Tag Archives: men


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


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.

Salted Cashews

“How much of a movie do you need to watch?” asked Justine to the bloke across on the table who sat cross legged while typing something on his keypad. They had been talking about a show from the 70’s called Mind Your Language, He had brought it up rather irreverently as he planned to test the waters and know where she stood politically and socially. She had said that she was familiar with the show as it was mentioned by one of her favourite comedians on an American talk show. She took a few seconds to recall what he had said and she remembered that he had said that the show had been laced with stereotypical characters from dressing and speech patterns to national conflicts, He felt the show was terribly dated and cited it as a kind of zwarte pete of the past.
“What is your name again” asked Justine to the man sitting across the table with his man-spread feet and his worried looking face while scrolling on his phone. He perks up for a while and looks into Justine’s eyes as if searching for something to say. He asked her how she felt about Californication as a drama. She laughed as soon as he said drama and quickly pointed to the immense amount of sex and sexual humour that was used in the show and noted how it was distasteful. She remarked about the opening scene in which he has sex with the daughter of his ex’s boyfriend and how it’s mere inclusion showed the extent to which the show-runners and writers hated women. The first part of the story involves Mia trying to blackmail him for having sex with a minor who was within the scope of his relations. If the show was making a comment on how life kind of winds down for some people and they get into this funk of unhappiness and how the hole is almost impossible to fill at some point during that.
“When did you stop watching the show” asked Justine to the male who sat across the table from her with a full head of hair and a well trimmed goatee. He seemed a bit bigger than he was when they had matched and she was very surprised by how little he had said. He had this intellectual air about him, his speech seemed purposeful and chosen carefully through a vetting process of scrutinising, clarifying and then finally speaking the words he had wanted to. She continued in response to her own question that she had stopped in season three when it seemed like the love story with Karen was going nowhere. She felt Hank was purposely making others around him as miserable as himself in a bid to find completeness, he had wrecked his daughter’s life and toyed with Karen’s marriage to a nice guy who loved her and would give her peace. “That may be true but I thought the show was great, It helped me through a writer’s block and a miserable exam period”.
“My name’s Dave” said Dave to Justine sitting across the table from him with her Afro puffed out and her ear rings glistening as would blind a man and her lips blue bright like the night sky. He smiled as he looked at her and she smiled back. If you looked really close you could see her blush through her dark brown skin as a smile also formed on her face. The waiter comes over to their table no 21. and asks if they were ready to order. Justine orders a baked salmon with stir-fried rice and lemon squeezed over the glazed fish with a beer. For his order, he said, “I’ll have a roasted fish and salad with beer and a side of salted cashews”.


I’m sick like i got jaundice
Flow so cold like the winter solstice
Real times slick on the beat like her hair do
Spent some time in the shop for this hairdo
It’s at times like this I try to remember
Shit that happened before my fourth September
I’m changing but not so much like a coin
I’m a new me in a quarter this must be a sign
What I was sent to do I don’t believe in
Spent too much time on faith healing preaching
While my body was thinking of sexual healing
Just didn’t allow me get in touch with my feelings
I was repressed like a recessive gene
Felt too fat in my little jeans
I’m better and I can improve too
Not done testing out my changing world view
It’s brand it’s spanking so I’m a thank me
Listen to 2015 you that’s advice that’s free


Everytime I take off my shirt to clean my body, I have to confront a new set of facts that I had before. I had slept like myself once again and had run in my dreams and flown the skies above me. In my life however real or fake I had become bigger, bulkier, fatter and I think of how sad that makes me. I guess it’s a longer story for another day, how I got here and how I had become this grotesque caricature of who I once was.

I opened my brother’s locker to see if he had an extra pair of clean socks that I could borrow to put on. I found not what I was looking for, I saw a souvenir from our last trip to Paris. It was a drawing of him by a caricature artist, he had stopped my brother and ostensibly the whole family to ask if he wanted himself drawn for free. He obliged as he does and sat in the same spot for five minutes, he asked him what he enjoys doing. “Playing football”, he replied as the artist continued to scribble away. His charcoal-like instrument meeting the page with the swift strokes and conjuring shapes. “Here”, he said as he was done with the drawing. My brother collected it from him as he really liked it and admired the shape of his head, his hair and his other features. It seemed like the artist had tapped into something that I had not seen prior, a chance encounter to see yourself really through another’s eyes. You could guage how the world might see you but then your eyes shifted still as you saw the caricature which likesatire requires understanding of the issue at hand before it can distort and transform the image. “That’s 10 euros sir”, He said and brought us all out of our trance-like state. “I thought you said it was free?” Brother remarked, “It’s free to draw, but it costs to take away” He replied. Dad was enraged as this trip was meant for something else, but my step mother calmed him. He found notes corresponding to the request and took the drawing home that day with contempt for what felt like a scam artist’s doing. I closed his locker because he had no socks there, I still pondered on the caricature potrait. It seemed that what it gives, it takes away as well.

Honestly, my shirt was not sitting well on my body and the side view made it worse as it accentuated my less than glamorous side.

Picture by Mahesh Nambiar. His blog is here: http://maheshworks.blogspot.co.uk/