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OLU

he was walking towards me flashing a smile. my heart stopped, not because of how devastatingly handsome he was but because he looked so much like Olu. everything from his 6 feet-something height to the i'm-distressed-beard was similar to Olu's.    finally stopping in front of the booth i was sitting still smiling, he extended his right hand,"Oluola Gbemu. Head Marketing Manager AT and T" you must be Miss Adeja?.     impossible. how could i be meeting Olu again after all that had happened and why did he seem not to recognize me. "y_ yee_yeh_yees i'm Miss Ah_Ade" i stammered"     this is crazy. Olu died last month. how could he possibly be sitting in front of me right now reintroducing himself like we were meeting for the first time. i knew this was Olu, my handsome fish, my sugarcane plum, my dead fiancee.     the eyes, the fine lines on his forehead, his red palms, even the black spots on his face, just under his nostrils were exactly how i remem…

Ugo Amaká

Ugoamaka used to want
to be a seamstress:
onye odúdú.
but papa said the only things she would
be mending would be damaged kidneys . so she went ahead and became
a dokinta:
onye ogwu ocha.
mending people's insides;
unmending hers.
g.o.

ward two

my mind is blank. they said i would feel this way when i take the blue pill. these nurses know how to make life miserable with their continuous blabbing, pills, and injections.     i know the therapies are not working because i still want to do it again. the pills make me blank for about five hours then the demons return. 
  taunting, telling me to let go, to do it one more time and feel happy with myself.      i look at the old clock hanging on the peeling hall wall. it has been seven hours, thirty six minutes and fifteen seconds precisely  since the last blue pill. nurse Annie's heels announce her coming through the other end of the hallway, pushing the squeaky trolley:squeeeak squeak squeeeakthe demon grabs my arm and winks at me. i wink back gripping tightly to the razor blade digging deep into my bloody palms. i will do it.  i will kill again and be happy with myself- feeling the rush of pleasure through my veins and arteries. the door opens flooding in enough light revea…

runaway bride

i run.    it is safer this way. there's no one to stop me this time, to scold me about the irresponsibility of my action. no Deji to tell me to put on weight in order to fit into the one hundred and fifty eight thousand naira lace wedding gown he ordered off Jumia or mama to continuously rebuke my lifestyle with her usual, "ndu gi ajööka. o jööka nnó."i keep on running.away from Deji, mama, the guests, the church, my wedding and the big shiny diamond ring i had taken off and thrown over the low church fence. my marriage to Deji i knew would be a death sentence even before it began.someone was screaming for me to stop but ignoring them, i ran on......till i turned back and saw myself lying in a pool of my own blood, spilled over the tarred road and the bumper of a black Toyota Camry. Deji, holding my bloody head,sobbing so loudly the hairs on the back of my neck stood. The driver of the vehicle running to Deji's side, both hands on his head explaining, " Jesus…

Termuno

for as long as i can remember Termuno has always been in my life. ever since that day in primary four during PE when Ms Aisha instructed us to pair up for badminton.    we ended up being partners, Termuno and i, she was the newiee then, barely a month old in our school. we immediately became friends and sisters as time went on_ through boarding school and even uni.   we were inseparable and shared everything.
for years we shared jewelry, clothes, money, cars and for the past year, Tunde my husband, unknown to me.   i knew Tunde was cheating but suspected those skanky half brain uni girls up until yesterday when i caught him making out in a cosy restaurant with Termuno. Termuno and my Tunde in an affair. hm. apparently we did share everything indeed, because i too was having an affair; a mind blowing affair with Joseph;
Termuno's fiancee.    Termuno and i were best of friends and sisters afterall.
sharing everything, husband and fiancee alike.☺

jookwa. ¤modern satiric series ¤

jookwa. is the
word for "welldone"
where i come from. women with heavy baskets
of yams on their heads
are greeted with jookwas.
young, sweat glistering-back men
caressing farm tools too.
young lasses from streams
balancing jerrycans or oversized basins
embrace their jookwas enthusiastically.
old people walking kilometres to
pay in-laws a visit are
with bowing knees et hugs jookwaed. and you my dear,
in front of the television all day
with your cell: your crucifix,
sharing photos and awaiting likes
on Facebook and Instagram,
suffocating yourself with waisttrainers,
 betting more than you earn,
you expect a jookwaa too right? 



glossary
jookwa - literally translates to "welldone "
origin- Afikpo North *Ehugbo*
(southeastern Nigeria )

bloom baby bloom

bloom baby bloom
wake up this morning
shine all the day through.
glow.
let them see you from
the end of the hallway
and the street too. shine baby shine
let the radiation blind
their eyes.
make them see you clearer
in all your beauty, 
bloom. sway baby sway
sashay down the stairs
like silk or linen,
like red wine in our glasses
sway. bloom baby bloom
go to bed before the moon
decides to hide
bloom.
let it not be said the night
grew older than your dreams
sleep.

