Tag Archives: feeling

Stale

I connect when I’m supposed to
It keeps failing all of it
I find time to do what I wanted too
It needs time and a lot of it

I think I may be feeling things
It’s wrong most every time
I find myself believing scenes
It fights with my logic rhyme

I like a female at least I think I do
It’s not a thing I see in my future
No long term I may leave in 10 months still have no clue
But she’s a friend to me and I think it’s mutual

She knows people I know but way longer
I’m the least likely on the line up
Also I can’t be involved with a colleague it’s not proper
I can’t take risks with no surety so ill just shut up

Dance, little one Dance.

I heard of this dark continent in which early humans thrived

I told tales of the cities within which now seem contrived

Of forest floors and elephant grass that could hide your fears

Desert dunes filled with blood and tears

 

My time in the tropics left me all but done with rain

I had seen the world but from the side of a mountain

My head was hard to balance on the pedestal they’d given me

Walking straight on the narrow path was not done easily

 

 

Forests were amazingly flowing and shimmering in night

Resources in-house found would definitely cause no fight

Mines and ‘explorers’ popped up like meerkat Nants ingonyama

Safe to say they left before finding the reserves of cassava

 

Somethings are more apparent  when things are left unspoken

Light drizzles and corrugated iron sheet relationships remain unbroken

Ne’er a wise man was seen doing stupid things

Here was a nice man doing evil things

Kewl

It’s hard to satirise something that has at its heart so many crazy ideas. If I tell a real story about how for most of my life I have been scared shitless of cats as they are featured prominently in the folk of my childhood and in media. The bizarre nature of the situation had puzzled me for a while because even though I have worked very hard to pull from myself every superstition I was born with, some have attached themselves like tumours that removing them would be fatal.
One way I have tried to free myself from my repressed past has been making fun of these notions, to the effect of about 3 poems of which only one is published because it seemed clear that it was contradictory in nature. I am unsure if the post was taken seriously or not but it did surprise me that there are indeed times when it is hard to distinguish a truth from a conflation as those types of statements have been made in the past by ideologues. It was interesting for me to explore those especially crazy truths I had come across in the past. I would, if I could only talk about precolonial Africa to show how the cultures had developed concurrently with the rest of the world some aspects of democracy, voting and such. But the colonial influx resulted in my ancestors being painted savage while they were offered a God to fix their problems. It is actually something that I would like to write a whole article on anytime soon as essentially Christianity was the vehicle for colonialism in at least the realm of the Royal Niger Company. Along with that came literacy and civilisation which may or may not be as great as it seems, and it retconned my past as well.
When missionaries visited my home from America, whether or not they went toward any of the more rural places in Nigeria or not is not within my range of amazing memory. It changed as now I have seen and met and sort of experienced the way my house will probably look to someone from the ‘first world’ and such. The thickest of jungles in Africa were nowhere in sight, in the LGA of Surulere where I lived for those years, there’s many things that are incongruous with that safari view. I remember how eager to please we were, as members of the choir we offered Americanised versions of songs we’d learned. It was such that my younger self had switched into his pleasing mode, desperate and frantic and trying to get the applause of the white women missionaries. Little boy danced like there was something to be gained and dinner arrived too soon, a meal of white rice with boiled chicken and tomato stew (which I call stew). There they were my parents, convincing me that these people would help whoever it was they had come to help. The following Sunday I excitedly told my friends that we had missionaries over and they would be coming over. They had Jesus based magic tricks which are more awesome than they sound, these involved colouring an image with random colours provided by the audience and ‘colouring’ with a handkerchief. The method to this magic has not been researched by myself, neither has it peaked my curiosity again since that day. I have in recent years revisited this and other such events to try to protract a positive from the event as I now view these people with such disdain and malcontent that they might as well have had a terrible thing happen to them without my concern.
Interesting though is the fact that not all missionaries are bad and maybe some of them genuinely feel like they have not been total dick holes in their history however ancient. The advantages will be noted thus, maybe they helped a kid from the brink of self harm in this unforgiving world by teaching him whatever biblical doctrine it was they subscribed to as well as offering them some actual help by way of food, water and education. That is I believe the main argument to be had about whether or not they do any good in the world, but the cynic in me looks at it and sees
“I’ll give you food and water and education if you agree to subscribe to my belief system wholeheartedly including but not exclusive to:
Leaving your home and family if Christ requires it
Giving away a tenth of your allowance because God has a credit cash back deal he has set up
Maybe cut off the foreskin of your penis
Also abandon your culture and your people’s way of making sense of the world
Strive as well to convert others to the belief you are still getting into
Eventually, hand on every word of some intangible being that has vague means of discerning his presence and don’t forget to always bring your money to pay the man who gives a live adaptation of the fiction on which your entire life is based”
I have ended my argument for the necessity or lack thereof of missionaries in my experience.
Disclaimer: I don’t speak for anyone but me at this time, future me may disagree.
148 as of 9:00

