The Blackhole

Your soul’s being seeped out of its embodiment,Taking two steps forth without consciously moving your ground,

Watching the way their lips danced without comprehending their noise,

Longing for your input so you blink as your heart’s gone thither,

Seated by the corner, drenched in a darkness, or is it your shadow, struggling for a welcome back, but something feels broken inside of you, fragments trapped outside of you, something doesn’t feel right, and it feels as though you don’t have much time, pieces displaced and can’t find their way back home.

But you have to plug the leak before it erodes all that exists.

Where’s it coming from ? You’re the physician, a mechanic, your fixer now

Do you know you well enough to block off the leakages,

Or will you have to lace every inch with poultice till the void is healed by chance.

Or it’s desecration by the rusts enabled by the ticks, and the tock that devours a second coming

You’re trapped in a maze, fading into oblivion,

Are you cursed by the gods or a reality you reject ?


End Of The Line

Drunken and distraught, wide awake, teetering off sanity’s pave 

The hard liquor bottle turns clear 

Nearing emptiness, of soul and rocks   

Pain that lingers 

Anew with the last chug 

Icy floor, face down drowning in tears and sweat,

Bruised and broken 

Bloodied by a fist so mighty and raw 

Strangled by a mute reality 

A reverse of a parallel universe 

A past irreversible 

Fast rewind to right before the muscle tension 

Before the limb landed 

Before the rumble between two stars 

The explosion of the expelled now dead star 

Choking off the missed lanes 

Wrong turns,

Noosed in staring down at a pool of regret 

Compressed airways, 

Withering breath,

Twitching feet,

Circling ’round a live cemetery ,

Momentary respite,

a note slips from the grip

As she finds release

Breaking Free

At an impasse

boxed in and juxtaposed by societal rot

Strained his head but the voices pierced even deeper 

A thirst of light for the dark had become vicious

He alone envisioned a world beyond the cosmic beams 

Free his soul to radiate as he ravelled in solitude

sleepless nights recurring night after night , 

Time after time, inaction turned impossible,

Broke down to break through, breaking away to break the rusty chain of conformation 

an outcast he’s become 

Stood straight to stand out in the shed 

dared to cross the line of fire 

And into the light on the night of luminaria …

You With No Identity 

You with no identity 
Of thoughts awakening my conscious

Deepening affections unfathomable 

At dusk, twinkles of your soul

 Tickle the core of my deep hue 

With no face,

Of touches trickling through my nerves  

Sparks gushing across my streams 

From the back of my palm, caresses strike your lush cheeks,

Hairs stand on both of ours 

eyes lost in the sanctity of our company 

With no voice, 

Of whistles softer than a nightingale 

A song, melancholy of love 

Slipping through your lips 

As sweet as a glistening sunrise 

With no name,

Of whispers louder than the echoes  

With no sound bustling as though Exorcised 

Pierced silence clench deeper,  

A blasted muteness absolving the cosmos 

With no scent,

Of breeze riddled with your fragrance 

Undulating across tides and meadows 

With every drop of rain, tossed Billow of glacier

Emanating from earth’s core

With no being, 

Of radiance illuminating the vast horizon 

Scintillating through our whole being 

Fused elements of our existence 

Emitting flares of an explosive love

Untitled Poetry

A fallacy, pretentious and normalised 
Innately defined of which claims reality rejects 

Encloses the screams of forced commitments,

Despair remains silenced, 

No one wants to be here 

But they can’t cut off their limbs, or switch lanes

No one’s done it without spiralling out of existence 

Struck by constant revulsion on sight 

Strings of sanity sieved from the sheaths of the conscious

The urge to assuage loneliness cruelly descending in deepened solitude 

Soft hearts turned stone

Apathy dissipates 

Boxed in, then locked out

Great walls erected to impede deserting  

Bricks piling on as bloodied fists and claws scrape to break them down 

Grid never empties as more piles descend 

a game only over when agony triumphs 
Or maybe when the soul breaks free to dance with the stars

Nature with all its might (2.0)

I’m the river that runs dry throughout the year in the Sahel, 
I’m the tree from which you cut down to recreate , 

I’m the sun that sets in the west and rises from the East in the wake of the dawn,

