Timya’s mother left her matrimonial village when Timya was only six. That is the much Timya knows and she wasn’t the type to make a fuss about things. Timya’s mother never told her why she left or why she couldn’t take the sting of her hurting pride any more, she had to run away from her husband’s house.

She fought with only her expression and bold appearances but deep down in her heart, she didn’t even try. The hate that escorts the earliest feeling of betrayal in its onset, made her irrational. So without giving it enough thought, she took Timya out one moonlit night and left the village with the little girl.

When Timya grew into a much ridiculed twelve year old in a distant village, she gave her a curt excuse. She told Timya that her father took a second wife and betrayed them both. As a simple and short explanation, it appeared indeed the briefest honest truth. She had seen all the insinuating eyebrows flick and twitch, as she went by and she decided she should be pampered with attention to placate her betrayed and hurt feelings or else?

When the community took its accustomed wicked sympathetic stance, letting her wallow in the glare and blare of abject comprehensive humour, she had rebelled. And when Timya had asked to be reunited with her father, her mother accepted without a single blink in protest, revealing the real strain of so many long years of yearning for this reunion.

Her eagerness was even more pronounced by the swiftness of her response and before the next evening, a visibly excited Timya was welcomed into her father’s large empty compound by only a very cheerful seventeen year old lad, her mother introduced as her elder brother, Ponjul.

“His smile carried the sun rays’ sparkle, I can see honesty in his eyes. His moist lips made up words that said nothing, yet my heart understood them, for it nodded vigorously within me.”

Ponjul’s gaily character contrasted his childhood in that reason defying manner that moulds goodness out of visible meanness. His step-mother had completely governed their lives in the most dictatorial way that ensured she was the cat in their discreet rodent lives. His gentled, subdued father was the famous Tiger she tamed completely, in the most bizarre manner possible. It was simply explained with traditionally relied quick resignation; as some mystically induced, diabolically administered mind controlling magic. That conveniently became the logical theory.

In the two lack luster years she reigned in their lives, the beautiful love shared between father and son, was the one thing she couldn’t truly destroy. It paused when she appeared, looked away when she passed and hid if she tarried, but it was always there. It glowed in their eyes, lit up the inside of the outwards misery she had made their lives. She accepted there was nothing she could do about their real love for each other, it drove her mad with even more hate. So she kept picking at the hapless lad.

Like she did to all her previous husbands, she left the boy’s father for the very next man that caught her fancy. And just two years after his second marriage, Ponjul’s step mother had left again. Ponjul rejoiced, but her leaving was killing his father, the disappointment of it was, at least. If ego had indeed kept Napoleon’s dreams alive, then pride ‘waterlooed’ him.

Ponjul’s father’s pride wouldn’t let him admit his error. His ego ate him up. For those two years he was married to his second wife, he ‘zombied’ about to her every whim. In the four years that followed her departure he was mostly bed ridden, drunk with sorrow. Ponjul nursed him and painstakingly fend for them both.

“Take the full meaning of love; with a complete comprehension of its truest good essence, you’ll find that love at first sight is one of the world’s greatest ever contradictions. Love grows; it’s not found. She must have another hold on me surely.”

It was planned to be a very brief visit but Timya and her mother just stayed on. It was like an out of season rainfall that fell down unannounced. The seasoned flora does not refuse it. They embraced its relief to the fullest and joined the malnourished ground to feed on its wet and refreshing goodness.

Their generously shared effortless smiles and laughter radiated ceaselessly, very loud joy and a highly mobile good health returned to their small family. Who doubts the healing power of happiness? Their parents were back together and the world was so friendly and playful for Ponjul and Timya, respectively.

They siblings paired in this new world of their own making and they waltzed together inside its unique magnetic field, to the proud glory of their parents and admiration of the whole village community. The same community which had its archaic age old advice ignored and rendered obnoxious, shamelessly came out with a gaily merriment to join in the family’s new found revelry.

Entirely mindless of the harm it had done and the timeless pain it had caused the innocence of the family, the same community now wants all the good credit as the family flourished. Timya and Ponjul became very close and as the years spoke their piling time. Then the people piffled as it became increasingly evident that Timya and Ponjul lived for only each other first.

