Two challenging weeks: the story of adaptation.

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It’s week two at the bootcamp and the journey isn’t easing up. The challenges thickens as the plot takes a further twist. The demands are quite enormous and doubt creeps in at every turn of the hands of the clock.

Week one ended victorious but it wasn’t without headache. Week two has been demanding and my body aches for rest. However, this post isn’t to publicize my whining skills. It’s to tell you about my adaptation story so far.

The question of adaptability is one that is asked of every man regardless of status or profession. The answer I think always lies in one’s motivation and desire. What do you desire? why do you want that thing you desire so bad? How do you overcome the challenges of adaptability when the fuel of desire is running low?

The adpatation story.

From the first week I knew the first question I’ll need to answer from myself is adaptation. I was changing a serene environment for life in a couple of weeks in the throes of Lagos. I had to figure out how to beat the tiredness from traffic, how to ensure I could get as much coding time as I needed to come with the goods expected of me.

Time management was the number one problem. I’ve always had poor time management skills. So I had to figure out how to manage my time to allow me deliver. So first comes a plan. I leave my house not too early in the morning (only for Lagos that is) and ensure I get to the EPIC towers in time.

Of course, team mates and other bootcampers will need you to help with a blocker or the other. This is where you show your passion. I dedicate an hour to helping as much people as I can while making changes to my code, debugging endpoints and implementing changes from my LFA’s feedback.

Did you catch my drift? I just introduced you to my second adaption tool in that last paragraph. It’s called Multitasking. I multi task like my life depends on it (It actually does). I make sure I try to cover as much things as possible within a short time period.

I could be making changes on git while implementing a feature on the server. I found out that multi tasking and time management allows me adapt to the situation and I have been less overwhelmed since then.

The motivation story.

Nobody ever gets to succeed without a motivation behind their story. Every one needs something to push them further than their last achievement and scale new horizons. The feeling of accomplishment helps fuel the burning passion and eases the effect of the next challenge.

On Thursday evening, I started giving Postgres a thought and tried implementing postgres. I used to use a mac but now I use a windows PC and the installation took me 3 hours. After that, nothing seemed to work. I couldn’t create tables on the command line, I couldn’t do anything. I fell asleep while trying to solve this issue.

Friday, I tried resolving my blockers but nothing anyone pointed me to seemed to work. By Friday evening, my frustration was at it’s melting point. I was a walking talking lava. My week 1 LFA told me I should try to make sure I didn’t leave the bootcamp venue without help. I left without help.

I started losing hope for week 2 even before I got the mail about progressing. I gave it another try throughout Saturday and nothing seemed to work and at this point, I gave up. Then I had to remind myself why I was doing this in the first place. Around 10pm on Friday, I started making progress. By then I had to reinstall postgress via CLI, rewrite my code 5 times, etc.

Keeping my eyes on the price helped me stay motivated. Also knowing that every encounter with a challenge is a build process. It means I am getting built for something greater to come.

I then used these lessons to help my other bootcampers stay motivated. I have been more of a presence at the bootcamp now than I was in week 1. I have made more friends by virtue of helping people out even though I still have issues with my project.

Overall, it’s been a great period. A period of realization that what is to come is something that I’ll need to be prepared for and I am relishing the opportunity.

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The bootcamp experience.

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I flew back in Lagos on Friday, nervy, weary and worried. I had only one thing on my mind, fueling my anxiety. Monday, for any Lagosian would mean a different kind of hell. For me, it meant the unknown. I assumed I’d be in a room with so many cows in a slaughterhouse, witnessing giggling butchers go about their living. Boy!!! was I wrong though?

It’s been a rough week one. The week’s finale is tomorrow and that poses worries of its own but perhaps a little time out to reflect on this very risky journey of mine.

Day one was all about the talks. The introductions, the questions, the mischief from the group clowns and the laughter. It was a day set aside for evaluation. On the side of the LFA, they must have had their first impressions. They must have weighed your skill set and found just about how much work you have done and how much you have left. On the bootcampers’ side, they must have figured out how nice or otherwise their LFA are.

Day 1 for me was a good experience. My LFA was very helpful. He suggested better ways to go about user experience for my UI. Every discussion we had was majorly centered around my UI.

Day 2 wasn’t so great. I missed my standups, missed blog post delivery by a few minutes. I felt i didn’t communicate effectively. Day 3 was really good and Day 4 has been pretty good too.

The real experience however is the work load. I haven’t had to joggle so many things at once before. It is very tasking to keep communication going, to deliver expectations as well as deliver requirements.

