POEMS: Alone, Bitter, Wouldn’t it, Love’s love, Lil’ Sim, The Sleeper, Taming As The Conscience & Common Money


Taste speech my brother,
Crave for words in reply.
Yearn to see yet another,
To see, touch and go by;
For lonely is every breather.


Sweet is straight yet unclear,
Always new with its old fare.
But bitter doesn’t ever share,
Though it is sinister but sincere,
So real and that shade unfair.


Be great to look and see, and just let as it all be.
Do what could and should, with no reserves for would.

Note the horizons as set, to appreciate as they let.
When death does make lone; to say yes! It is all done.


This isn’t the story of our wives;
With each and all we share life,
Parting and bridging as we leave.
Each and all of us is this thief.

We lead with all emotions canal,
Lustily wanting all just temporal.
For we only tell from the external;
Wishing, hoping it is so internal.

Rolled in next is the nature,
The feelings growing to mature.
We regard or discard a culture
To marry dreams, make a future.

The investments yield their sanity,
Our character tests its immunity.
The lucky are in blissful humility,
Off springing, living, fostering humanity.

Measurement elude even more less,
For all other lust is meaningless.
Finally, love rules all the featureless,
Together we die till eternity endless.


Sim played ‘a lil’ house’
On the Muddy’s bank.
Then came a lil’ mouse
And Sim’s skin shrank.

Sim slipped and fell,
Splash into the Muddy.
Soon lil’ Sim could tell
To swim is so hardy.

Lil’ Sim so drank
The bad muddy water.
As her tiny head sank
No one saw Sim later.

Where lil’ Sim will be
Clothes are not clean,
Eyes dark as night be,
They eat no lil’ bean.

O lil’ Sim’s friends
Don’t you wish her here?
Warm beds and story ends,
Like all here who hear.


Why’ll this air carry a plane
And not carry me alone too,
Or indeed a speech in its vein
Across nothing instantly true.

Why will a big city of a ship
Sail oceans leagues in depth
And I sink in a pool as I sleep,
Like many tiny pebbles too wept.

I see no answer in practice
Or reason in their pattern.
Where a dream does surface,
There my sleep shows concern.


With this thought comes the word
That a taught mind does afford.
From the heart’s thrust for action,
The spirit reveals its intension.

Creeping up guts and spines
Of the anguished, as he pines.
The real is seen not as before,
For requests never ever bore.

One thoughtless act or yet
Another rehearsed and so wet,
Could afterwards be active
And securely hold any captive.

Days go by written with them,
Hours pass mindless also then.
As minutes and their seconds
Of their pain’s mocking bonds.


Like it isn’t the mouth but words,
Such is its worth not all it lords.
Amassed and roots evil in its mood,
Prosperity as penury sees evil in its good.

The dance of this naked wind will exert.
Its feel and thrill, invincible not exact.
In an eternal plunge for fingers to hold,
Elusive water is leashed forever as told.

All satisfaction is a moon lit scene
That passes on as soon as it is seen.
Like weeds in bloom nurtured in dew,
Money is too common to be any new.

Where’s My Woman?


Somewhere at the crossroads of my earliest days I did finally recognize her for what she truly is. Present as she ever was before me. There to hear, smell, see, touch, have and eat. She is always there for me and all my flaws and failures, so glaring as they always are. She held me in her hospitable embrace, like I am the most amazing event in her entire long existence.

I woke up in the cradle of her shoulder, not yet sober from the intoxication of my ever innocent naivety of habitual ignorance. The little rift she positioned me in, suited me like another skin. The early dew still misty and the fog damp in the moist odour of green life. Its rich texture so soothing to my touch and the prickly feel of her short skin hair is real and alive; the enduring pasture of my childhood and harbinger of my ever lingering livelihood. The palm trees in her oasis sustain my existence.

She never gave me more when I wanted. I just took and God damn her. She hits me and I cried, yet I had what I wanted in my own way and time, as she most generously still allows. There was only my way and no other. She ironically made very sure of that, with an active laxity. Her reactionary ease belittles her concise dominion but lightens and lively up my lustful slavery, presumably heralding my ever bolder errors.

I guessed and heard that like the promise to give life a loan and a meaning for it, I had announced my existence like a tolling bell made to recede back into the abyss and reconcile with the evil I speculate with. But I was never certain how I came to be hers and never easily persuaded why I am not of another. Perfect it may be to my ego and schemes it seems. Maybe I was just a reject she took in, accepted and accommodated; it is in her character, this I haven’t an iota of doubt about.

Clutching her broad navel as I look up from her low invincible bio-embrace, I beheld the ravishing rugged beauty of her peaked nipples of ice-capped pillars, as they are crested high up like a pair of very old twin mountains. They dripped their white clear, sweet life raring milk and it flows eternally downwards into my watered rivers, to quench all my life trended thirsts; every single one of them. Those I already had and many I just may have selfishly acquired in my coy nature.

As her nature sifted my kind on her vast expanse, that I may abound more, even in the nothingness of natural silence that has hidden all other more deserving sounds elsewhere, ignoring their righteous demands for attention. In between the twin mountains’ valley is my favoured nestling place; the cleavage of my adolescence, where I perch day long as she went about her chores, catering for me. I moan as she twists a tit into my mouth.

I chew at the upside-down ice cream cone, at the creamy cold nourishment from the mountain, for the fun of it. When I get tired of it or even before I do, I gaze up into her face. Her face is a contraption of concentration at work, ever brewing a storm. Then it is a pale, clear and accommodating expanse as she listens. Her adorable actively pleasant face keeps my attention with playful winks and clicks. It is a floating woolly cloud, in various smoke-like miens. It is always saying its mood with every day and night, season and reason.

She is always there when I look up. Ever present when I look and where I remember she will ever be. Beyond her chin, horizoned with its rough edge like many a masculine chin’s clef, is her face and sky. It is that simple identity of hers I have come to take for granted. It is always either side of my mobile head and her horizons; as in opposites not parallels and I grasp that I am all alone. Right in the middle of her, time and this huge sky;

Soul of this globe,
Never will it elope.
Its thought its own,
Roaming in its fun.

Pale or dark as ever,
Woolly chilly shiver.
Diamonded precious
So actively conscious.

Wrapped loose cloth,
Securing the whole lot.
Plenty does here rest
As willed by our best.

She wakes up one night alone, by herself. I was gone and all grown up but still pestering her life. I wasn’t her ally, but an alien she nurtured and fed to her detriment. The oneness we had was gone as we shared her body and my shit. Devouring her best, dumping its fair residue to waste like toxic creations spoilt by her best attributes. But now I just keep my body and her, she gets my shit. I took her best and left with nothing to show for it but my misery, as I rot away with sure and certain age;

Living is thwarted,
Obscured by its folly.
The mind is hunted,
Impossible even if jolly.

When a bird sings,
It is because it must.
What age brings
Speaks for us most.

Like many, not all but most, we had that parental only pact; to need to breed to feed, rubbed into our psyche not our physique. It is drilled in with words that say so much more because they are twisted to do such. We made up words for our own use and we have ended up using them to render ourselves their slaves.

Words are like the moods the moon stimulates and the feelings that they will always show as soon as they are said. Whether as off-springs of a carefree oath or not, words are stuff filled with only doubt even when they appear to know what they are about. They will smartly set aside the feelings that originate them with such class, and pursue their own. We will always forget words, for they are said wet with much anticipated hope. The fact that they follow through an idea and still back up to dry it up again, speaks for their reliability.

How words dry up a dream is relative to their personalized medium, for time on its own would dry up the anticipated hope and take away the brightness out of the promised day of goodness, and again night would linger on, forgotten. It is true that words are lost in mazes of truths. This is because words are actually made from and like the maze structured brain that creates and uses them; that cratered, ridged, influential moon.

The substance of my existence is embedded somewhere in her. I see its influence in her every act, for it is not in mine. Her essence is such that I never fully comprehend it and I cringe from my sheer nothingness. The waning oscillating ripples in the clear pond of reality, leaves the soiling pebbles humanity keeps throwing into it, still beneath the rich water of its consciousness, clearly depicting how man’s loud pitiful aggression doesn’t survive his certainly limited presence.

I see the dew steal in at dawn, in tears. The morning twilights like it did billions of days before I was told it crept in every other mourning morning, ever since still. Today appears to be weeping for yesterday’s sorrow, burying yesterday in tears from the clouds that woke up today crying. A cool morning breeze softly speaks the calm and tranquil wonder in death and birth of new days, saying things like we all already knew. It brings peace to the dawn’s thoughts as early mischief and its numerous advocates, schemes into our daily Eden.

When wickedness tries yet again to reimburse cruelty with pity and the need to retreat to perceived safety is not its usual first option, we struggle over trivial issues we never accomplish. Soft warm sun rays declare hope is about again after only a single short night-while. The sun and its light that came first are only but a mere piece in a repertoire of realms so broad, and we a piece of it. She is only another ounce of an interconnected structure, of which I am another. If I fail, ignore or neglect her, the centre cannot hold me, for all things will fall apart. All is held together now because everything is one big Aeon of dew.

Crept in mourning morning
Crying away thy sorrow.
Skies’ spittle woke sobbing,
Burying the last morrow.

