Tuesday, March 29, 2011

...aint I 'Goodluck'?

Dear GEJ,
Apparently, you have been very busy lately; all these campaigns, night out with Dbanj, intriguing adverts,etc,many more I yet know. Days past, there had been down pours of political rains and I'm yet to find the 'umblerra' to hide under... That interesting advert of yours, 'I AM GOODLUCK' caught my eye, so I gave it a thought.
I'd remembered my tattered school bags,patched uniforms,etc and this was decades after your experience. It surely gave a feeling of being you.
But Sir, how can i be Goodluck who wouldn't attend the youths debate as they ask #whataboutus? If i were you,this blackout of about a week now wouldn't be my portion #lightupnaija. I certainly enjoy the 'Dame House of Umblerra'...such a wife! The wonderful tale of how events fit in like puzzle tiles (impeachment here;death there) soothes many. Makes sense to want to be Goodluck;be part of the national cake sharing. If males are Goodluck, females should be Dame..that isnt 'lame' right? #justsaying.
Come to think of it,why write a letter to myself; aint I Goodluck?

Thursday, March 24, 2011


Say she doesn't understand my poetry
the rhyme scheme it seems
bled out of the pen
so I made out with spoken words
sweet and fresh out like juice
from cocoa pods
thoughts I tickle; she giggles
a smile, her inner core wiggles
knows every hint; googles.
The truth I dare!
I seek the emotion
to express you!

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Jangles of hustle

Jam packed
tumultous echoes of dreams
in their different colours
down the streets
in heat...
to eat

Plate chain child

I feel the pain
and see you
with nothing to sustain
but this plate chain
handed down...
I see you roam the streets
belly empty,head hollow
but a song
rolling off the tongue
endlessly rung
in its incoherence.
You gallivant the dusty roads
roaming in windy abandon
the ring of your laughter overwhelm the streets
proud of the plate chain
You,a street king.
I see you;
a wretched contentment
and wonder...

...not mine

I am the one
who you seek in your soul
but can't find
I am the one
who knocks on the
invisible door of your heart.
You desire,require;inquire about.
I am the one
who sums up your daily travails
warms up your bed
sucks ur pain
I am the one
who you blame;shame
who you cry on his shoulder...
I am the one
who you call;
I'm all yours...
not mine.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Open Letter To The First Lady by Sultana

Open Letter To The First Lady
March 14, 2011 @ 8:21 am ›
Auntie Patience,
Good mornin’, ma. I know say
you no sabi me. My name na
Osemhen, and I get one business
wey I wan make we discuss. D
tin consan the campaign wey
you dey helep our Presido, Uncle
Jo and all im ‘umblerra’ friends
Auntie, you try. Even though you
no too sabi English, you dey
make effort. You dey try relate
wit your pipul, try console dem.
But dem be ingrate! You know
say for dis we kontri, pipul plenty
wey get bad mouth. Na so dem
go sidon, dey laff wetin you talk
wen you give speech. Instead
make dem understand the
message wey you get for mind,
dem go dey find mistake for the
English. Dem laff wen you talk say
Uncle Jo and Bros. Namadi “is
good people.” Even say the
English no beta, shey dem no
sabi say you been wan say Uncle
Jo and Bros. Namadi na beta
person? Which one kan hard for
dere? Abi, na the one wen you
talk say “the people sitting
before you here were once a
children ” ? Shey dat one no mean
say everybodi, one time or
another, be pikin? Why dem kan
dey laff you?
Auntie, no mind dem. Na bad
bele dey worry dem. Dem say you
no sabi spik English. Na English
be your papa language? Queen
of England sabi spik Ijaw?
Michelle Obama sabi Ijaw? Abegi!
No answer dem! Me, I be correct
person. I sabi say you dey try.
You wan helep Uncle Jo win
presido. I wan helep you helep
am. I get three options for you
One, I go helep you write your
speech in perfect English. Dat ’s
right. Me, I go school so I sabi
this English well well. I go write
the speech give you. You go read
am, practice am for mirror, carry
am for head.
Two, If the English pass your
power, I go write am for pidgin.
Everybodi for dis we kontri, sabi
pidgin. Dem go understand
wetin you talk. In fact, d tin be
say, if you spik English too much,
all dose market women dem and
workman no go sabi. So, pidgin
all the way. Wen Uncle Jo enter
power, we go make Pidgin
(South-South style) official
language for dis kontri.
Three, If that one pass your
power too, I go carry my friend
wey be Ijaw. We go sidon
translate am from English reach
Ijaw. Then when you dey give
speech, the English one go dey
scroll for big screen wey go dey
your back. Or you fit do like dose
Pastors dem, you talk one for
Ijaw, person go stand with you
talk am for English. The tin no
make sense?
Make I know whether you like
this idea. My money no go too
cost. We go discuss dat one wen
we see. Thank you, Auntie. Greet
Uncle Jo.
Your Pikin, Osemhen
p.s. Please share this with as
many people, you never know
who might have a direct link to
her I just might get the job! I
promise I’ll share the salary!
Culled from http://eurekanaija.wordpress.com

Saturday, March 5, 2011


I followed a friend to the park as he’s going back to the north for his national service year. As they queued to buy bus ticket I can’t but wonder how our lives are full of queues.

A man’s attempt to get a wife is paused by several toll gates. He asks her out and waits for days to get a response. He tries to beat queue with several surprises. Trying so much to surpass other suitors and when he finally gets her to himself, he believes the queue is over.

After marriage, he fires shots! Many don’t make it to the post; still he keeps up the good job till the target is met. So now the wife is pregnant, the real queuing had just started at the clinics. She queues from one birth process to the other, starting from the gate post. Yes the gate post! The driver of the car before hers had decided to have a chit chat with the gateman. Since tipping is going to be involved; the world could wait, who cares? Parking space is the next queue spot. Queuing just had to be very important.

She gives birth to this bouncing baby who is welcomed by queues. So many people want to see; some wants to hold, some just peep at Baby. They take turns, they pile gifts; they watch him grow with the mother. They back him on queues. So he grows in years and pre-school had to be his first real encounter of ‘lining up’.

As he grows in age and moves from class to class, the lining up becomes very boring. Running errands informs him of the menace of queue. His rounds at the filling stations give him first hand lessons in queue jumping. He finishes secondary school; sat for many jambs waiting for the one admission, queuing up for his turn. It turns spiritual!

He eventually gets admitted and the long queue will not vanish. First year registration process can be killing, many gets sick. He breaks through all the varsity troubles, shedding off the departmental waits. Filling NYSC mobilization form took a full day; orientation camp registration couldn’t do less. From camp to clearance, CDS, etc the queues remain.

When he is finally free from the shackles of NYSC, labour market queue has no ending like the bottomless pit. He toils from one interview to another; queuing up. He wants to despair but how dare he? After all, he is not the only one living this life; even his parents had their fair share of the queuing life. He braces up; knowing there are many more queues ahead of him.

This circle of queuing is our life. Put a man in a small position and he will bring in queue. Don’t we just love it? And I perceive a queue in hell; don’t be surprised if it gets to heaven.

losing me

Pitch black covers the lid

I’m sitting in peaceful disturbance

away with cloth; away with thoughts

away with thrive

sweaty wandering soul draped in its shadow

looking faraway from tomorrow

away with fate; away with faces

gallivanting the dark planets; no sorrow

for the food-less night; no pain

trod on thrones, stones, bones

each step, euphoric state of celestial ecstasy

away with will; away with me

away with earth

lost on a dark cloudy night.