I’m the moonshines that light up your darkness when the tears dry up,

I’m the streams along the nile that drive the thirst back to dead waters , 

I’m the blooming white verbana when the ray of the sun hits through , 

I’m the stings that pollinate the spawn seeds on the meadows, 

I’m the flakes that form snow blankets concealing the crevasses,

I’m the desert sand that burns and boils through the feet of a poor orphan child during the summer noontide , 

I’m the dirt on your path when the heavy drops hits the sands on a wet spring eve,

I’m earth’s concealed treasures you use to raise metal bars to guard your fears,

I’m the stones you collect to raise shelters that trap you together yet awfully apart 

I’m life’s seeds lashing on travellers of earth to disperse across state lines 

I’m the border crossings birds can’t see 

I’m the thorn that stands guard beneath the blooms of majestic roses

I’m the looming darkness that permits the hunter’s prey on the wildebeest

I’m aurora and my light will guide you through the northern lines 

I’m the purity of the breeze that slaps your cheeks over the eastern horizon 

I’m the eagle swimming across the dark clouds with its might awakening the strength in the weak, 

I’m the womb that carries the supposed stains but a new beginning, 

I’m the cries of the oppressed coming from the crumbles and the rubbles on a bloody night , 

I’m the hunger that keeps you awake piercing through the slums,

I’m the pain , the sorrow , the tears , 

I’m the broken pieces inside of you , 

I’m the washed out dreams, the stolen future, the lost hope, the dead ends. 

I’m the freedom you die fighting for . 

I’m the hope that lifts you up at dawn to thrive, 

I’m the dream that paddles its way to shore,

I’m the future, as bright as a supernova 

I’m the love, the passion, I’m your truth, the reason 

I’m the happiness you envision at the end of the line .

I’m nature with all its might, I am life. 

Touching down in Maiduguri


As our plane touched down, the first sight i was attracted to was a trail of rice farmers working on their plantations, it was such a beautiful scenery, almost tranquil. There it was “Maiduguri airport”, there was mixed emotions, never thought i would be able to make the journey after months of failed planning, i felt fortunate. It was a windy and sunny, the weather felt perfect on my face. Soldiers both Nigerian and American paraded the ground to welcome a two American agents i suppose because they weren’t in uniform. Outside the gates was an open space with benches that served as the passenger waiting area, an airport which was once developed by Deribe but got torn down by Ex President Goodluck Jonathan for renovation sake but abandoned. There were barricades created by soldiers as they sat comfortably behind their AK’s and sacks of sand. Shortly before we departed the airport, there stood a child of no more than 2 years, abandoned by his guardians, he had wet his pants, soldiers fast approached the wailing child and picked him up to calm him down, 20 mins later, we drove off and the kid still remained in the embrace of one soldier.

This city Maiduguri seemed quite different from what the media had made it out to be, well at least the area we passed to the Old GRA, it was just noon but the city was full of life, traders running after cars to bargain the price of their hand made set of a doll living and bed room, it was delightful to watch as Baba showed us around town. There was a government girls secondary school right around the corner, he mentioned how it was turned into a temporary IDP camp while school remained close but IDPs were in the process of being moved to a more developed IDP Camp. Soon as we got to the place of our residence, we were presented with a feast and the Boko Haram Days stories started rolling in.

Baba told us about the days where the weather got intensely hot coupled with lack of electricity that everyone had to sleep outside with their nets over their beds, but as the attacks by the insurgents drew closer, that wasn’t an option anymore, anything could happen while they were out sleeping, vulnerable to these vicious attacks. There was a trail of sadness and happiness in his voice, joyful because they believe the horror of Boko Haram is behind them, sorrow because of what they have had to witness, he said while looking up to the ceiling, a moment of reminiscence.

A few hours later, a friend/journalist had navigated himself to the place i was residing, and we soon head off to witness the city at night. He told me stories about his experiences which i will link up on here once his stories are published. We then stopped at a heavily protected guest inn for dinner, as we waited for our food and his 2 other friends. It seemed like all of the international community in Borno resided in it, so there was no surprised about the amount of armoured cars present and security agents. I had the pleasure of meeting the brain behind Bits of Borno, a twitter account which tells the individual stories of this wretched conflict while also grabbing in that moment, intense emotion on camera. at 8:47 pm, i got a phone call to remind me of the curfew imposed on all civilians by 10pm, i then had to find my way back.