Whispers roam on a wind
Saying words all heard,
Soothe the first twilight’s mind
As early snakes grow a beard.

Tender heavenly rays announce
Judge’s back from a night abroad.
This first creation another ounce
In a repertoire of realms so broad.

All these scattered crossroads point me to one incontestable fact, like they have always done over every single triviality in my stereotyped, uninterestingly safe life that I incessantly rebel against with the rapt success of a restless peripatetic brute. It is a fact I can’t hide or alter to suit my self punishing ego and its detrimental quests. I held the truth in my hands for long. The truth is; my story is the woman’s and it can only be one story, for we are married together for an Aeon of Dew.

But in the affiliations my might had suffered me with, I see that in the hustle and bustle that I can not denounce like I relish to, I am a slave of my own perversion. I am a slave that lives like a master. Slavery is my addiction as any addiction is its slavery. I flatter myself with achievements of general concerns, recalling the minutest details of insignificant hurting sensations, remembering lukewarm salty tears and the joyous throaty giggle of laughter, when things that are larger than life arrest me still. So there is this little issue about the wife she married me to;

With the dreams of many
Mine wrestled so bravely.
Amidst hopes so sunny,
They tussle aimlessly.

She stood aside alone
With hands akimbo.
Beckoning even a stone,
A sight commanding a bow.

Humming emotional tunes;
Singled out, isolated wishes.
All engulfed in fumes,
Little hope for securing stitches.

Her hairs say her preference;
Tailing behind as Medusa’s crown.
Her aim in her appearance
As everyday she’s a lighter brown.

The immorality in fantasies,
The emptiness in smiles
As hearts create vacancies;
Hopes dumped in closed files.

It’s bottled up inside her;
The pain of another way.
She is sincere and only prefer,
That’s all she ever will say.

In those eyes that speak
Darkness glows from hidden fears.
The wait’s companion at its peak,
Yet she wouldn’t let the tears.

From mountains of selfish pride
Falls many years of knowledge
And it’s all been only a ride
That’s almost at existence’s verge.

Wanting what’s not given
So much that it hurts a lot.
Shy but ever once beaten,
It’s in these fears we’re caught.

So short ago the smiles spoke,
Or so I thought in my indifference.
Hearts appeared immune to a poke,
Like empty bags in conference.

The affection wasn’t a mirage,
Probably the marriage was.
But the rage in this cage;
Experience defeatingly shall pass.

She isn’t standing with me,
Claiming as I do, to be the man.
Her attitude mails nothing I see,
Then where is she, the woman?

POEMS: Swift’s Day & Bat’s Night, Fret, Again, Idols, Money & The Miser, First Pain & Wounds Of The World


The cities are a big buzz of motions;
Hurried, rushed, so quick commotions.
All days lift into the very long hurry
That is civilization’s endless story.

Sunlight by they whoosh by busy.
Visible yet blur, their lives not easy.
They lit nights for more and a bite,
Workers and parasitic wonders in flight.


Knighting glories to seek,
Crows in sunrises forever.
All does becomes meek,
Fret and surely does wither.

Death in its hunger
Fills not its own anger.
Mowing earthly lawns,
It plays men like pawns.


Tomorrow will come again
With its morning and night,
Feignedly new with rain,
In fervent dark and bright.


The patience of man
Had over many ages
Given to his own land
Births of many images.

It has made gods
Of so many symbols;
Earthly made rods,
Also celestial balls.

In his long wait
His patience creates
Answers that relate
Only to his state.

The clouds of reason
Cover his horizons;
Make a sky season,
Or mystic masons.

Sight is so deceptive
That it can tilt a view,
Halo any perspective
With inspired preview.

Man looks around
And sees such beauty,
Beyond any he found
Or his own humanity.

In his natural urge
He pays respects to
Visions and courage,
Where honour isn’t due.

In his all human way,
He puts faith in those
He comprehends’ll stay;
Idolizing his very nose.


“Spend me! You miserable clot,
So I can travel, visit and just be.
Have I not uplifted all your lot
With my coming and swelling sea?”

“Ha! See what is talking here;
Another creation grown astray.
Has making you collect near
Lost its purpose as any way?”

“I have existed so long before,
Making many, long before you.
Hadn’t my might sown more
Fright in you than you’ll rue?”

“My fear of you doesn’t keep,
That is why you I do amass.
How trivial your might heap
Just like any furniture was?”

“I taste the air man breathe,
Inhaled in its life and gasped.
Hasn’t the ease I could knit
Warmth skeletons all trapped?”

“I don’t lodge or host guests
And don’t burden any to host.
Haven’t I seen your requests
Send errands until they’re lost?”

“I plunge in a lake all humble,
Help will come and does drown.
Had not man’s urge so trouble
His lust for his own crown?”

“Then I’ve unraveled your plot,
So with me you’re ever sunk.
I’ll keep man’s own twin clot.
After all, aren’t you precious junk?”


When I felt it happen too;
Like I heard and saw it too.
I died that day that I knew;
I was just me and not new.
Then alive I sprout out again;
Living as all do, after their first pain.


Visible cuts we saw,
Deep set and so raw.
It had the pretty torn
And the beholder run.

Worn with its pride
As any true bride.
A scar from a war
Is like a lion’s roar.

Not on Everest’s peak
Must anyone do seek,
For even on all hills
Are these worlds ills.

The baby that cries,
Steals away and tries;
To be his own parent,
Where he is only sent.

That spouse out back;
Behind one Holy Ark,
Leaves the same vow
Yet remains, some how.

They; as many, are
So near and not far.
Wounds made bold
In this very world.



Hills have a strange way of talking to Goats. They tell them things only they hear and understand. ‘Climb, climb,’ they seem to say. ‘This rock, that, there,’ they urge. Watching these Goats play on their ancient ancestral rocks tells a story of a people and their land, a land they lost and still own. Jumping, leaping and running, the Goats wander the hills; always covered in early green grass, tender and short on the sparsely set grown rocky hills of the vast plateau’s plains.
All ridges, hills, and mountains must have grown out of their surrounding grounds because their summits carry the distinct texture of the soil top of the ground beneath them. The hills retain every bit of the texture that makes up the grounds they stand upon. It is here these Goats are found, right where their ancestors’ modesty had bred life into them with all that makes them of the place. Their ancient history is as old as the rocks, the hills and on the very rich, fertile, high cold plateau.
So many times over, it felt like the Goats have exiled themselves from the rest of the plateau beneath the hills, they had been ouster by their very own de facto consciousness. They remained sheltered, hiding and breeding on the hills. Even though they do roam down the hills from time to time, they only do so to luxuriously eat and drink off the vast plains below.
They move together more like a family than a herd and in the same close oneness they stroll to the streams, taking time along with them. As natural epicures they eat the longer grasses that came with the heavier rains and bask in the shimmering moist warmth of the mirage on the bare grounds that briefly symbolizes the shorter windless dry seasons.
The seasons dissuade them from being too comfortable as they blurt out their muted consent. When they return shortly after, they return with time and it is like they never left as briefly as they did, without the spot of blame they always show when momentarily venturing away. It feels wrong to them because cautioned by their conscience, they are wary to take fewer risks than they could. For even the radicals are also conservative in the sense that in their indignation to query the status quo, they still seek to maintain their natural lively agitation for change.
Such is the Goats’ timeless romance with the rocks, the hills and the rich, high, cold, beautiful plateau that is indeed their true home, for the death of culture literally executes origins.

Do Goats know God? Did they inherit the concept of some divine entity that created and maintains their entire being, its constituents and its entire sustaining environment? Did they know of faith and it’s withal to humbling and sanctioning indecencies? They worship the skies, its clouds that pour rain and its dew’s foggy mists which hide their hills at twilights. They worship the sun when it shines and lazily spread their brown oily shiny hides in its light and warmth. They worship the moon on full night as it appears close, watching over them as they play in its glow, under a warm humid night sky.
They worship the rocks that house them in its damp gaps’, in shades of various breath taking formations; rock formations that were weathered by their myths and stories. Time ensured the Goats explained answers to every creation with a story, such that they have a story for every shape and its set position too. They worship a world they are confident is theirs; set aside by the force that make it all happen. Such is their faith and their God. But keeping to a way of life is easy. Decisions made long ago are easily copied and applied to solve today’s challenges as soon as they are interpreted to suit older ones.
But solutions do not fit into every similar situation. Custom and culture is simply courageously inherited, natural to all and not the cumbersome and complex livelihood it forms. They sought and sort, they ate and wait, they met and mate, they help and slept. Their stark life is as ancestral as the hills, yet new as the grass and their young kids playing the same old games their fore-fathers played on the same old rocks. Their languages share the same tendency to be inviolable as does their relationship with their land, which seemly nourish their very ripe crimson blood with reason and purpose.
Morality is established with natural norms inherited and life lived with all its simple ramifications; which in contrast are simple and harsh, sweet and bitter, clear and hidden, living and dead. The same mothers, sisters, brothers and fathers become mothers, sisters, brothers and fathers, reverting over and over again. Their need for their old ways hedged them in and made them defiant to change, full of pointless bravado. Their adapted bigotry had imprisoned them, making them less competitive and only as reasonable as their grudged needs allow them to be.
Only the winds carry the stench of one hill’s community across to another community. This is not often the case, but sometimes. This is because a renegade could incite or a mate would disapprove of a perceived injustice. The reason might be a pathway to the stream was breached or food forcibly taken away from its rightful owners.
Then the difference is sought or fought out till found. A solution made workable by all means. Then the current victors will flourish as their vanquished nourish them. Such were the rare and simple battles on the plateau. They were, though fatal but almost novelty in nature as revealed by the swift reconciliations and prompt re-cooperation that follows them every single time.
The oneness of their common and uncommon dialects aids this timeless escapade. It is mysteriously clear in their desire for a broad based peaceful existence, whatever the reasonable human circumstantial cost may be to them.
They didn’t have to face that possibility in their comparatively young modernized literacy; they merely had a generous amount of compassion to spare. This was so evident when their ego driven growth and necessitated development became so one-sided that it became an insolvent problem. They misunderstood change to be made up of an identity, with a visage they couldn’t scrutinize.

