emotions. I was not allowed to cry. My mothers’ tears were gold, a rare form of gold that you only get to see almost never. I wanted to lift a glass to her eyes and well up the tears to stop them from hitting the ground and forming a pool that I couldn’t swim across, I wanted to be able to save my mother, she came out of the theatre with a smile on her face, I held her purse, I asked her if it hurt and she looked at me dead in the eyes and said “a little bit”. She was titanium. I held her purse. She bid the nurse and doctor goodbye. I held her purse. We walked to the car and my mother, hand bandaged up all together got into the car, put on her seat belt and drove us home. I held her purse.

Nigeria at 53

It has been 53 years since we broke free from the shackles of colonialism and it breaks my heart that what we see is blood and dust, tears and sweat, broken dreams and empty promises, little acts of misconduct

they have taken our country from us, not the white people, not the Queen, we took our country from the Brits and Sir Tafawa Balewa and all his friends that fought for us will turn over in their graves watching as their hard work falls down in chunks, imploding on its people

Nigeria is a great nation, it's a nation that takes care of itself, we have done nothing for it, we have squandered its funds and pissed in her womb

Nigeria has not forsaken us, Nigeria is a beautiful nation and Nigeria will still take care of herself......and us.

The Devil Within

Of mice or of men,

The devil wears prada,

Hidden beneath togas of age,

Beautiful yet grotesque,

Walking tall between men,

Chest high,

Confident strides,

He bears no horns,

Nor a forked tail,

He is beautiful and eloquent,

He is one of us.

Untitled

Stuck up in the past,

Buried in ideals centuries old,

Moving forward but staying back,

Living the life of a cultured fool,

Of religious roots with no ideals,

Lost in traditions lost in themselves,

Speaking the sweet deceitful language of the past,

Of forefathers long forgotten,

So long lost that we just call them forefathers,

Soaking up the dirty stench of the mother land,

But the mother land has left,

She is no longer the greenest green,

Or the darkest dirt,

She is empty,

Built into her are cement bricks,

Adopting ideas passed down from generations,

New ideas are gone only past time,

Lost. 

Burned Souls

I used to imagine there was beauty in a burned soul. To find someone I could connect with, i thought they had to be broken, disturbed and filled with a load of problems. Broken people are good for me, I am excellent at taking care of people, I could fix them, or so I thought.

I was a cynical kid right from the start. Never believed in human sincerity. I always assumed in my mind that in other for me to have a deep connection with any body, I had to have a kind of symbiotic relationship with them. I fix them and in return, I gain pleasure from the feeling of usefulness and meaning my life gains.

It hits like a rock when you realize you are actually the broken one. The hunt for broken souls was never to gain fulfillment from the art of helping, it was to find people as broken as I was to reassure myself that I am not alone. To make myself believe that I was ok and the people I assumed to be broken were the only queer ones.

My hunt for the burned souls was never to make me feel good about myself, It was for the ease in which I found myself in them. They were like a mirror, a total reflection of who I was.At that moment, I knew I had hit rock bottom and so I took a deep breath and  I started over.