Their parents shrugged it off but it was too obvious that their affection for one another was not like other siblings’. No young man got Timya’s attention, nor a single young girl get that of Ponjul. All those years of being apart from this kind of cozy, all surrendering trust and union, had made their minds a convenient receptacle for the overflow of the instant affection that had been indefinitely kept in their respective hearts’ vast reservoirs.

“The captivating truth of the honesty in a fully grown affection is that it is devoid of any real form of tangible attraction and I wonder if this is the only flaw in my desire for his affection”

When marriage had, with its characteristic charlatanry, sang its song in all other homes in their village year after year, Ponjul and Timya’s parents finally saw the need to do something about their children’s lack of interest in other relationships other than the only one they tenaciously shared in its solely emotional personification. The decision came seven years after the family reunited. It was evidently seven years late, it was to soon appear.

Without consulting Ponjul and Timya, marriages were arranged for each one of them separately and secretly. From the very next village a husband was gotten for Timya and from their own village, a wife for Ponjul. It was announced publicly the night before their erstwhile secretly organized wedding feast; which they had been misled to think was for an unmarried close cousin.

They were only told when their family’s compound was densely full with well wishers and both of them were well secured and restrained from whatever reaction they might have thought up or planned. Still they remained calm in their outward behaviour, though definitely as shocked as subdued. Ponjul listened to his peers banter all through the evening as they kept watch over him in his quarters, like they had been well instructed to.

Timya knitted and hummed softly under her breath as she watched the women prepare their joint wedding feast’s local unfermented drinks. The fear everyone had earlier entertained of their verbal rejection, accompanied by a physically stressed resistance was allayed hesitantly. But there aroused the worry that the mute acceptance they where communicating reeked of a very dishonest resignation that will culminate in a similar case of matrimonial displeasure for both their imposed spouses.

“The persistence of any sincere feeling to surface in a blatantly hostile and unrelentingly badly accommodative environment, should clearly speak for its subsequent intent and projected motives that aren’t obviously ulterior. How can I say this to all those I love and not hurt their love for me?”

Silent as the night, they stole away as everyone else slept. They made for the hills with their small wraps of traveling essentials and vanished into stories told for years afterwards. Round fires and when lovers meet, their story is retold over and over again.

The story of Ponjul and Timya is yet to end as it is told. They were eaten in the wild? They ran away to a far off land, beyond the very long search that followed? Still the mystery continues in the mind of everyone who hears this story. Had they jumped into the wild rivers of the region rather than be emotionally as physically separated for life? Their fear of marriage to others and their eternal love for one another is still fondly proposed.

All these local stories are teachers and are moulded to have an impact on young lives. They register morals that impart on character and norms. If they give off a trace of the forbidden in fair light, then culture and its future may suffer for it. As the young grow, their paws seek everything. Their teeth playfully bite the soft or the hard with innocence and little comprehension.

Everything is attractive to their naïve and simple curiosity. Now with old culture altered to fit faith, round fires and from a preacher’s pulpit, this story should get the ending it desires and still be seen to have the respect for faith it deserves and the victory that is its sure truth and destiny.

Ponjul and Timya loved each other so much that they ran off and settled in a distant land as husband and wife, rather than live like the mere siblings they can not choose. They had children and lived happily, such that today their descendants still do the same elaborately and blamelessly too. Surely, if no other was made after the first created couple, then God Himself sanctified this to fit the rarity of the situation it grows in.

“The only thing we can boast of is our love for an equal, not a superior or an inferior being. Its freedom from reverence and responsibility makes it rare. We might not be capable this.”

I wonder who you are;
Some lost line or verse?
Lost somehow so far;
We can’t now transverse?

You are there in view,
Yet we chose the dark.
And rendered the new
Old, like a lot we lack.

Our acceptance of you
Is not sincere at least,
To admit what we knew
Had outlived its wreath.

Shrouded in some mist
Of age old, yet new norm;
That captured life’s feat
And figured its only form.

We spouse a ghost
And live in cemeteries.
Like a true coffined host,
Scared for our souls’ stories.