Then time went away on one of its numerous trips and returned with the Sheep from nowhere. Why the sheep came with time, at that time, was not hard to tell at first because of the Sheep’s apparent civility and common simplicity. Cotton white the Sheep appeared, coming from northern sandy plains far away. Yet they reveal to be more of creamy coloured sponges at close sight, soaking up their different surroundings of current abode and still not changing. They friendly took residence on the plains and were allowed to go about their ways with such ease. They sheltered in the shades of the hills and lived under the few trees, staying outside the Goats’ homely cacti fences.
The Sheep have always led a squatter’s lifestyle by their faithful orientation; it wasn’t visible as their trip is paused, not by their needs for necessities but by their initially hidden desire to dominate. Disguised as a lone caravan, trading and well journeyed, they were accepted in good faith. They are indeed well traveled and they did actually trade. The Sheep established a life of their kind in pockets around the rocky hills and bred and fed and stayed and remained. Everyone has a home of origin. Some place, somewhere they began; where they fell and had hit the ground from where ever they believe they dropped or emerged, or simply had faith they came from.
Everyone has a place they name as theirs. The Goats point at the plateau with the boastful ease and claim that they own it and run it as they stand on it. The Sheep also started to point at it as theirs too, with a legal shield but not the same historical ease. They show that they acquired it and will run it as they stand on it too. The Goats had borne their continuous indigenous identity without the regret most thought they should have for letting the Sheep stay. The dominance of any people is allowed. Growth flourishes in a hospitable setting and the Sheep developed.
Comfort dried in lazy sunlight as the rains park their clouds away on the rocky hills daily. The choices of the Goats had been made in an era that harmlessly allowed it. Literacy comes with harsh discernment and this can subsequently hurt the knowledgeable candidate. It makes favour cruel, good food poisonous and culture archaically crude in its established nature. The Goats grew knowledgeable and realized the Sheep had remained and over stayed. The Sheep are of a well known sacred order which was established so vastly in all the far northern lands under economic, cultural and military duress.
The Sheep are religious nomads, robed in an external purity which has been forcibly trusted all over the region as in the ancient deserts it originates from. Sheep is a dumb animal and this is essential in faith. They are a kind that don’t question faith but accept it; root, trunk, thorns, branches, leaves and buds. It made them the most selfless faithful converts ever. Faith and religion prospers thus, unflinching, steady and sure. These stupidities of illiterate disciplines feed a course and develop it to an enviable height; the Goats lacked this. Unlike the Sheep, the Goats did not venture out or seek change. They only sort their community based on the immediate clan and endlessly they stay hidden in their rocks, on this high cold plateau.

Then change found the Goats out, unschooled and unready to accommodate it, just like pressure and its steady alteration of all elements outside a fixed state sucks out the fixed state and inevitably scatter its particles. They were doomed for lacking that unconscious absorption of knowledge and ideas through continual exposure rather than deliberate learning. They know they must change their ways or only their relics will be scraped off these rocky hills as fossils. Then the Sheep will be pointed as indigenous and sought for their tenaciously gotten self worth.
There is no changing a past but there is shaping the revealing future. The past can not physically hurt anyone now, but the present can and does. The present has physically brought its pilgrims along to do the job for it with the legal right they have; change has always had unusual catalysts. Patient in their stupid poise, crafty in making the smallest meal last; re-chewing their cod, the Sheep are settled and had become old on the land, with rights that can’t be given, or taken again. To Goats and Sheep alike, home is common and none can move even if they wished. Their world doesn’t need reminding and none argues their origins or their current loud ownerships, and not tenant-ships.
Yet the debates and fights for dominance would grow and would not abate. It is now a huge carnivorous integral monster, firing up their rage poised state with fear, hate and greed. The beneficiaries of this legacy will not enjoy it too and such will be the tale of both these beleaguered two people. The world thrives on relationships; urging, courting, pushing, pulling and coaxing. Wealth, health and peace spell dominance and are the faces of this war. It is here, where it matters that it is being lost. Right about now, both the Sheep’s and Goats’ future are poised to literally make Esé ewu (Goat-Head peppered soup) and Balango (Barbecued Sheep meat) with each other, respectively. And it has just only begun for a long time yet.

Up on the plateau it reigned,
Its own old clans so formed.
Hidden on the height’s plain,
Living in plenty’s much rain.

They welcome guests well,
As prosperous strangers tell.
Soon dominance is so evident
And for the sold they want rent.

Wherever time is so kept,
Such a place has it since left.
Two is never again one unless
One is expunged and no less.

Identity established so firm,
Fights a war not for its farm.
Bullying its co-farmers’ yield
With a poised spear and shield.

POEMS: Poetry, The Funeral of Ice, Rightfully, Races, Young Again, Love Birds & Heart Dies Last


What tribe will have you dance its folk lore
Anyhow you wish and still call you right
Like poetry would do with words for sure,
Misspelling and not punctuating left and right?

You married the spouse and planted the trees,
Amassed the wealth and ensured the health,
Won over the law and gained with the fees;
Even books don’t give the freedom of a poet.


The making of he who is
Has origins in the air he is.
Made in secret, carried about.
Revealed openly, in and out.

Gathered in the skies high,
To roam as mist up high.
It bursts the banks it fills
And cracks downwards to fill.

The hardening effect of frost;
Granite and so harsh a host,
Conquers the whole land
So that air can’t lend a hand.

Mightily the season comes
When the diamond becomes
Water again and it all ends;
Melting into a liquid that fends.


Your rights start where mine stops
Or is that, stops where mine starts?
When we both make the golden rule tops,
Then we greatly succeed in our mutual acts.

We have seen rights cross and overlap
With such ease and care not deliberate,
Not like the water traveling to my tap
Or as simple as the thought words I ate.

This air you bought across a counter
Comes to me all free, if not as pure.
Your noise carries across an encounter.
My displeasure for it, I seek to cure.

What efforts I put in to ensure that
Where you messed up mine doesn’t sit
Can just end your right where it start
And start mine off without a care for it.


They get set, ready and go.
To where? God only will know.
Revolting round earthly tracks
Which knows not their tasks.

Their quests are not visible
Or even humanly sensible.
Competing with complexions,
Hairs, noses and eyes in nations.

What wins these long races
That recognizes their faces,
Will not justify the future;
For races aren’t their nature.


You are only young once,
Blossomed to take your chance;
To scent the world’s spring
With the fruit kinds you bring


Two birds perch on a tree;
One a he, the other a she.
Like any such human couple,
They couple into love’s trouble.

They take off into the sky,
Together dancing as they fly.
Like the early romance,
So full of sweet substance.

Returning to a common nest
Gives stability, if not rest.
Like marriage does at a stage,
With emotions and with age.

When they’re off in the sky,
In opposite singles they fly.
Like your everyday spouses;
Submerged in life’s sauces,

Then one bird perches alone,
Anyone of the birds on its own.
Like any spouse takes its turn
To wait the other’s solo run.

When the other bird is back,
With a petal tuck in its beak;
Like its partner it will find
Its affection swallows its kind.


Where is life? If you may ask;
Not numbed by faith’s old task.
Is it with living body or wise mind,
In fountained heart or soul to find?

POEMS: In Debt, Rainbow, Hope, Mighty Flea, Gay, Wasteland, Africa & Asaba


Tomorrow they will come again,
Like the once that didn’t end.
If thoughts carry, who’ll remain?
On our failures we can’t depend.

How did it come to this scare;
The solution still concentrated?
The liquid added with much care
Must have added not abated.

The only door out was a loan.
It secured; for it did get shut,
Not behind but within, alone.
The respite it gave wasn’t a lot.

Soon the answer was a question
And hinges blown off their sockets.
War regrouped and no protection;
It is too late to run to the markets.

Caught indoors and so trapped
And lost is that chance far left.
Any repeat leaves efforts strapped
As deep waters engulf all in debt.



Are we not all just one,
When prismed not alone?
The colours differently clear,
Yet all bindingly so, so near?

The red ends in violet,
And the ends all collect.
From one horizon to another,
Hued in one mystical order.

Hued in 0ne


I have you but I don’t know you,
I have heard you but not seen you.
Dunes blown to wave into a new hill,
Like desert sands, you create your feel.