¤for yous* and all the beautiful people in my life¤glossary
yous - because there are more than one of  *you*

gold leaf pendant

i am in bed
seven fifty four a.m
gold leaf pendant in hand.
what makes it so fascinating?
gold leaf pendant with
a dab of baby pink nail polish
what is so fascinating
about that?
gold leaf pendant i
yesterday, washed clean.
gold leaf pendant
lost it's glow
why fascinating still? studying the veins on the veins
rooting this gold leaf pendant;
the heart of a leaf on a
gold leaf pendant. up until today,
the only companion
i've had
is this
gold leaf pendant,
with it's heart and veins
and dab and beauty. 

his gift

in this pitch black room
              with the rest of the world
              out there; 
              outside the door,
              plugged in earphones,
              offside: all their voices
               blocked out.
               tell yourself this :
            " the world is mine to conquer. "

           and darling,
           tomorrow morning
           get up,
            conquer
            because HE gave to us all
            the power to make our
            make believes REAL

            forget anyone who says
             Miracles don't happen,
             that faith is silly.
              for all the kingdoms of this
             world
            were they not made out of the
             miracle of creativity and more?


              believe and learn to channel
              the good _ the positive
               into every single droplets
               of atom making up your life.

g.o

bae is shit

if my fonné is not sweet_
        i mean,  tush enough.

        if my hips are smaller than
        my smaller waists;
         if i do not have the shape of
         an Egyptian hourglass
          or light skinned like mamiwater.         if my face homes zits
        religiously,
        if my jollof burns 
        and my egusí tastes like goat's breathe,

        would you still call me "bae"? glossary fonné - deliberate imitation of any foreign accent (usually to impress)tush - poshmamiwater - mermaidjollof - a method of cooking rice common in some parts of Asia and Western Africaegusí - melon seeds (key ingredient in making of the melon seed food)bae -  *controversial endearment equivalent to "baby" or "boo".... g. o

untitled

is there any other
      out there who
      stops.
     to
   really see everything?      it is not everyday i
     see you
     but. when
     i do. it's all of
     you i want to see     i think i see you
     clearer enough when
     you see me see you.
     seeing you see me

change forgets to change

where did my genuine smile go?
     replaced with this hole;
     this empty eyed routine
     i do with my face.     where did their love go?
    replaced with those very
    many questions
    and aristocratic doubts.     where did my words hide?
   the fountain of them
    on nights as this
    in them i drowned.

   where did you go?
  leaving her with a lump in the
  chest region_
  the cancer,of which
  she died of a year or so later.

   where was everything as they were
  before we changed,
  it's all different now_
  everything is:
  the cold,  the heat,
  the wind,  the rain,
  they all forget their season.
  trees no longer sway,
  perfumes forget their scent
  the man who knew me once
  has forgotten my name.
  the spiders are no more web spinning,
  roaches forget to scavenge, 
pain itself forgets to hurt
  and my worn eyes
  forget the how to sleep:  so i sit awake at three fifteen a.m.
wondering when the whole world
turned this mad

make me a man

make me a man sir.
carve his hairline,
chisel his jaw
and give him perfect teeth. make me a man.
harden his chest,
caramel and tough,
smooth enough that i
can lay my head on
every other night. make me a man sir.
tall or not,
just as long as he carries
me on our wedding night. make me a man;
one, who opens doors
reads my verses
places me on his lap
and plays with me silly
at two a.m. make me a man
who, every night or day
i'd marvely lift my hands
in praise:
"hallelujah. HE reigns"make me a man
not a perfect doll.
a man,
imperfect as he is
yet
perfect in my eyes. make me one sir.

casualties

there's something in a song
               that makes it sad:
                in the rain
             that makes it gloomy,
                in the way the dark clouds
gather
             steering the heart;
               wrenching my insides
              all the more
            remotely out of reach
              from everything i know

Too Early

it's such an early hour
               to rain,
           just the wrong time
            of the year.
          what happened to all
      the sunny clouds?
         where did the rainbow go?
         where is my summer_
       my orangey yellow sunset:
           it's that time of the year
           to be indoor again

Burden

i'm trying,
it's not easy.
the burden,
the ache;
spreading from
my head to neck.
i'm trying,
as little as i
can manage,
as hectic,
as lost as i seem.
i'm trying,
yet every other night
or midday,
at some point,
i pause
thinking back to
those things
i could have done
or undone.

Dwelling

we dwell on
dreams
miles away;
far enough from
sight.
we lust for
fame
twinkling violently;
hurting our eyes.
huge cars and
shiny shoes,
rich desserts
on golden dishes;
the sinful putrid stench
of cash.

Hallway

There's a dark hallway
leading to a door
leading to a room
leading to a light
coming from a crack
on the top right
of the wall.
If you look
through,
past the bright light
there'd be a spark
coming from a river
flowing from the lake
at the base of the mountain
There.
Look yonder
don't dwell in wonder
it's a feast laid out
all for you

5ive Minute Reflection

when you let that tear drop, you become vulnerable. but. still... let it; let it all out. the empty feeling afterwards is priceless and with it comes STRENGTH.

Write

maybe
this time,
i wanted you to
write me poetry.
a classic:
one that'd be read
over time,
over and over again
of how a man in love
paused space and time
for the girl
you loved,
or aren't i a priceless
piece
of art afterall ?

Fallen

how much farther
can i fall?the other night you
stared at me
as i lay,
pretending to sleep.
you turned the other
way
as my breathe caught,
inhaling your scent
my muse,
my love,
my torment,
my all.
inhaling you all in,
nervous,
ashamed,
bold,
yet doubting.
wondering if
by luck,
you feel
these tiny little sparks,
the demons,
that fill up my head all
day long
with
images of you
and by night,
strongly,
the sparks explode,
bursting into fireworks,
lighting up my heart,
my insides

red apple

i still hate
red apples.
but today,
i ate one
and tomorrow,
maybe,
another.
until,
a day when
i find that
perfect
tasty red
apple
as i sit and
wave from a
flying pig.g.o.

i had time.
weeks upon weeks
upon weeks.
weeks i sat back
as they dragged on
while speeding by.
identical weeks that
wouldn't let me know
what day it was.i had the time
but instead
stubbornly,
i
let it pass.g.o.

sans titre

promises fade
like shooting stars,
like pink nail poilsh
on a holiday weekendanger lasts
like the burn
from hot tasteless coffee
on the tip of a tonguelove is
a classic.
open to all,
perfect to those who find her beautyhappiness is
the breaking of wave,
the shells by the seaside,
the litter of footprints we left on the beach.g.o.