Your place true as cast,
Even if subtle and lost.
History’ll gain from; at last,
Those Cain’s wives, almost.



Yet again my blog has been listed by another blogger for another award. This time a published writer has identified with my work. My gratitude goes to Kellie Larsen Murphy: ; a writer, mother & books enthusiast, for nominating me for the Lucky 7 award. This indeed is a very special honor.
Like most other awards of this nature, the award’s primarily objective is to publicize the work of bloggers. The Lucky 7 award specifically provides a forum for writers to showcase a piece of their work and pass it along to other aspiring novelists. This piece of their manuscript; whether it is prose or poetry, novels, short stories or essays, could be part of a complete work or just part of something they are still working on.
As it is customary with most blog based awards, the nominated person is expected to nominated others too. The nominated writer does the following:
• Go to Page 77 of your manuscript
• Go to line 7
• Copy next 7 lines, sentences or paragraphs into your post
• Give the award to 7 more writers
I’m not a published writer Yet! I’ve three complete works ready and I’m a third way done on a fouth. I’m very hopeful I’ll be acknowledged and duly published in the near future. Unfortunately, the oppurtunities on offer for publishing are not exactly over flowing and dripping down the forearms of budding writers, especially on the African continent. My blog has done well. The commendable Following (Over 230), Viewing & Hits (Over 2,600) & Awards (3) I got in just five months is most encouraging & quite reassuring.
Thank you all for veiwing, commenting & following my blog!

The excerpt I chose for the purpose of this award is from my unpublished novel. This excerpt is from an over 740 pager titled: FEVER! Below are 7 paragraphs, starting from the 7th line of the 77th page & beneath that is a synopsis of the novel.

The first dock worker that came up the placed gangway, after it had been properly fasten to enable the briefly delayed passengers to leave the docked ship, was visibly stunned to come face to face with the returning young orphan. At first glance, the older man thought he had been mystically transferred back in time and was instead facing the much revered late chief servant of the long departed colonial elder statesman.
Such was the likeness of the son to his late father’s younger features, that the stunned old dock worker’s alarmed expression said as much. It was as if an old mirror had mystically transverse the superficies of the two separated, decades apart times, bringing back the reflection of the father with it to the present. Though startled by his instant unexpected recognition of the young returnee, the old dock worker had remained calm and tried not to give away his thoughts. But his initial reaction had already given him away.
The plan the young man initially had was to slip back into the coastal town unannounced and unnoticed, so that he could privately and secretly assess the prevailing situation and take complete possession of his entire inheritance there, before ultimately commencing the execution of the elaborate scheme he had fashioned out, based on the spelt out written brief of his late father. But he now had to come to terms with what would be his complete inability to show himself around freely, without being identified for whose son he is.
It would certainly be impossible for him to freely go around unrecognized because of those unique facial and bodily features distinct to his family and which his father had already made easily recognizable by his prominence in the coastal town just over three decades earlier, when he looked only a shade older but was indeed much older than his returning son. He had looked much like the boy does then.
Responding to an instant brain wave, the boy quickly called the old dock worker aside and after a very brief introduction to explain his obvious resemblance to his famous late father, he summarily offered the old dock worker a mouth-watering deal. He asked the old man to be his personal assistant. But before the old dock worker replied, he had requested for a few minutes to attend to the crew of the docked vessel first, like he was duty bond to.
After he had waited for the passengers of the ship to start disembarking, he rejoined the young man in his private luxury cabin to get more acquainted with the job he was being offered, the same job he would subsequently do for the rest of his already considerably advanced age. It is the kind of work he appeared quite suited for with his vast international exposure, experience and current vocational knowledge.
The old dock worker was a very likeable chap, whose tale was a list of missed opportunities and that of endless patience which characterizes persons unwilling to take any kind of risk to achieve their fantastic dreams; those many dreams they have nursed for so long. And when they fail in pursuing these dreams, they still have the audacity to blame everybody else but themselves. As an orphaned young lad too, the old dock worker had followed his holidaying uncle back to the coastal town to work as a bellhop in the hotel where his uncle worked as an old kitchen-help. This was in the earlier years, just before the amalgamation of the colonized regions.