And where are you off to
You little mite, busy so?
To gather as you go through
Or borrowing to hide low?

This wind that carry you
Draws a ring as you sing.
For one that reigns so true
You live shorter than you bring.

Your bite is so you can live
Like all who prey on fatality.
How true it is, in all who live,
That death is but a formality.


At birth the bloom will say
What piece in the pair stay
A plus for lives’ coupled play

In structure all living may
Grow, roam and breed away
As only possible since day

Alas, I fear the body did sway
Hearts and minds too stray
To please nothing else they gay


The heart is deceitful above all things,
Beyond cure and who understands it.
Cursed is he, who trusts man or his things;
For man depends on flesh and the strength of it.

Man whose heart turns away from Truth,
He will be like a bush in the wastelands.
He sees not prosperity when it comes forth;
Will dwell in parched places of deserted lands.

Dwelling in salty lands where no one lives,
Not like that tree planted by the water
That sends out its roots by the streams it lives
And doesn’t fear; the heat will not matter.

With the Truth, his leaves are always green.
He has no worries in a year of drought.
Never failing to bear fruit in any season,
Not like the wasteland he has made his lot.
Jeremiah 17


Darkest people ever found,
A huge pistol points wrong.
If here man got his sound;
Earth, Africa is your song.


Her entire short life is dirge like,
In her daily rounds so silly alike.
Abnormally brained, genes had made;
A persistent dirty joke, harmlessly made.

Asaba is the neighbourhood’s fool,
Nurturing our moods into a little fool.
The gloom that is her poor mind
Caresses our passions, so we mind.

In a puddle she plays herself by.
Scaring kids as she staggers by.
Gracious mums use this apt fear.
Life cannot be all good and fair.

The strenght of a woman – Subtle but forceful


They stood there with their hands akimbo, resembling quite a hilarious picture from an African comic book, with a well drawn, colourful scene. They are a trio of early teenage girls, only out for a busy afternoon of fun. Monday is the fat, slow and lazy one amongst them. In her bright orange dress, she looked very much a discarded piece from the olden days, like the badly styled old dress she had on, which had been handed down to her from a much older sister of hers, two persons up.
The dress was still out of fashion, just like it was when her older sister had first put it on as a much thinner flower girl, at a relative’s wedding many years ago. Monday had squeezed her plumb fleshy body into the slim dress with the considerable pressured ease of a thumb forcibly thrust into an unpeeled, half-ripe orange. Monday is stupid now as everyday she had lived and tags along any where her two other friends went, though it didn’t please her so much. Like her, her two friends were also named after the day of the week they came into the world.

Friday is the tall, thin one with a loud voice she just loves using so much. She stood humming a popular tune under her breath as usual, wearing one of the so many short checkered faded dresses her mother still makes for her from the tiny pieces she collects from a nearby tailor. She is a shade smarter than Monday and tags along always too, when Wednesday says so.
Then there is Wednesday, the gorgeously shaped girl, with highly developed bodily curves beyond her tender age and an ever present beautiful smile on an ugly face. Her nose is an extension of her forehead and her large ears are too visible from the front that they appear to be on her cheeks. With her favorite bright purple cap pulled down over her eyes and in a tight fitting black T-shirt, over white knee-low straight-cut shorts, she appears very much the dish any male eye would fish gladly.
Sharp as new razor and wise as a well handled crackling horse whip, Wednesday always called the shots for the trio and all her shots spelled out only one thing over and over again; trouble. All the little bits of trouble she gets her group into from time to time, were costly ones; more so to her sheepish disciples than to her. To her, the costs were estimated as calculable.
In her selfishly styled smarter bravado, she rode on the more immature silliness of her companions as they fumbled along in their naïve good natured mannerisms, more sisterly than neighbourly. Wednesday is edged at the top notched hierarchy of bullies, if truly there is such definite bureaucratic manner for classing this psychological specie of human beings.
The girls all stood on their dirty bare feet; under the shade darken mango trees, pointing out the ripe mangoes with eager fingers after their sharp teenage eyes had picked them out. The trio didn’t say much as they all meaningfully waited for Wednesday to confirm anything final first, as it is customary.
Friday hummed a tune, Monday suddenly farted and almost simultaneously coughed loudly too, with the cunning hope she could disguised the fart’s soft explosive sound with a loud cough. The strong breeze blew into their faces and she wasn’t bothered her friends would sniff the foul smell her fart emitted, for she was sure she had successfully disguised the initial sound made when it exited her rectum with its habitual stealth.
Behind Wednesday’s back everyone joked about her rather large nose. People humorously said it took in more air than normal and could easily smell out a pebble in a hot plate of well cooked beans mash. Friday hoped still.
Then Wednesday spoke, ordering Friday under a tree, to call out the directions to the ripe mangoes as well as to catch those thrown down from the trees above. Monday would pick and collect all the mangoes from beneath the tree and they were both to keep a look out for the orchard’s owner and his famously timid dogs.
As they boldly matched out towards their assigned roles and positions, Wednesday sarcastically told Monday she could freely fart out loud all the foul smelling gases in her fat rotten smelly gut while at it. She gave Monday a stern meaningfully slow glary stare in emphasis. The joke about the nose must be true then, Monday concurred as she looked away, ashamed. Wednesday had definitely smelt the fart, despite her best effort.
It isn’t difficult for Monday to take the daily decision to join the group on any of their many escapades, at any one time. But she remains afraid she would fail at deciding when to take the tougher choice of not staying on, a decision which she knew she must make soon, maybe at some point she couldn’t control.

The minutes ticked away quickly as the tree riding Wednesday ‘monkeyed’ from branch to branch in the first dark mango tree she chose to climb. Beneath her, Friday called out the directions to the ripe fruits with her well practiced voice as she pointed them out for Wednesday, quite high in the thick tree.
Wednesday plucked the mangoes and threw most of them down at Monday, while she paused from time to time to eat a juicy ripe one, in full view of her assistants below. At such times, they all stopped and waited quietly, pretending not to look up at her. Wednesday had always forcibly displayed her self imposed tremendous responsibility for their all girls’ group, calling it hers, for it was indeed hers in every sense of the word.
When they had joked and laughed, jostling each other as they walked along the quiet deserted dusty road, headed for the orchard earlier, Wednesday had made it clear that no one could eat any mango until all the collection had been fully shared.
Obviously in their trio, Wednesday isn’t just anyone. All knew it pretty well. No one dared argue or complain with or to her, respectively. The two girls beneath the tree couldn’t muster the courage to look up when she paused to eat a ripe mango. It was early in the raining season and ripe mangoes were still few.
Monday sat quietly on the moist ground, day dreaming of a wedding reception and all the things she could eat there. She looked at the small pile of ripe mangoes beside her and wondered why Wednesday could eat some mangoes up in the tree, and not let she and Friday do the same on the ground.
She wanted to call out that she will eat one mango out of her final share but did not have the stomach for Wednesday’s curses. So instead she went back to her dreamt up wedding. None of them saw the two dogs quietly go by for the second or third time. The first any of them knew of not being on their own anymore, was when Monday gave a nerve chilling strangled frightened shout, after the orchard’s owner sneaked from behind, grabbed her bare thick fat neck, literally choking her.

Friday’s legs had involuntarily folded underneath her in response to fear. She abruptly knelt down in sudden breathless panic as she was so terrified and stunned speechless. With her widen scared eyes she started to plead with the old man, who was now busy dragging a tamely resisting Monday towards the transfixed Friday. Monday struggled feebly as her sliding body made an unevenly cleared path on the thick carpet of dried up decaying leaves and weathered prunes from the trees above.
Then in a quick flash, Monday broke free and ran off. Friday took off in another direction as the old man’s timid dogs separately chased both girls, with as much aggression as they would have a strolling Hyena.
The painfully thin dogs tucked in their tails in between their hind legs, as they chased no further than a shouting distance and soon returned to their waiting frail master, so much faster than they had chased after the girls.
The old man didn’t appear too bothered as he observed his singular sizable living trophy, still above him as he stood beneath his mango trees, his walking stick in hand, looking up at the visible and apprehensively motionless expressionless Wednesday, still high up in the tree, trapped like a webbed fly.
The old man cursed the grey mystical heavens and the brownish earth beneath. He cursed all children and their parents, then all time and the present age. Then he cursed all men and all women, their many silly sons and their wrongly conceived, badly raised and horribly brought up naughty, unruly, rowdy, mischievous erring daughters. Finally he cursed these three girls, starting with Monday, then Friday and ending with Wednesday.
He detailed their very contrasting looks in such appropriately expressive vocabulary, as only the elderly can. He used words well known to only his peers but rarely used anymore by others.
Though he shook in his rage, Wednesday still didn’t budge or come down the tree. She remained motionlessly mute, as if all the cursing had indeed stricken her, wrung her tongue and severed her witty answering chord. Still he threatened and cursed some more, but even as he summed up his vast insults, she still didn’t move.
She spied at her pals, finally congregated at one common place some distance away from her, still in full view of the agitated old man as they silently, as quietly laid their support to her predicament at that safe distance, like most true parishioners would do for their ill fated faithful peers.
At last the old man called his dogs over and tied them to the mango tree’s trunk, under her. He verbally threatened her some more before hastily walking away, swinging his walking stick and promising to shoot down Wednesday and cut up her corpse into tiny pieces for his dogs to feast on, if she didn’t climb down and surrender with her pals.
He walked away too quickly for his much advanced age, leaving the silly scene. His scared dogs’ loud barking started to change into eerie canine squeals. The dogs’ courage diminished with the little confidence their master’s presence gave them, as they steadily lost sight of him walking away from the tree Wednesday was trapped on and the dogs were now tied to. Soon after he left, a descending Wednesday threw unripe mangoes at the dogs from above.