What of the world?

Who cares what the world thinks of you and your race or gender or politics? If you are happy with yourself and your happiness does not prima facie directly contribute to someone else’s detriment then you should be fine. It is not necessary for everyone to like you or care enough to hate your guts, if you are in fact an individual you do feel lukewarm about a lot of people in your life. It always surprises me when people claim that they love everyone equally because you cannot by your functioning as a human do this. The only thing you can be sure of is that you love some people and some people love you, that should be enough to warm your heart or help you succeed.
I know that words are sometimes just that and when it comes to the actions themselves, it is harder to execute a ‘don’t care’ attitude. There are people that will annoy you everyday; there’s a small space on the lift from the tube sub platform but no one wants to make space, there’s a gum piece that was flung on the sidewalk and it gets stuck under your favourite pair, there’s someone on the tube eating something that has a very powerful scent and there’s an ass hole who spilled a coffee on an empty seat on the 205 bus. It is not however worth it to wait for the world to approve your actions in every instance, is it worth it to belong to a group where you can’t grow? Is it worth it to sacrifice yourself for the good of the group? I always ask what the plight of someone who commits an atrocity in another’s name should be, when the act of the male or female was not orchestrated for their pleasure but for the good of a group or an ideology. What happens to the silent protesters who get burned to death? Will the group’s success re-spawn them? Will their failure shift into pity because they have a Martyr now and death makes people into Jesus?
What of the world? I ask myself every so often as i try to focus on my goals and my life graduation, is it worth it in the end if there is no welcome for me and no hurrah and my body just dissolves like all into nothing? Will my life have more worth if by helping myself I help the world(or at least my corner of it) rather than the other way around? What does it help to congregate into groups and watch brilliance go toward propaganda and when will the protests stop and living continue? I hope the world is better in the future but I will not sacrifice my life or my joy or my happiness or my enjoyment of things for the foolhardy hope that maybe someday my life will matter in the annals of a group. I don’t mind sitting on the empty table everyday if I can know happiness and contentment and success and hunger. If my legs be made strong from the running alone and my palms like iron from the frustrated punches and my eyes straining as I don’t pick colour glasses and my nose sniffing in air, not hate or fury and my back lay on grass blades and my bum calm as I sit alone. I may be happy for I am free of groups and thinking other people’s thoughts and I will welcome my consciousness stream.

Crime drama: Confusion

She was stunned by what had transpired that day and looked solemnly at the ground as she was led to her cell. The guards with their expressionless masks reflecting the hallway and its bleak qualities, the cells were full on either side of them with murderers, rapists, fraudsters and petty thieves. Each one anticipating the entry of a new member to their ranks with their prison bars rattling rather noisily while they exclaimed in choice manners some hissing and wolf whistling while some others remarked on her pretty hair and neck tattoo.

The walk seemed to drag on and suddenly, the holding cell where her cellmate resided was before her eyes. Her eyes welcomed the detail of the cell as she entered her new home until her lawyer gets the charges dropped, the room was about the size of a closet in the Apex town centre and was garnished with many forms of paraphernalia. The far end of the room had the toilet while the space beside the door had a shelf where A lily in summer and other poems was placed neatly. As these pictures were taken in by her eyes, the officers proceed to remove her handcuffs and secure the cell doors while exiting the cell area. A hand appears from her blindside to the right and she turns to meet her cell mate Algernon, he was a short man of about 5’7 with a bulging belly and what seemed like gynecomastia. His hair had formed a reverse v and was sitting uncomfortably in small tuft patches, his beard had been grown out in such a way that his eye colour seemed an important detail to note (beige). She introduced herself as Taiwo i.e. Tahyeahwoah to him and shook him feigning a smile as she asked about how the daily life usually is around here. He shows her his tally etchings and explains that he has not been here for very long he does however know enough about the place to survive. He tells her that for the most part, she needs to rest up and that he would show her how the place works.

