A lover woke me up this morning before heading to work I kissed them and they said “See you soon” Soon being anywhere between the next moment if they forgot something in the room, in our life and came back for it Or the next six months I am too weak to recount another short affair But I will try We rarely have the privilege of remaining in love these days No memorabilia because “people will see”...
An old lover sent me memorabilia of our love So here’s this poem to hold it Call it architecture He ponders on the effect I had on him He aims to say “When I loved you, I did” I smile and in light tones and say, “I was a great girlfriend” He agrees and apologizes that he was unsure in the end I remember what his uncertainty did to us But, Here we are, with the gift of passed love and lived...
I am Surulere Born and Bred with akara, pap and Agege Bread She lives and moves She is home to me From Eric Moore Towers To Mercy Eneli I am Surulere I am Suburbia and Serenity I am Lazy Saturdays Eating Oats on the balcony I am Government School Yellow, Private school Blue and After Church on Sundays Cruising down Adelabu I am Surulere I am busy like Masha Busy like Eko...
It is a very quiet terror. The kind that finds you in moments when you’re alone. Cold, eerie silence. The lack of substance to everything. The taste of iron in the air. Fear. It invades the brain in a series of coincidences. Like an unlucky day gone quiet. Like the expectancy of death. What threatens a predator? What scares a god? What lives within that void that even gods try to push at...
It is a shameful thing to say that you sound like the rhythmic beauty of an album by a problematic artiste I swear to stop listening to but I never do. I remain oblivious to what to do with you while constantly replaying every track to the 19th of February, A reluctant night out to kiki that led to what I like to call our beautiful chaos, You were just inches away from me and I could swear I felt...
black coffee, guitar picks, fingers intertwined. the soft sighs, the explosive rants, the smell of rain. your viridian green sweatshirt, a comfortable silence, watching me, watching you. all these little details mapped out like constellations. and my favorite was how pleasurable it was to not reach out to nothing. but now it’s 4 a.m. and I’m drowning in a puddle of our memories, hunched over...
Mourn. The lives lost, the lives held captive, the lives stolen, the lives taken, burnt, beat, enslaved, drowned, silenced… Murdered. Mourn the lives they left behind. Their colorful presence now blurred. Unrecognizable. Mourn. Then get back up. Fuck up the system that did this to them, to us. Get the fuck up, gather your power, call on your courage, your ancestor’s strength. And hold underneath...
Sometimes, I wonder really how crazy it is to indulge in the idea that we are all walking around deeply convinced we are in charge; when in reality, we have absolutely no guaranteed idea of what our mind will invoke next. Are we really in charge of our being? Should we be in charge or feel the charge that we are? We encompass and embody this vast universe we are simultaneously made of and...
where I come from, thieves don’t steal only at night they don’t wear masks they don’t carry weapons they don’t come in the form you would expect. where I come from, thieves don’t steal properties. they steal thrones and crown themselves kings steal voices and dare the people to speak steal wings and ask the people to fly steal smiles and tell the people not to...
To Love or Not? By Tomi Olaniyan. He shone right there in the dark, Awaiting the beautiful presence of his bride. All dressed in full appearance, Of brightness and eminence. But she had left him for DAY, In his regalia of the SUN. For she despised his abode, Saying darkness wasn’t as beautiful. And so he sought help from his friend, Asking him to shine with him at night...