The family made up a nation that approved and doled out its versioned justice to all its number, but appeases none of them really. It fostered its own colossal failure in combined efforts. It made that of its constituent membership insignificant and trivial in an unimportant way.

There is the honest triumph of labour, the hugely varied effect of wit against diverse hardship, and the effectiveness of corruption where all other approaches have failed. But the lingering damage it leaves in its wake is too tasteless to be edible and yet must be wholly eaten.

There is the highly proclaimed effect of diverse personalities on their orientations and these aren’t disguised in the blatant tribalism, regionalism and ethnicity that surround it all. Everything merges into these vastly imitated robustly parochial ways that are too alike to be sincerely different, revealing a rich nation with a fever it resembles.

Fever is an exposition of a heady, but not inscrutable abstract story, conceived on the telling likeness in the revelations of evident bodily symptoms to a practically dysfunctional well knitted family which has managed to coexist like the administrative and geographical national entity the family is indigenous to, resembles and lives in. It points to its entire nature in an elaborated seemingly fictional story. It likens every aspect of it entirely and symbolizes it with such inane clarity.


Below are my own 7 nominations for the Lucky 7 Awards.

Thanks for everything.

POEMS: Mind, Eyelids of Betrayal, Literate & Bird Talk


That farm only I can harvest
Of the yield I sowed as best.


Cooing as the pleasant Dove
Pairing the fairest in love,
Airing their bond skies above.

Tasty meals will gather a hunt.
What dies before dishes are burnt?
Nobody is killed, to put it blunt.

Blinking away our sorrow,
Straying wide from the narrow;
Innocence we see is shallow.

From what is pride really safe?
Or faith, trust, love yet late?
Kith, kin, sex, race or mate?

The faith a fist, given as must
And pain it opens and thrust;
Winks in its act of lethal trust.


I aspire to be a name
Certainly not a face.
I pray that my fame
Brings me real grace.

To all alive I owe;
Those dead I may too.
For the unborn I’ve a hoe,
It is for me that I sow.


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 nest tops 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.

YASNIGER awarded the VBA

My gratitude goes to james369 ; for norminating me for the Versatile Blogger Award (VBA)! This is my second Blogging award. The Liebster Award was my first. Once again I feel quite honored. The recognition is inspirational and most appreciated.

Things you might like to know about me:

– I am a northern Nigerian male & I’m not hiding my identity, just not making it an issue.
– I live in Abuja, The Nigerian capital city.
– ‘Yasniger’ combines my initials ‘YAS’ & my country’s most dominant river; ‘Niger’.
– I have been writing for well over two decades.
– I read everything & I mean everything.
– I have very strong christian convictions but I’m not fanatical and a lot more logical.
– I take my writing very seriously & enjoy it tremendously.

I however still choose not post the awards’ logo conspicuiously on my blog not because I do not recognize, appreciate and value the awards but simply because it isn’t in my character to do so. The awards are mainly ‘a great way to get word out there about other blogs’ and aims to propagate the blogging community to admirable heights.

As such, by likewise awarding the VBA to 15 fellow bloggers of my chioce and leaving comments on this regard to each of these 15 bloggers to let them know they are recipeints of the VBA, I’m invariably requesting they do the same to those they also nominate. This award is thus geared towards publicizing the blogging community’s activities.

I’m proud to extend this facility to some wonderful bloggers who had given me such pleasure over these past months.

So I nominate the following blogs for the VBA;

To wordart2012 ! For exceptional artistry with words.

To truelovejunkie ! For the captivating manner feelings are expressed.

To Matthew Andrako ! For inspirational perspectives articulated insightfully.

To insidethebirdcage ! For writing about birds like nobody else would.

To philosophywithfries ! For the incisive logic expressed.

To ! For actually being a quite versatile blog.

To ! For her warm soothing poetry.

To ! For the sheer ingenuity.

To http://lifeisanexquisitejourney/ ! For a sense of style.

To ! For a promising internet based writers’ community.

To ! For insights on gender oddities.

To ! For bold perspectives & the grandest quotes.