The other girls quickly ran over, brandishing sticks, and the terrified dogs pulled at the ropes with such force, till they manage to cut loose and run away from the now cheering girls. Monday went over to their small pile of ripe mangoes, still on the ground where she had left them. She pulled up the low frontal edge of her tight fitting dress and put them all in its curve, with the hurried help of Friday. Wednesday ordered them to wait as she bravely climbed up yet another tree and resumed her foray, vowing to get some more mangoes before they leave.
An even more frightened Friday and Monday stopped transfixed, frantically keeping a re-freshened look out for the old man and his dogs, this time relying more on a strenuous visual regime than merely their sense of listening, which had failed them earlier, but their newer rapt attention soon passed as well. Their momentary dogged stance proved to be more of a whim rather than the sheer will power required.
Wednesday took her time, not showing any concern in the slightest. From above she encouraged her friends and even permitted them to eat one mango each. Soon they also became more comfortable and relaxed. It looked like the old man wasn’t returning, but that is always the case with children at that age, they soon forget they should be vigilant.
Severally in the girls’ many obnoxious attempts at being helpful to their popularity; over their few years of friendship, they had frequently rubbed shoulders with their community’s ordered self indulgence and had never come off the better for it. It happens so often to worry.
Thirty years out of the old man’s now eighty-something years of life were spent in the Army. One long world war and a short civil war would teach any old man a thing or two about camouflage and concealment. So without crawling or making the slightest audible sound and hiding behind the many trees’ trunks and in the shadows, the old man edged closer to the girls without being seen by them. In minutes he was upon them again.
This time he was calmer, composed and dangerously armed with a long loaded local rifle, which he stood pointing at a startled Monday and Friday, yet again. The two girls were too stunned to think and the idea of dodging splashing bullets while making a quick dash for it was easily repudiated. Their itinerant spade of ill luck hadn’t prepared their childish minds for this.
They simply never seem to apply the right logic for the right task, since the right logic is wisdom, which they lacked. Though necessary knowledge breeds wisdom, it is its logical interpretation that is wise. Either ways they failed repeatedly.

The old man also had a glittering, sharp machete tucked into a strapped leather belt around his thin waist. He ordered the two girls to kneel down and place their hands on their heads. As they complied, Friday; true to character, broke down into a silly tearless mournful wail that sounds so much like a wordless tuneless song, which she usually passes off for crying.
Monday jellied down to her fleshy knees, into a puddle she absentmindedly let trickle down the inside of her chubby legs, as her full bladder betrayed her fright. Her senses had numbed up, like they so often do when she wets her bed at night.
Wednesday this time calmly climbed down the tree in response to the old ex-soldier’s threatened beckoning. She joined her kneeling cronies. They appeared totally subdued as there was the evident note of lingering pessimism in their earlier professed optimism. The victor planned to match his ‘prisoners of war’ to the Village head and demand compensation from their parents. He whistled for his dogs and they raced back to him, barking with wagging uncertain tails. They came closer to him, keeping their distance away from the quietly kneeling girls.
The old man ordered Monday to pick up the pile of mangoes again and this time without the help of any of the other girls, the chubby girl simply knelt beside the pile of mangoes and collected them all in the front of her tight fitting dress again.
This done, she stood up with some effort and returned to her kneeling spot, turned around to face the old man once more, before kneeling down again. With the lower front of her gown curved upwards, her once white but now dirtied brown panties showed, visibly flashing into view, all tucked up in very tight captivity amidst the meaty fleshy folds of her upper thighs, as she absentmindedly revealed her lowest pelvic region. The old man looked away sharply, but Wednesday had caught his eyes and had one of her now renowned mischievous brain waves.
Suddenly, Wednesday more jumped than stood up and started to strip. It took the old man by complete surprise and he was speechless momentarily. Before he could find his voice, Wednesday’s T-shirt and cap were on the ground beside her and she was pulling down her shorts and panties in a much hurried dance like movement.

The instruction to stop undressing barked out loud by the old man went unheralded by Wednesday. The confused war veteran lowered his weapon and extended his free hand, pleadingly at the undressing girl with no effect. Wednesday winked at her friends and her message was instantly understood by her still obediently kneeling friends.
Though reluctantly, the message was accepted and with a similar dose of hesitation, was also executed. The bewildered old man watched helplessly as the other two girls still kneeling, joined in and all three girls undressed right in front of him.
Friday undressed as she remained on her knees, still too scared to be seen to be disobedient. While Monday, very much still jellied by fear, sat down in her small puddle of urine and symbolically started with her wet panties first, after discarding the pile of mangoes at her side.
The old man dropped his gun and pleaded at the top of his voice for them to stop undressing. But the stripping trio continued unperturbed, even appearing to be encouraged by the old man’s attempt to dissuade them. Soon the girls were completely undressed right in front of the old man.
They stood defiantly upright in front of him, nude like dark brown eggs, naked like the day they had each come into the world, only obviously bigger, darker and with slightly visible hairy spots in areas the helpless old fellow was embarrassingly keeping his gaze away from. Still he made offers, begged and coaxed to no avail. They just stopped listening and got bolder.
Then his silent dogs appeared to help him out when they quietly started to walk away from the embarrassing scene. Soon he copied the retreating dogs and stopped talking. He painfully stooped low in a submissive prostrate in front the girls, picked up his grounded weapon and quietly turned away to leave when Wednesday suddenly spoke and stopped him dead in his tracks.
Deliberately slurring her speech, she threatened him with an exposure he will find quite hard to explain to his peers. She spoke of three naked girls held in his fruit trees shaded dark confines, within his orchard, facing the old pervert holding a loaded gun, with a sharp machete tucked in his belt, complying with all his sick biddings in an obviously frightened state.
Another thirty years stint in the all the world’s armies or another decade long world war or ten more brutal civil wars, wouldn’t prepare anyone enough for this kind of mind torturing harassed embarrassment. The old man had just one slim chance to decide his all time reputation, not just his immediate response. It has to be his honourable word against theirs. But strangely though, judgment publicly continues long after it formally ends.
So a deal was inevitably struck. The girls will leave with the mangoes they had plucked, using a bag the old man will give them. He will not make a complaint and allow them to return for free mangoes anytime they wished to. The girls get all these for their continuous silence about the incident. So they allowed him to leave with his silent dogs, who like him, had their single limp tails tucked between their hind-legs, their egos sapped and drained by this miniature act of a woman’s strength.

Where is the bird that hatched this egg?
Flying above the world, up so very high.
And the monkey the farmer wouldn’t beg?
Laughing up a branch, he threatens not near.
Will they ever marry their ideas, so very big?
As always they steal, flock, eat and do share.

Flying above the world, up so very high,
The bird still returns down to hatch its egg.
Laughing away harmless threats if not near,
The monkey’s hunger for the farm will beg.
Their ideas created their world and it is clear,
That strength of the woman gave marriage a leg.

BAIS SELFLESSNESS; corruption is miss-defined



Once too often we have faulted corruption for many of our woes. The cliché morale of the thief being the best guard is lost to our hypocritical high sense of fairness, justice and professed faiths. Truly and generally speaking, corruption gives undue advantage to the most undeserving individual. But then, that phase; “undeserving individual” is the vaguest in the most corrupt settings. Most times the individual deserves but is termed undeserving for reasons that are plainly put, manipulated.

The reasons are manipulated by individuals that undeservingly use their own privileged placing to emphasize bureaucratic procedures. This is practically the simple origin of corruption in the most organized settings, as we commonly recognize them. We have stereotyped our views of the organized human sector as a very complex hive of related human activities that are geared towards specific functions. This is true, but these same organized entities are basically made up of simple people firstly.

Organized settings are made up of separate persons that function in miniature micro niches of their own selves, family, clan and communities that are basically informal in nature. Their daily functional relationships with each other, has them exploring means to get the upper hand over the next person.

These efforts are loosely enhanced by acts that interpret into seeking undue advantage. This is not obviously encouraged, especially since most of those concerned get the bad end of the deal. But these same disadvantaged persons actually cheer the visible fruits of these very acts that are detrimental to them.

The so many gains of corruption are thus revered in the same communities that abhor it. The irony of it all is the fact that this is not quite literally contradictory, but genuinely existing opposites on the same plane of existing functions. The most vocal perpetuators of the ills of this derogatory human vice are consciously the same advocates of its human face. 

The cheat is thus ‘heroed’ and put up on a pedestal of esteemed status. Then he is encouraged to unconsciously lead the trend, while he consciously leads the community. Given the very same opportunity, most of the clearly disadvantaged persons will readily make others as disadvantaged in their stead too.