Every passing day is a test of limit and new horizons are created every time I accomplish one. I hope I make it to week 2 in one piece though. So far so good, the experience has been superb and though stressed, I am enjoying every minute of it.

Mother Rebecca

For Rebecca Masika Kasuva.

let’s assume it wasn’t flies
  buzzing all around you,
  let’s imagine it being children
  of mothers you saved but still had to die
  with those children still inside them.
  let’s agree to call you a light,
  no, the sun, for heaven does know loss
  gloomier than darkness when you ceased to shine.

you stopped counting at 22.
  and when you rose,
  puss and blood trickling your thighs
  you showed us how to be strong.
  us motherchildren found mother
  navigating the water flow down your heart.
  when blood rejected us,
  yourself being a reject, you accepted us.

we remember the church got tired of you,
  and men tired of Jesus too, though you were no God
  he lived inside you. you were rainbow after the storm.
  we watched you row us in a little haven called boat,
  life threatening to drown us.

they returned to rape you.
  and somehow you won,
  every semen providing you strength to surge further.
  they had rot for seeds, and you were earth, mother
  and with plants, life only starts from rot,
  and you let it grow into beautiful flowers of compassion
  regardless of how ugly the past had been,
  and we woke up daily to the petals of your affection,
  us children, us mothers of children, ourselves children.

Tell me what you think guys.

Half truth

You’ve made it all the way
   to the labour room of half truth
wondering when you were conceived
  on the bed of rumours, groping

without fingers
  stuck in your mouth, looking for a way
out of this mess. You’ve known these streets
   that stretch down the abyss
for years. pioneering

the truth is exile
   but you wouldn’t start hijrah
for the sake of thousands
only to lay as dust or stone in the tongue of man
   as he feasts, spitting you out like Ahusubillah!
NO! you wouldn’t.

This is the bridge
   you always said you’d cross.
You’d die if you go further, you’d die should you head back.

What do you make of this? Share your thoughts. Let’s hear em.

Thank you

Your mother tried to chew words like your father,
her jaw stressed, her lips moved,
but her tongue was always the problem.

She taught you but you never listened,
never cared for her tongue’s intonation,
so she had to try your father’s.
tried she did, she still does

although that’s how good she did try.
Your mother always had money
tied to her wrapper’s end as if she was staying prepared for Kutsiami,
and since Awoonor and his fathers, like your mother’s fathers
never knew the outcome of a straightened wrapper end,
she must have stayed ready at your expense.

She made you go to school sad, mother,
and since you did not stay with her
on her quest for glory in the hearth, your happiness did not matter.
she taught you, taught you how to make us happy,
she taught you without saying a word
how much bliss you would find in your children’s.

Now I sit penning this letter of appreciation
ignorant of who to address it to.

Alright. Thank you for reading this far. Go ahead and tell me what you think of this. Thank you.

Talking drum

Success: like the talking drum
You stay by the side, hung by a rope
Onto shoulders intrigued by your weight, speaking in mother’s tongue calling others to the floor.
Kosi ijo l’ese bi o ba f’ohun;
You’ve whispered the ears of kings
On their day of coronation,
As the crown adorns their head
Gleaming, with horse whip wavy.
I have rejoiced with those you’ve called,
So that I may dance on floors my fathers never did.
I do not want to live another day not knowing what it feels like,
Dancing to your voice,
To the words you evoke,
Nitori, Aso funfun ama sukun aro:
I crave your call for my feet are ready,
Ready to exorcise the demons like dust from the floor,
For I was born, a cross between Arapa and Arese,
Born to let my feet dazzle the world.
I do not wish to influence Ayan with gold I do not have,
I do not wish to live another day, ignored, overlooked,
While my feet itches for the floors
My fathers never danced on, or 
Floors they planted feet never to return.

Let’s hear your comments guys. I’d love to hear what you make of this.

Happy New year

god’s wrath.

Let me tell you of the gods’ wrath.
They sit
And roar with laughter
And mock
As they feast
While arbitrators abuse all they stand for
They clamor, angst heralded by rumbling clouds
And forth comes the rain
As we sweat and weep under it as it forms deltas, tributaries, channels
All watering the trees that these arbitrators grow.

*           *        *           *
Mother’s breast.

Mother’s breast sags,
Heavy with milk of wisdom.
She yearns
For her children’s thirst
That they may gulp
And see themselves shallow,
Void of foresight, justifying this madness,
This madness that is their way of life.