To ! For a world of continiuous discoveries.

To ! For a compelling comic series.

To ! For that insanely sensible flair.

Visit this blogs. You will find they are worth your attention and time.
Thank you following and veiwing my blog!

Yas Niger

I’ve been asked about the origin of these awards but hadn’t been quite forthcoming with good responses. I hope the following note on this award will help. Thanks.

About the VBA : james369

“In the few short months I was on a blogging hiatus, there has been a wave of awards hitting the blogosphere. The most prevalent one appears to be the Versatile Blogger Award (VBA). And I’ve been awarded one

“Being the research minded individual that I am, I tried to uncover how this award started. About 4 pages into a Google search and 3 pages in to a Bing search, I couldn’t track down the origin of the award. What I did learn was that there seemed to be several variations on how this award was carried out, ranging from the number of people the recipient then needs to nominate/award, to the 7 pieces of information the recipients divulge about themselves, and even the graphic used to display the award.

“After my exhaustive internet search about the award (hey, going past the first page of a search engine is considered exhaustive these days) I gave up and decided to embrace the award. While some bloggers seem annoyed by the award, most bloggers seem to enjoy the sense of camaraderie the award fosters. From what I’ve observed, the VBA is a way for bloggers to recognize other blogs and share a little more information about themselves to their audience.

“For those who haven’t encountered the VBA yet, here are the rules:
Thank the person who gave you this award. Include a link to their blog.
Select 15 blogs you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly.
Nominate these 15 bloggers for the VBA & include a link to these sites.

DARE DA MUTUWA (Night and Death)


Satan cooked his soup
Down in his darkest loop,
Where the Angel does reign
With cunning, fear and pain.

In some pit in that bowel
Of cooking fiery hell
Stayed two trivial ones,
Only peasants here once.

They didn’t say at first
What lust and thirst
Had conceived for them
Eternity in that realm.

How they did manage
To slip the timeless age
And torments they live,
Is beyond its believe.

To his loop they went;
All fearless and bent,
Stealing his whole pot
And left with the lot.

His sinfulness’ roar
And his flames tore.
All hell broke loose,
A search he chose.

Emptied pot aground.
They were then found,
After a taste revealed,
His dishes aren’t mealed.

His food all waste;
Brewed of the haste
Of souls he did tap
Missing their last lap.

How do you punish
All those to finish
Forever in those hells,
Within their dead cells?

They did though say;
Here once as they lay,
Their ten years old ma
Calls ‘em Dare da Mutuwa.


Within the abyss rule;
Hidden is a secret pool
Of very cool pure water
Satan uses as it matter.

Because in all his might
He has only just sight
And can not ever know
A thought until it show.

He bribes and tease
His tenants with ease,
To know their thought
With the water sought.

How they always manage
To cheat timeless age
And agony they live,
Mortals cannot believe.

As Satan does prowl;
They nicked his bowl.
The water-skull whole,
Hell’s only thieves stole.

His cruelness’ roar
And his sulfur pour.
All hell broke loose,
A search again chose.

They were again found;
Empty skull aground,
After they drank its fill.
Their grin said a deal.

How may he punish
Those set to finish
Their lives in his hell,
Hopefully in their cell?

That’s where they failed,
When here they sailed.
For of all man has met
It’s always choice left.

That night she flirt
With death and dirt,
Their ten years old ma
Called ‘em Dare da Mutuwa.


Away on bad business,
Satan sets hell’s sadness.
Off to gain souls more,
He left hell as before.

How they again manage
To trick timeless age
And the pain they live,
Satan can’t just believe.

To his loop they went;
Again fearless as bent,
Stole his best soup yet
And with the lot left.

His demons they gave,
Smiling all so brave.
Hell has no conscience;
It produces disobedience.

As the guards ate away
Hell’s tenants stole away.
To his loop all went,
Many scared but bent.

They found in his rule
That hidden secret pool
Of cool water so pure.
Every one drank his cure.

There in warmth all stay,
From cell-pits’ heat away.
Here Satan found all;
He needn’t a roll call.