The trended old ways recorded had much earlier reported that the simple origin of corruption itself, is definitely ethnical. The primitive ways of doing things had ushered means of seeking undue advantage. The ancestor, the elder, the in-law, the parent, the ruler, the intermediary and the interpreter are all doctored, by all means possible to ‘water down’ their resolve to ensure ‘due process’ is followed or adhered to, in a manner that appeared to be seeking undue advantage.

Payments are not stated in their clear terms, but insinuated. Or better still, most times not; but still expected in ‘Cash’ and in ‘Kind’. Cash is too definite, it puts exact value. Kind is loose and the gratitude shown lingers on for so much longer.

The generous nature of the action lies. Its will is a whim and its benefactor a fool and a tool that only necessitates the whole course of action. The action is not a perceived selfish push, but rather a pull with a bionic human horizontal-gravity-like pull, attracting all to maximize the ever elusive gains to excel by all means workable. The lie in the perceived generosity is just too evident in the visibly covert insinuation, so insultingly offered.

The sense of value marks out the level of priority of the people. What is valued and why it is valued and how it is valued? All makes out the essence of the people’s priorities. The fabric of society is hugely dependant on this. It is what differentiates civility from anarchy and stabs common sense behind its back.

Education when pursued for the sole aim of attaining a status is thus achieved with the same aim. While civility suffers in this course, a state of prosperity is attained. This sort of valuing has characterized our trusted modernity with such unequalled prominence, that nothing else matters to a generality of humanity. Humanity is nothing but what man’s deeds makes it and man after all becomes what he worships; it represents him.

What a majority represents insinuates a national character, a popular norm; which is embraced mainly because of its success, its viability and reliability. Corruption has thus developed into a national character for this same reasons and it is now a norm embraced mainly for its success. Its viability and reliability as it were, against what is otherwise termed proper. The people are after all one whole package with a single identity. To assess a nation, the main consideration is its very visible people.

The branding of the entirety of a company’s service is labeled by its personnel, the staff that functionalize the firm’s activities. Hence, to assess the personnel by means other than their very own, only really serves to disconnect the staff from their firm and then tradition runs a different race from the present, this should matter. Maybe it is then so apparent, that corruption is either wrongly branded or just plainly wrongly defined.                                   

                        Corruption shouldn’t give undue advantage

                        Only when bureaucracy hinders advancement.

                        A nation’s constituent as one sole package

                        Needs its traditional personnel assessment.


So many times the blatant fact is assumed but not proven, that the rich are arrogant and that humility is with the poor. But ignored is the reality of pretence being more evident in the poor or the less privileged. Isn’t it predominantly so evident that ‘Humility is the worst form of conceit’? Deceit is disguised in readied pretence predominantly. The vice of the rich being arrogance is akin to that of the poor, humility under duress.

In the weakness that is prominent in the poor, lies a quiet strength that is subtle. In the rich’s arrogance is sincerity and in the poor’s humility is a sinister compromise. But a virtue that makes a unique blend of these perceived extremes is leadership. Learnt or taught, experienced or developed, entrusted or made, given or denied, earned and won; leadership formulates its deed.

Leadership swings like a pendulum, in an arc that represents its own distinct interests; interests that subsequently direct its course, its aims, its objectives and its final achievements. Leadership is resourceful and commands resources in a manner that reveals its interests. If not in practice, it does eventually when it has run its course or ends its tenure, term and time.

Resources abound all over and finders are keepers. But then resources are nothing if they do not translate into a means of leadership. If authority has responsibility, then responsibility has authority. If leadership has resources, then resources have leadership. The resource is not beneficial if those who earned it do not lead it. If it leads them, then though resource has leadership, leadership doesn’t have resource and simply put; he that earns doesn’t get to pay his bills. When the earners are different from the payers, then a contest ensues.

A struggle ensues and subsequently grows out of a tussle for basic rights, borne out of an obvious desire to lead the resources that had been earned or won, by earners or payers, respectively. The disconnection is so evident in the chaos that ensues and nothing is as crippling in any clearly established setting as the corrosive effect of disorganization. It wears and tears with a persistence that suffocates and extinguishes the positive force in any establishment. Hence a contest fundamentally disorganizes.

Competition does not exist alongside cooperation within the same concurrent pair of settings. The presence of harmony represents compromise for shortcomings. And leadership must give a little here and there to enable it keep the flame of the force that powers its establishment. What makes conflict prominent is not the competition itself or even the perceived immediate material dividends of success imbedded in such contests. The attraction is the recognition that comes with it.

Most of the led are not bothered with who leads, but what leadership delivers. In a like manner, most of the leaders are not bothered about what their leadership actually provides but what the led think of what their leadership provides. This is leadership’s interest as it reveals itself now. This interest response easily to pretence and thrives solely on the feedback it gets from those around it. Most times the feedback is filtered through its cronies, who surround leadership and concentrate on giving it the kind of response that ensures their own personal existence and comfort, while not necessarily forwarding the actual response that strives to reach the leadership.

Leadership is thus misled and its interests with it. The elite are not as unsympathetic as they appear. They are as humane as every other being of every other economic class and status. The reason for this conclusive perception is however not far fetched.

The unquenchable desire to always have and keep protected that power gotten, has made the elite appear heartless. They strive to ensure that the sorts of lifestyles they enjoy are not reversed on any account. They have come up a steep road they see again and again; altered here or there, but very easily recognizable.

It is quite easily recognizable as a similar road that would take them downwards, if they are unwary of this fact too. Wealth and fame is like health and game. The big and strong appear fit but will become ill and die if careless and unlucky. The famous are loved today and hated tomorrow like a winner today loses or ends his winnings tomorrow. Mindful of the cold they could get, the elite will rather kill to stay warm, unsympathetically so.

The common man’s simplicity has made him blind to the difficulties associated with or being daily considered by the elite class. His decisions are mostly straight to the point, so much that the complications evident in being something else is not recognized and appreciated but instead simply taken at their clear face value and not scrutinized with proper analysis.

Evaluation is in itself an act of analysis and the two cannot be pinpointed divorced successfully. The led criticize easily for this same reason and leadership does not, for the same reason. The interest of leadership has to take a lot into consideration and most times, some of the things considered can not be publicly highlighted but still are very essential. Compromise at that level is mandatory, for every single detail. It is for this reason that a state of leadership is attained in the first place and will even be remotely and extensively exercised.

                        Arrogance is in the Rich’s vices and virtues.  

                        The Earners’ and Payers’ contest truly rests,

                        Not on dividend, but on recognized dues;

                        Paid by all the leadership’s own interests.


One unique feature of religion is its tenacious adherence to fixed and definite principles. These principles are the basis of its existence as a religion and are fundamentally the seed that gave birth to its very essence. The idea will most probably not make rational sense but the most rational being will support and defend it sensibly and at the peril of his own sanity, physical comfort and even his very existence.

Religion is not the faith in the principle that embodies it, but faith in the mystical entity that signifies it. The dictates of this mystical entity are conveyed in the principles adhered to at every physical and mental cost, with an attempt to constantly de-emphasis self and enhance the prominence of the symbolized entity of the faith; be it human or inanimate, or just mystical.

The formation of an organic entity to personify religion gives religion an attitudinal face. The revealed and related activities of these faces give the religion a logical form. Very few persons have really enjoyed the true luxury of choosing a religion. From time immemorial, religion chose man and found him; by force, by region, by clan, by race, by trade, by tradition, by history, by birth, by orientation or de-orientation, ironically.

Nothing calms and still agitates man like his faith in something he regards to be bigger than himself. Religion had given him reason to reason, and answers to ponder and wonder, erroneously or correctly. Religion is honestly a matter of acceptance and conviction, yet confusion as well; individual opinion. One irony of religion is its singular and as yet, unduplicated ability to truly unify all its conquests in a common course without relying on any democratic dictates.

There is nothing democratic about religious overtures. It is the most dictatorial from of human management ever used or applied by the human race. Truly, the obvious belief in its perceived non human origin would have ensured that it is seen as not human and thus beyond the comprehension of humans. But the fact remains that it is basically and entirely administered purely by human beings. Whether influenced or not, the instant choice of believing, complying and adhering is always human.

Hence man administers religion. This, as stated, has been largely successfully done within the religious communities, all in the absence of a democratic fabric. The fact that the back bone of every faith and religion is still the same today as it was at its onset and infancy for millennia past, points to another key feature of religion; it is unequivocally dynamic in every nature.

Religion maintains its structure but adjusts and fits itself rather well in all its many diverse travels, moulding both its conquests as itself to accommodate its conquests and still remains its unique identifiable self. This isn’t easily replicated. And as such this democracy that is being clamored for and that had, with such trendy popularity, thrust itself into more societies, is rarely recognized for what it truly is; a new religion.

It is relatively new to all other religions and foreign to their dictatorial and parochial principles. One can choose one god from another, democracy preaches. One can change anything one does not like, democracy teaches. All this as long as majorities agree that it should be so. Majority rule is the true definition of democracy. One individual’s choice takes the back seat and watches helplessly but vocally, for as long as he and his like opinioned cronies cannot convince the most from the other divide to accept their own opinion and stance.

They wait for democracy to choose them, like the religion with many deities it functions as and it is. Democracy doesn’t point at one deity; instead it has minor ‘gods’ that expire with their tenures. Governments don’t listen to a particular ministration but to their collective individual might; collectively expressed. Governance is stirred by the dictates of a few individuals.