Back at the house, the stories began to roll out once again but from a female resident doctor who had seen much of the the price civilians have to pay during insurgencies during work at her hospital. She told us of an 11 year old left to care for siblings as young as a new born after their mother died a week after birth, whom died 3 months later leaving the sisters, one had fallen sick so she had take her to a hospital from Bama, she left the two younger one “ To God “ thats what she told the resident doctor. She told us about Nurses that looted clompy nutritional nuts sent from Germany meant to counter Camps’ severe malnourishment of children, they often sold it in markets. img_9193

Marriage: A partnership or a dictatorship ? 

There is a great misconception about marriage today driven by a medieval culturally induced train of thought, one you would think a progressive society in this age would’ve abolished by now. The assumption that women have to give up everything while men reserve any sacrifice on the basis of being the breadwinner, ” The man ” like being a woman naturally translates to being less of a person, It doesn’t. It is not compulsory for any woman out there to give up anything in her life unless she wills it. The belief that a woman HAS to while a man is left with a choice in itself creates a turbulent foundation in any marriage, For marriage is a partnership, an agreement on every single issue by both parties not a dictatorship where a man ultimately owns the upper hand. A man that is threatened by an ambitious woman is one with an inferiority complex, a lazy man that doesn’t want to be pushed to be better, a man that wants less because it’s convenient and easily tameable, an authoritarian only invested in exerting power from his weakened woman. When you directly or indirectly force a woman to become less than she is destined to be, less than she so profusely wants to be then you’re shutting off a bright light inside of her forever, never to be rekindled. She will live but never to be fulfilled, she’ll be patient enough to stay but by never reaching that self actualisation level in her life, her man won’t either. 
So ask yourself, what kind of marriage are you getting yourself into ? A partnership bonded by love, trust and respect or a dictatorship based on command and execution, no questions asked. Either way, your choices carve your destiny, your kind of marriage. 

Concealed Scars

  He grabbed her by the throat as she sat on an armchair, dragged her across the room and to the bathroom. He threw her into the bathtub as he bashed her face over and over again with his fist, striking her with his belt as she bled profusely. He turned on the shower and left her to drown in her own blood mixed with lead contaminated water. It wasn’t the first time he had done it. Just last month, they were out attending a get together with a dozen of friends, when she suddenly opened up a debate about dos and don’t’s in a marriage, that had pissed him off but she couldn’t tell at the time because he had become a great actor, always having to act like he was husband of the year. It was getting late so they said their goodbyes and headed home and as they pulled up on their driveway, he parked and got out of the car abruptly. He then came hurriedly to her side opening her door as he dragged her off pulling her by the hair. As they went in, he grabbed the first object his hands could reach and smashed it into her face, it was a rose flower vase. There was so much blood gushing down her face as she looked into his eyes, there was no sign of remorse, regret or pity. He looked back with his wicked eyes, tempted to raise the other hand on her but she soon faded into oblivion. She woke up the next day same place she had passed out drenched in her own dry blood, he didn’t care to move her talk less of cleaning after himself. Nonetheless, she got up to wash herself, ran a hot bath to get rid of the excruciating pain or at least lessen it and put her make up on. It was business as usual for her as she headed off to work with her foundation caked enough to cover up the bruises and the new cuts on her face. 

Because We Don’t

Because we don’t know what it’s like to be hungry, literally starving and have nothing to chug down to wash off the growling sense in our stomach. Because we don’t know what it’s like to be without shelter, to be cold out on the streets with no place to go, no layer of cover to protect our skin. Or what it’s like to have no shoes, to march on thorns & have the soles of our feet bleed ,to feel the pain sore right through our brain. Or the pain of a crying mother cradling her child in her arms with their blown out brains ever so vividly. Or that of a father whose life had just been completely shattered trying to gather the remains of his loved ones buried under the rubble. We couldn’t possibly understand, So until we’ve walked a mile in their shoes, we haven’t earned the right to write off their misery. Let it overwhelm you. The thought, imagine the depth of their pain, don’t block it out, feel it. Its called humanity.