It was clearly mutiny
Beyond hell’s immunity.
He cherished his reign
And fear for his domain.

He casts the twins out,
They went with a shout.
How else could he punish
Those who seek his finish?

Again here they return
Like before are reborn.
Their ten years old ma
Calls ‘em Dare da Mutuwa.


If you truly love poetry then this is worth the trouble, believe me folks!

Cliffette's Journal

I’m born of the uppermost caste, finally disgraced.

You are of that enemy side, the name, we must not take.

But still, by whose fault and curse, we met by the face?

Whose bad luck was it when I fell into the gorge?

Even though, never expected those answers.

But during those hot sleepless nights,

When my mind shuts itself out,

These questions come alive.

I thought it was just a pretty crush,

Which like a hangover drops with a lemon bite…

It’s over for you I know, I know it very well,

But I don’t know how the little ray of hope made rainbows.

How and when the crush became into admiration,

And admiration into dedication, devotion and obsession,

I never understood. Like a biological alteration,

You left wordlessly after giving me a lesson about true love.

I was emotionally bland first. You gave me the words,

And a…

View original post 131 more words

POEMS: Slug, Too Dark for the Sun, The War That Won A Battle, Bari / Leave, Heads or Tails & Handful of Clay


As we moan in our far watch;
Nagging our peopled conscience,
We miss out entirely that the catch
Is made up of all our overt nonsense.

A large rich island just drags on,
Not for the size it must always hug.
The bulk of it lost the very reason
Why rich minds will make it a slug.


Shade’s own place in the sun;
Like the shadow’s that will run,
Is hidden from its glories glare
With the truth they all must bear.


The rocky coast of Macbeth’s fate
Must be taken up to be like the bait
That clips the pet Eagle’s keen claws
Or ties up a feeding Croc’s weak jaws.

The lesson in any story is found
And in any form it will astound
The minute detail of our simple act
Or corrects excesses in our daily act.


In ka ki ka ji bari,
Lalle za ka ga bari.
Domin dare ne sakon;
Rana ne mai bakon.

If you refuse to leave,
Surely it will still cease.
Because the night is dark;
The sun ensures it is back.


Toss the coin all your life,
Balance on edges of a knife.
Whither roam your own course
If life to you is just a lone farce.

Are you not lost in thought;
Like the canine who fought
His own tail round and round,
With its very head not sound?


That simple deed you daily handle
Reveal so much about how you work.
Just as everybody carries their bundle
Of life’s joy and sorrow that will mock.

That piece of action you handle
Reveal your final piece of work.
Just like every artist’s own bundle
Of clay would praise and also mock.

POEMS: My Will, Crescendo, Just This Once, Age, Nightly & Pessimum


When I do die; and I surely will,
If you cry I will not surely heal.
When you cry, it wouldn’t purge.
If you still do, please stop I do urge.

You should laugh because of this;
I knew of this and prepared as it is.
At least I tried hard, so why the cry?
I made my best of it to say this bye.

Do not paste your perception of me
And print your story for all to see.
I curse they that make some booklet,
For my funeral service I will never let.

If I am not writing my own story,
Then no human has the right or glory.
I dare he who owes no single sorry
And desires a life long torment so gory.

Sing if you must, pray if you would,
Don’t put out my picture in some mood.
Remember me as you last saw me or see fit,
Don’t display my body without me in it.

Days’ moments after death’s end,
Do bury me quickly there and then.
Wait not for all or some sunny day,
Do only just as my true home say.

My spoils I have all so shared,
In needs as deeds I had cared.
I owe only God first not any,
I paid debts I could, every penny.

I tried living because I just must,
Though like all others, I have lost.
I craved to blink ever so ready
For that spot and time so ready.


Earth has been all angry again,
Man did upset hers again;
Like he does again and again.

His efforts in controlling has been
Fixed as to betray his weakness seen;
She’s polite, not rash as harsh in between.

But you wonder how long for,
This sea-saw ride will further go?
Calmly, then hard ends a crescendo.


Truthfully none lives all alone,
But dead as alive all has none.


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

When a bird sings,
It’s because it must.
What any age brings
Speaks for you most.