A consensus is established when the empowered individual works with the majority. In practice this has been altered to fit circumstances and does not float down stream in most instances, but is pulled up stream, against clear popular wishes by certain pressures it must register, accept and comply to. If it desires to remain relevant in its present state, then it must succumb.

Each time a government is determined, it simply implies that power had been given to a small group. The government is a custodian of represented power. Its mandate, man-power and management have to be cooperated with by the people; if it is to be successful. Where there isn’t such cooperation, then its success is not established and tangible but just fragments of its imagination. Common sense shows that people based governments had administered within the confines of its own dictates pulled and pushed to fit its own determined policies.

Even popular governments have sipped from this pond of self-righteousness. The success of any given governance endeavour is strictly determined by the cooperation it gets and its objectivity; the former is as prominent as admits the latter. Their symbiotic romance harmonizes the polity and practically vindicates cooperative administration.      

                        Religion is not as democratic as dynamic,

                        Thus government stirs to any ministration.

                        Civil cooperation and compromise laid thick,

                        Practically vindicate cooperative administration.


One common misrepresented assertion by leadership, is the emphasis of the unconditional unity of the governed. It is a commonly embraced mistake. It appears straight forward and basically advocated as reasonable. Who will have anything against unconditionally unifying different ideas to smoothen and ease the act of governance? Everyone will wish for such a luxuriously pacifying state, it makes things obviously easier.

But this is only a utopian dream. Man is too different to be that agreeable. Hence we would agree only for the instant purpose it serves. But in our agreement is a very obvious yet subtle disagreement that serves only our purpose. There must be that inevitable sense of compromise holding together human unity for it to be comfortably binding. To rely on this circumstantial relationship as the foundation of any policy is to have faith in only one direction of wind to steer a ship on the high seas.

People will always rely on their very own selfish judgment first of all and when the whole community of the governed are being considered, unity is then too unreliable to be an exact policy. Shrouded in his old traditions are man’s thoughts, which are fundamentally tutored to be bias to his very own personal ideals.

The principle of ‘the longer it lasted, the longer it lasts’ was not coined after some rare scientific experiment or sociological evaluation. It is a human certainty that is as old as humanity. Over an extended period man has managed every area of his activities in ways he considered appropriate to his immediate circumstances, with regards to his particular orientation. This is as traditional, as it can be simply broken down to its barest.

An individual’s thoughts and deeds are guided by what is traditional to his own immediate physical and emotional environment. These are major determinants in the reaction of man in every given setting and basically predict his actions, or in-actions. The perspective of the misguided will always be hunted by their traditional orientation and this will pull their sentiments in directions they unconsciously do not have complete control over. In devising an acceptable line of thought for any group, it is essential to consider their prior orientation.

It is important to weigh their special particular sentiments and adjust their methods of choice to their comprehension as well as capabilities. Neglecting this fundamental option is always counter productive and to a considerable extended destructive too. The nature of man’s assorted cultural settings has schooled his customs and ensuing norms in a huge collection of highly imaginatively imposed regulations, even as they evolve.

None evolves without some form of basic communal want that is being advocated for or protected from undesired possibilities. In achieving these quests of managing an embraced system, man’s norms simply develop. They develop into a standard form of behaviour and the immediate community normalizes these as is usual and expected. These norms have shackled the capabilities of any form of government within a society.

They are not necessary ill-conceived enacted laws; which they evolved into with stealth, when not put aright fundamentally. They are mainly conceptions of bias origins. Norms hinder the progressive work in any liberalized institutionalized society. The ethnic origin of man’s sentimental choices has made him unreliable as he is. Man is naturally prone to constant bias at times of decision making. He is completely incapable of continuously taking decisions devoid of sentiments.

Man embodies a life of abject subjective choices and all his apparent or obvious efforts to appear otherwise are actually just as bias. Man is a slave of his feelings and he is in a state of this perpetual captivity. The only possible escape is when he is subjected to his own communal cooperative dictates, which ensures that he functions within a life sustaining spherical confine of behavioral norms, which govern his actions.

This established confine, loosely but recognizably, keeps human action within a manageable state at all times of relative organization and thus man’s bias excesses are managed. This is a mythical spherical form, not unlike his limiting atmospheric earth. And is as complex as it is likewise simple in its revelation.

It is this common compromise that is reflected in the stated communal cooperative organization, which when legally united, forms a defined administrative body that can act as a managerial unit. This group’s natural behaviour incorporates management. The constant bias apparent in their functions actually binds and thus ensures their continuous existence and apparent success as corporate management, based on its practicability.

Man’s state of affairs is too complicated to be given a definite solution at every twist and turn. But true to his nature, man will always respect his need to be bias to his selfishness and when this is determined by norms his very sentiments hold dearly, he is selfless. In the mazy hedge of his emotions and decisions underlines the fact that, if he seeks to succeed he must only show this dogged ‘Bias selflessness’.

                        Unity is too circumstantial for a policy,

                        Tradition orients a people’s sentiment.

                        Ethnic norms always cage the polity;

                        In constant bias corporate management.

Sounds of life – A reason to hear ourselves.


Between the skies’ spittle’s; barely visible downwards spay, and the pimpled droplets of dewy grass tears, I stood nursing my fear. Nima had been missing all night. My search had been, not long but hard and daring. Like they say, you pocket caution and prudence thrives. I never was the one for hiking, but after I had won three gruesome hills, conquered a full stream and reached this vast rich valley, I see what I felt like I never knew I could;

“Alone I roam with the air
The wild administer to me fair.
People all make you only sin
This is the truth I’ve felt and seen”.

Still this war raged in me and I was not winning, fear was.

We went to the same good schools, Nima and I. “I never wait for time,” he boasted and tried. Time is that bountiful bondless chain that is ever shortening man’s reign. It is not an entity to touch and own. It is all around like the air, which Nima is so full of.

And mocking his bravado I ask him, tongue in cheek, ‘When will you grow up?’ “When the clouds mix with the silver lining in my hair,” he will reply with that infectious grin of his appearing like a white cut at the base of his sooty dark face.

He wasn’t to be seen in our bedroom when I retired for the night. We had quarreled all afternoon, before lunch. Like the only other gender, he again wanted to share and conquer my body. We had never quarreled about that before because this was the first time it had ever come up. After so many years as friends, we had never quarreled, Nima and I; not ever. But this last decade or so, Nima was touchy when the adoption issue came up. And it did more often when Ladi, he and I were together, and that was quite often.

These many years I carried and paid all he willed and I was billed; for him, then his wife (Ladi) and others. I paid with as much love as I should and could. I could afford to, with the amassed wealth I had at my disposal and eventually inherited. Later I made more as I wrote my many thoughts, disguised as fictions and made even more money. I wasn’t quite generous, it just came to me naturally. Every moment we ably blink, yet it is some deal to wink in philanthropy. Why? But while lots of other people just wondered why it is so, I just blinked. Our lives became one long holiday.

As young men we had agreed that it was human but selfish to owe who you own, like children. Their wants, wishes and needs are lost in the realms of nothing before they even exist as perceived visible entities. Their hopes are those they are born into and they did not know real choice. They didn’t have the choice to conform and concur to the idea that conceived them. They are creations of a notion that isn’t even helpful to their reason for existence. The choice to be helpful rests on subtle selfish options too. The most helpful people are those who give assistance not because of someone else. Thus someone always gains from the helpless.

Ladi ate our fruit and being the pampered child too, she loved our endless holidays and joined the long cruises. I wasn’t as lucky as Nima was, but I doubted if Nima totally agree. Anyway, they got married and still tagged along with me, their most dear oldest bachelor forever friend. But I waited for them to tire. They were more whiners than warriors and were therefore prone to become quitters subsequently. So I simply waited for my inevitable peace. I couldn’t sleep last night. I stayed up all night clasping the warm darkness, shutting out the lonely silvery glow of the fractioned moon smile. The frogs’ cantata contest invades with its happiness, carried in the still air of their moist mating mile. How simple was their peaceful revelry, my ears had wondered the vastness of it all? And I wished all love melts into that one simple serene moment.

As the last three fun-filled decades passed by and age crept up our guts, bones, flesh, skins and minds, Ladi threw up the fruit. Though they couldn’t have children in their early sixties, Ladi still wanted a child so much. She started to discredit our notion with a barrage of academically dressed daunting questioning. Then as a prelude to renouncing our old principle, she babbly confounded our resolve as well. First were the suggestions, which we followed. We got shares and properties. We made some huge investments in our separate individual names. “We could leave much more for our favorite charities,” she had convinced us.

Then we made the choice of a healthy and friendly, violence free and naturally safe city to live in. “Ageing folks should make plans for when they cannot party around the world any more,” she convinced us. It sounded very plausible and not even her plain countenance gave her up. Our inner liberty of trust failed to recognize and quench her early plot. We succumbed, took drastic measures by the liberality of our usual standards and bought the big houses next. Then it all fussed into place as lastly she wanted us to adopt children. “Someone to love and cherish as ours,” cooed the Dove she is; but she didn’t convince us this last time.