Hello guys. Happy new year to you and yours. I wish you all that you wish yourself. Most importantly I wish y’all success.
I need y’all to critique this pieces for me. Whatever your comments might be. Let’s hear them. Thank you.

Carpe Diem II

When I thought about writing the poems i posted recently, I was going to ask some of you fine girls to be the cover for the poems, I didn’t but today I was bold enough and as a result:

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@dhatgurl_mia

Sunshine

Blotched and dint
With a face telling tales of faux
Hints at a smile veiled demon.
No, that’s not her
Not sunshine.
I have lived and relive the daydreams
For your beauty
Is the reel to which I am wound.
I do not care for bliss
If it’s not with you
The heavens would weep
In empathy
And carve upon earth
A tomb for the debt,
The emotions I owe you.
You speak in the language of a shrike
Feed on my esteem
Impaling my heart
With the ugly sight of your grimace.
My chaste love yearns
That your dour heart radiates
And sends rays of love
That would see us bloom
Before dusk comes upon us
And I am forced to recant
Sit and let it all sink
In one last sigh, wishing
That you look beyond the frond
And spread your shine my way.

Your comments would be appreciated. Please drop them. Thank you for reading.

Carpe Diem I

I promised I was going to post romantic poems right? Well. I do not know how these fit in that category but I’m hoping you guys enjoy it like you always do.

Stonehenges in the shire

Stonehenges
Far away in the shire
Where we etched our union
Birthed in the gallows
Of our tragedies past,
Remoulding our hearts
Into pegs and holes that fits.
This is love
Stoked in the hearth
That once hosted embers.
I’ve come so far,
You’ve come so far
To create us a paradise
That feels like spring
As we flaunt our bloom
Red like the petals of a rose
Oblivious of the winter
Cold, that almost froze our hearts
Into stone.

*      *       *

The moment

The moment swore to a shrine
Where the god owns a bow
And a quiver
With arrows aimed
For your abode, my heart.
The moment swore
That the shore holds
An adventure greater
Than the oceans
I conquered across the globe.
The moment wrote,
Like a poet
In proximity of his muse
Words, words that I spoke
From the depth of my soul
To you…
The past, like a regalia
That brings back memories
Of chaos, of war
And an endless feel of pain.
A kiss, teary glance
And a departing figure
Turning silhouette
With the setting sun.

I am trying to get in touch with this side that I’ve left uncared for for too long. So dear readers, critics et al, do your analyzing and critiquing in the comment box. I want you to. Please. Thank you.

Appreciation Day

Hello guys. It’s been a while since I last dropped something here. My last piece might need some review (for the lack of a better word) but I don’t think I’d do such.
I do think i need to appreciate you guys for coming here, reading and sharing and dropping comments. I am grateful. You guys are the bomb. While some of you might find my poetry a lot more weaker and some might think it’s even better, I just wanna say thank you. Today I might be doing one last serious poem for the time being. I want to try some romance and see if I’m still in touch with that side but please enjoy these for now.

Bucolics

Bucolics couldn’t teach you
That nature takes a course, beautiful.
Brother! How come mother’s cry sears not your heart?
That you vigorously furrow her loins?

I’ve heard your chants, afar and loud
A broom palmed,
An umbrella held by your armpit
Just in case
It rains, so you could don the green and red
Like a flag.

The ballots awaits our thumb
Pressed with tremor
For a system that yields
Sleeves “long or short”.
Brother, I can see you bought father,
And made him dance
Naked, shamelessly gyrating
To the drums you beat
For crumbs.
You being the “wind wey don blow fowl nyansh”,
Such entertainment for his sons.
Like a family rite this dance,
That waltzed his father to the grave.

* * * *

Seasons

There comes a time, a season
Where it all withers
And fall and crumbles
As we reach across desperately,
Trying to fix things
Trying to fix what we should have saved.

There comes a time when it grows
Cold as the eerie breath of harmattan
Cracking lips, rising dust turning voices hoarse
While we have the baphomet’s for face
After all, the devil lies in the heart of mankind
Why shouldn’t evil wear the face of men?

Forty kids left
Seeking knowledge, looking forward
To their friends, to the match after class.
Their souls lits, their parents’ tear
Apart, is what death tore them, taunts them.

Would there be a time, a season
Where life shoots from rot,
And we reach and connect in warmth
As time crawls, etching emblems of spring
Into hearts hardened by pain,
Beautiful and serene in our memories
And thoughts?

Alright guys. Let’s have your comments. Which do you prefer?