Black like blind,
Silent as the mind.
Faith is in the act
And not in the pact.

Early all the time,
Always in its prime.
The sights are blind,
At night we all find.

So in their prime,
The nights of time;
Whiter though blind,
Says what is to find.

In whirls of a mind;
Never there to find,
Nights sure as time
Are safe for to pine.


People loose their own mark,
Showing off what they lack.
Each time brings its fear to us
And it shows in our every fuss.

Ours is made just as real,
That is not just how it feel.
For in giving what we have,
We only take like we gave.

Never really asking for trust,
For we do know what it cost.
Desire should make a picture
That should show its future.


The singing birds outside seem to carry the gentle breeze in their spring songs, whistling their way into our hearts and pleasing all our senses as we sat in the clean sparsely furnished sitting room. Stephen had invited me and I was attracted by this boy who spoke English like the English. Rather bemused at first, I wasn’t sure the family had finished unpacking yet and I imagined large carton boxes still filled up with lots of home items, piled up in some empty inner room, waiting for larger halls to accommodate them all, when they are placed befittingly.

The wall clock said I should still be in school, but who cared and will ask if I stayed and spent time alone with Stephen, within these airy rooms, in my all white school uniform. Then their framed glass front door clattered, moved and stuck. A loud knock followed and Stephen paused by the radio and called out, “Mum, is that you? The door is open.” A grunt gossiped the strain in the pull and the door wailed and swung open in total compliance to the anger of the force it again experienced.

A gust of strong air threw the door’s twin curtains inwards and they hung horizontally in mid-air, like you imagine an angel’s wings majestically would. Then walked in the mother and I had my first brief glimpse of her before she shut the door behind her with a loud clatter and the twin curtains returned down swiftly with the ceased strong air, covering her all up in the door way.

One of her light complexioned bangled up fore-arms emerged through the gap in between the twin curtains and she moved one curtain aside as she stepped out of their covered space. She was dressed up in what is her usual. She was clad natively like a picture from the nineteen sixties. She epitomized an angel stepping out of her wings and into our mortal world.

“Welcome mum, how did it go?” Stephen asked as he motioned to plug in the radio placed on the high wooden shelf. “We thank God,” came her optimistic reply in a strong quite cherry very feminine tenor. I timed my greeting perfectly. “Good morning ma,” I went ahead to say and she stopped to look my way for the first time of many, noticing me for the first time, taking in my tense poise and uniform in one quick unnoticeable shot of wizen sight. She fired back her quick and ever sincere response.

“Hello there. How are you?” she sang with a real hearty flair. “I am well, thank you,” I replied. “This is Habibu. Habibu, my mother.” Stephen made the appropriate introduction without looking our way, as the radio came on with a loud channel-less ‘Shh’! She walked into the sitting room, continued out of sight, into the kitchen, still holding her basket; which was half-filled with the bottled drinks she had just returned from hawking.

For a long while the only sounds to be heard were Stephen’s frantic tuning search for his favoured BBC world service international radio channel and the annoying loud clinks of bottled glasses coming from the kitchen. She emerged with a tray and placed a glass of some white drink on a stool beside me.

“I hope you like it,” she said as she smiled warmly. “She makes it, sells it and we all drink it,” Stephen joked and laughed alone, as he would often do to his dry British styled jokes. I smiled and thanked her, picked up the glass and sipped the drink.

For that one moment I felt all alone with a decision I thought was beyond me and Stephen’s “Well?” startled my hurried, still undecided mind. She had hovered around, waiting for my opinion. I didn’t have one; but I simply said ‘It’s good,’ without the slightest inkling if I had lied or not. It was all so new to me; that is not the odd tasting drink but, a mother and son like them.

The Soya milk I am certain I had never seen before then, but its new taste was lost to the amazing nice warmth she made me feel effortlessly. “By the way, shouldn’t you be in school?” She abruptly asked me, with a concern that was not the rebuke it insinuated. ‘I had finished for the day,” I honestly lied and she smiled her comprehension just before she disappeared again into the kitchen. It was to become evident much later that she had literally filled a vacuum in me and I felt she liked me. I became envious of Stephen and I wanted her for my mother.