We talked about it thoroughly like literates would and should, but never really could. It didn’t add up, because convinced by our opposite ideologies each, we only agreed to disagree and our passions with us. Ladi’s demands on our opinion got higher with each inconclusive debate. But still with the wider rotation of regular time and the pressure of age increased, not a single thing was changing. Not as baffled as confused, she set out to diffuse our grit resolve. We weren’t astonished with the much work she had done collecting material for us to see, hoping to touch us. It didn’t work still. We were stale and musty in our stance. Nima even had temperamental difficulties for continuous patience.

“I am nothing but an embodiment of someone else’s convinced notions. If I please them, I fail myself,” Nima argued heatedly and clearly impatiently. ‘And if they please themselves; your children, would you say they failed you?’ I asked Ladi. Inwardly, I felt they had to reconsider the situation in the light of the new development. Her mindset was a key prerequisite to the idea in the first instance.

“Certainly not,” she gleefully replied, sensing my premonition with an evident overflowing of relieved joy. “But that wouldn’t be true, would it?” Nima quickly asserted. “You must have dreams of good things for the child; things that are in your view quite good for the child?” I tried again with tiny prowess.

“Yes Of course I do, but the child is free to select a path, choose its own way of life.” she clarifies. “But not life.” Nima concludes and sternly adds, “That ultimate choice, you have already made for the child. Or someone else had.” He touched the very core of our misgivings with the age old very erroneous idea that has been so misconstrued for so long, that it had simply established itself and became the most conventionally accepted human value yet. Procreation has been corruptibly demeaned to wealth creation.

Ladi searched in the darkness of those libraries we call minds for the shelves for compassion, but found instead farms only we could harvest of the yield we sowed as best as we could, as we saw best. We were not reaping children because we had planted none. But humanity still is, with such selfish and shameless ease.

I remember Ladi’s tears as she yelled her frustration. Suddenly it dawn on her that in her earliest youthful perplexity, she had been fraternizing with the enemy. “I respect you!” Ladi called out. “I want you to love me,” Nima returned just as loud. “If I didn’t, I would have cheated. I could have had your children without your consent. We had no official premarital agreement. What would you have done? What would you have told ‘Our Children’?”

“Oh, I will let them grow first.” he replied calmly. “Then I will read them a speech I wrote at their birth, but only when they are old enough to comprehend it fully. It will go something like this; ‘Ever since; Your Mama, conceived you; My Children, I had fears for all these ‘not fair’ things that you will experience. Things like disappointments, betrayals, pains, ageing, death and all that sort of thing. I know I can’t protect you from them, not even take a tiny bit of them from you. So I considered my true love for you and decided what you don’t have can’t have you. So I never wanted life to have you. If it was my decision alone, that is what I would have chosen for you.” Our silence wasn’t tasteful.

I ran away naturally, not wanting to participate further in this academic debate that had naturally been emasculated of its initial detached logic by its integral emotional realities. I wasn’t married, Nima was. He stood his grounds and all hell broke loose on their married earth. Abused and he got stronger. In tempests of flooded words, blazing outbursts of rage, vacuuming raids of malice and ravenous fights. But he stayed good, fair as the first day we met.

Nima followed me, occasionally. Not on more cruises, but to my one bedroom cottage away from civilization, where I write as I quietly listened to only birds talk and not pesky nosy people. I’ve long tired of persons who surround me with fake affections, when there wasn’t a single selfless word of truth in all they said, but they are easily believed because of how they speak. It is my place of quiet peace, away from my fears of man and his continuous unsolicited intrusion that never surfaces even if necessitated by his own discomfort, but always ever forged by another’s.

I never ever gave my body to Nima like the world is doing to everything else now, with its submissions to logical fairness, devoid of the basic elementary comprehension usually required of all biological entities, which man professes to be the best of.

My father told me the ‘Common Story’ long before I learnt everybody else had heard it before finishing elementary school;

“In days old and long gone by,
A young Goat still with speech
Asked humans as he went by
Their old time wasting pitch.

“‘Have you seen my wives go by?’
‘Wives?’ They jeer and returned.
Enquiries to, the grown kid comply.
‘Wives,’ he so proudly confirmed.

“‘No laddie,’ their answer did fly.
‘We only saw your full mothers
And so many sisters walk by.’
‘But they’re all my wives, my brothers.’”

Such beauty in sweet soft words speaks to minds. It fires up situations with limitless wood of hope, as it seeks to show the enjoyment partaken in the matrimonies coupling the unglamorous unwedables. The adulterous flesh of the Goat man is; grown up and unethical. His very nature is truly that of the animalistic dope’s. In Nima’s case he just wanted to experiment with the most subtle and submissive person he knows. And hoped by mischievously pestering me, he can create ways to accommodate our principled stance, he wasn’t willing to unequivocally forgo. He was unsuccessful though, some times hilariously so too.

Some years back, Nima and I had gone to an invitational retreat for retired military officers, where I was to give informal talks on; Writing as a career. It was for a weekend at a beautiful ranch resort with great views. There were lots of domesticated folks with their animals free to roam as they wished. It gave the place an African village setting. I remember a young goat erroneously assuming a friendly urinating six years old nude boy for its mum.

In the difficult poor blue indigo light of the evening twilight, the kid snuggled in-between the standing boy’s legs and suckled on his dripping protruding male organ, like it would its mum’s tit. We laughed our heads off and Nima got so drunk that evening. Nima and I never drank alcoholic beverages. But that once, he got so drunk that he stripped off all his outer clothes and jumped into the resort’s pool in his loose fitting under pants only. A waiter followed him in immediately and with much difficulty pushed him out without the only piece of clothing he had on, because it had been easily flushed off his body as he sank into the water.

Nima staggered out of the pool nude as an egg and ran towards the poorly lit mowed Golf fields with his manhood dangling in front of him like an accusing fore finger, shouting for a ‘lamb suck’. Nima wasn’t gay. He was just too much mischief, principle and fun rolled into one. The brevity of that vivid display of his puzzled state explicably manifested the malady his mind was in, it showed. When he came to my cottage after their latest quarrel, it was clear their worries had remained irreducible and unresolved.

After a hurried lunch we calmed down to some light civil chat, but he just went on about, “Ladi and this talk of child adoption.” I only said, ‘She might have a point.’ And he felt betrayed by me as well. “Come on chum,” he thundered. “One baby is no different from another and the accompanying responsibilities aren’t too!”

‘But have you considered a grown up; late teens or early twenties? Befriend them, let them choose you. They have a choice and are alive. Their wants, wishes and needs are at their finger tips; real and communicable.’ The betrayal he felt showed on his lined brows and wrinkled neck as he stormed out, his smoking pipe clenched in a fist. I let him be as he walked away from me into the vast beautiful land that was hiding me. All night and the noon that preceded it, I waited for Nima’s return.

I waited no further at the first sign of the next morning’s radiant early sunlight. I locked up and took off after him into the late dawn’s chill and dim. Walking the luxurious lands, conscious of the breathtaking sights that had informed my seasonal sojourn here; even as my mind is marooned by the fear of Nima’s unclear sudden prolonged intolerable absence. I stared at the heart warming view before me with the impartiality of what effectual general attraction it has and I reaffirmed my knowledge that the wisdom in beauty is not buried within its scenery, for its goodness and overt sincerity consoles all forms of misery.

That is why I can hate a beautiful thing and see it is ugly in my hate. The sights soothe my immediate worries, I lost all enmity, love the sheer holistic sight and merry. The land inhabits me and I acknowledge that it didn’t seize my joy. I returned late in the brighter light. The eastern horizon had fully revealed the heavenly judge back from its one night abroad. From its lonely pedestal it casts lukewarm rays and dares me, all seeing, uncompromising. As an impure witness, I never looked back. The eye of its truth sees through me. Silence is my right, the loot in every man’s fight. Passing beneath the trees’ shade, I pause to talk back to the birds;

‘Flew your thoughts with a breeze,
With a sharp whistle and ease.
In the simple flight you all live,
Winds are harsh and rain a thief.

The woven nests top your trees,
Eggs your chicks and roofs peace.
Living is one brief lonely courtship
That wings songs it just must keep.

So Birdie, play your own flute
Like nature does to only you.
Life leaves me in my ugly soot
And I just can not be like you.

These repertoires are just you
As I continue to thrive on my loot.
Amazed why ironically unlike you
To my endowed peers I am a mute.’

When I tired from my search and flitted backwards home, I found Nima was under my bed all this long while. He must have sneaked in and hid there sometime the day before. The sight of him all tranquil was sweet; that haste of taste too late to waste.

He was too still and it wasn’t from straining to shut me out. Right there beneath me, time embraced my best friend and stopped all its worldly rummaging along with him; for him only, letting me continue along alone, with these cherished sounds we all call life.

Letting individual faith be;
Carry its soul to its own sea,
Stupid perspectives as all too.
It speaks only when spoken to.

In its peace it rows its boat
Sweetly to an abode it thought
Ferries revelry ever so new,
Or simply just as it chooses to.

When, if or whether it matters;
Over everything the mind falters.
It waters sand and dry up dew,
It heard and does as it wished to.

Up high in vague divine quests
Or down in worldly conquests;
But versed and tensed it knew
Sounds of life we’re just all up to.