The night had gone as the day arrived slowly on the horizon, the prisoners were being woken up by the foghorns shouting ‘Cell check time’. Taiwo gets up off the top of the  bunk bed and gets to the ground in search of Algernon. He is sitting upright and apologises for not waking her earlier, he states that his previous female cell mate was very “assertive” and he would usually get a beating whenever he tried to wake her. She empathises with him and points to his nose bandage as if asking whether that was a result of the beatings to which he nods his head. From the cell, they make their way out to the shower room and then towel wrapped around body they proceed to take new clothes from the laundry. He tells her that he usually wakes earlier because he doesn’t want to end up with a uniform that is not suited for him necessarily, he corrects her direction as she heads toward the exit sign and says that it is time for breakfast. They both walk toward the mess hall with bold letters written ‘Peterborough Facility Mess Hall’.

A paradox of Aloneness

Aloneness

The gnawing feeling that you are the only one who feels a certain way about a certain subject matter is one that many have faced and still face today. It is a problem for some, those who find it a problem may think it is so as a result of a few reasons. Classes were taught in a factory manner where the wavy and the concave and the convex had to fit on a straight line, the resulting gulf in expectation versus reality was unfortunate. Those who were only good in a few were considered less than the one who averaged the most scores on the sheet. This brings up an interesting question in the minds of those who feel they could not know all, is different the same as unfit for work or for purpose? The answer they got rather subconsciously was “Yes, Yes, a thousand times yes”

 

Groupthink

The alone person after pondering on their dilemma decides to find the group that best suits their beliefs and opinions they hold as the core of their person. Groups in their nature are profitable as they satisfy the need to belong and check the box marked idyllic purpose. This again may be okay for some but not for others, see they find that while the group they belong to expresses their broader views they disagree on simpler seemingly mundane things and talking points. The question to be asked now is: Am I more committed to the broader ideal or the more specific ones? If the answer is specific ideals then the person is faced with a dilemma of speech. Whether the dissenting speech is to be silenced or voiced out with clanging drums and marching bands with wailing sirens and microphones and speakers. Is different bad? The group states an ideal for the party to follow but not a requirement to follow this ideal, the ideal seems okay enough to survive as no good came from quitting. The group organises protest after protest and it becomes clear that your belief is not one that you would like everyone to hold, it is unpopular or it is popular but a private expression. The movement is highly politicized and passes buzzwords along to shut down discussion, argument and disagreement like candy given at hallows eve. These harmless words, the more the merrier keep flowing down through the pipeline with specific definition after specific definition and you begin to wonder if their words are dangerous. If their monolithic view of others and hive-mind construction could lead to radical thoughts, para – military groups and illegal operations. How do you know if your movement is right? How do you know how history will judge you?

 

Private thoughts

You return home, sweaty from protesting and seriously think about the earlier posited questions and can fail to see any future profit to be gained from such an alliance, from such a Faustian deal. You lay in bed tossing turning like a bull unhinged waiting for time to tell as they say but you hear no peep. Night fails to calm and day comes drudging bright in and your blinders don’t blind you from the sun, wonder oh wonder begins in your mind to abandon your ideal and your movement and live for yourself and any you may care for as time passes. Teeth whitened and flossed in between, hair is conditioned and body is clean and you await for the happiness to overwhelm you. Oh what a wait! For in those thoughts you find that thinking for yourself is selfish and think of how many people you owe your livelihood to and you browse the internet for a broader group with a broader spectrum.

 

That is a paradox of aloneness.

Empty

I’m Empty
Of feeling again
Take my right hand lefty
Let it in, yes the pain
I’m Tired
Of feeling the loss
And I don’t know men who floss
Maybe that’s not me, not how i’m wired
I’m searching for meaning in a trash can
Promised mama I’ll do whatever I can
And even when it don’t come clear
I’ll stand strong and life I’ll declare
I’m losing my grip on the left
My right don’t feel pain
Like it’s been ages to rocks I’ve cleft
My glasses fog up in rain