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, orĀ 
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:




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

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 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.

* * * *


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?

Fruitless tree

Symphonies to the gods,
That I may find
Foot in my ballads,
While i approach the banana tree seeking
Fruits, with gourds filled
With spirit, that deities may be pleased
For I sowed seeds and reaped a quiet home.

For many moons I have
Parted through loins, burrowed the earth,
That Edumare might hearken, and bless me
With sleepless nights filled with an infant’s cry.
While I Grey atop the sand hoping
I leave behind Ogidan as footprint.

Hoofs for the heavy figurine
With another on its back,
For hope might lie in this ironic mockery.
As moons begets aubades
Parting me from the dawn hope,
And parables comes in my endeavors, I
Striking a serpent crawling on a rock.

Seasons soars and customs proffer
Solutions, that I may
Be a weaver
Nesting between the thighs of another…

*ogidan = male child

I really need you guys to analyze/criticize this. Thanks.

To survive…

To survive everyday
Is to live a corpse,
To have wings
Clenched by thoughts
You fail to soar
Like the eagle you should.

To prevent life
From drowning you,
Fill your lungs
With bliss, that
You pespire angst
Like tremor it hurts the universe.

To lay down at night
Burdened with reflections,
So you move about
Captain hook the conquered
And the croc as your worries.
Your body wears out
For your mind weighs a ton
For your core is void of peace.

So it reigns stormy clouds,
The sun in you eclipsed.
It’s like you’re a pen
Carrying water for ink
With every scribble
In ruins is the sheet.

You feel like a deaf mute
With a passion for music
But you can neither hear
Nor can you mutter a note.

So when it pours,
The clouds wailing
In empathy,
Showering earth with her gift
Till the sun shines
And rainbows arch
The face of the earth,
And you watch
As grass sprout out
Lands previously barren,
Do you not die a little more?

Hello guys, been a while right? Sorry I stopped posting regularly. But the drill is known. Let’s hear your thoughts. Critique this if you can please.