I couldn’t keep away as I returned to their house again and yet again. Time spent with the family told me a lot about her and myself. Then I knew for certain that it wasn’t just me, she just liked everybody. She saw goodness and polished badness off any person. Her family always came first and she had a large heart that included people like me into her family.

Her motherhood wasn’t some natural task or a kind of human responsible duty; it was a right she fought for with every breath she took. She lost very few of her physical battles against nature or man, but she won all the emotional ones. And finally she won the whole war hands down, with many years to spear.

I didn’t start meeting the rest of the family until about my fifth visit. I met Faith first. She is a female Stephen, much the same looks and countenance. But that is all the similarities they have. She never really made up her mind about me and the feeling was mutual for all the time I knew and related with her.

We seem to size each other up repeatedly and endlessly. This is probably because I seem to have met and discussed with her least of all. But to me what mattered most of all about her was the fact that she recognized their mother’s virtues clearest of all.

Faith saw the unique gift given to their whole family in their mother and her tent was pitched permanently in their mother’s lush green lawn; she never budged, no matter what. Then there was the lovely chubby Janeth, a darker and more expressive girl with a fair mind and a quite formal personality. I thought I loved her, but then honestly at that age I thought I loved every girl that showed she enjoyed my company. I spent the most time with Janeth, after Stephen and their mother.

We talked about everything reasonable and she came across as a very timid girl that was having an honest go at being in charge of all her feelings for the very first time. She loved a good gist but wouldn’t or couldn’t lie to spice up a story to entertain her listeners, like I would or most teenagers are prone to doing.

When together, Faith and Janeth spoke to each other like two dressed up, barefooted English ladies, walking on a graveled courtyard. Carefully they choose words, as if trying not to trigger off an old quarrel they had paused some time back. But they loved each other in a respectfully yet competitive manner, that is both sisterly and friendly in its face, flair and faith; a truly unique friendship that could only harbor genuine respect.

The younger boys were the mother’s best work. Albert is wise and his name had nothing to do with it. In his early teens he showed traits that made you notice him. He had confident traits that could swing anywhere with age, from an honourable humanitarian to a very successful villain. That is the beauty of the mother’s work in him particularly, because you could see his effort to be fair and the joy it brought him always. The main worry still visible in his always carefully picked out words and deeds, that seemed painstakingly executed from well thought out details sent out from deep inside his highly intelligent mind, was that he was still making an effort to be fair always.

Bernard is his mother in lots of ways and she must have seen herself in him and what a wonderful sight it certainly is. In the last child, you always know the happiness a family enjoys. It must be said that the last child always carries all the bits of everyone else in every functional family. If the final combination is good or bad, it always shows in that last child of the family. Bernard as the last child of the family was a wonderful sight to behold and experience, like the whole family.

The father showed his disappointment in his very evidently detached poise. I met him a number of times as the months passed and he was never in a truly happy mood. Relocating with his whole family to his country of origin, after so many years of residence in England, he discovered after a few meaningless years of an almost pitiful existence, stubborn loyalty and finally spiteful resentment that he shouldn’t have returned.

He stopped living in the country long before I met him and was only living in the dream of returning back to England with his family again. The entire family took up this exact quest of his obviously and the family’s plan was extensively being executed systematically. As the months passed and I became much more familiar with them individually and with the family as a whole, it was mentioned repeatedly and I knew that those large carton boxes of home items I had imagined piled up in some inner room, waiting, were never going to get unpacked.

It was clear that those boxes where filled with non-physical items, with hospitable emotions of communal acceptance. By that year’s end I had entered every room in their house, with a good reason on every occasion. A chat with Janeth as she cooked had me entering the kitchen and to help chase a frightened but frightening rat, I had entered the master-bedroom.

I ate countless meals and drank lots of drinks with the family. I played games and enjoyed memorable times with members of the family. I learnt to be who I want to be as I spent countless hours with them. They existed for only me, like my personal characters in a well made family soap opera I followed daily on a true life television, I alone can see. Like most of the country’s youth of my generation, I was mainly a television educated boy.

That family completed my education; rather informally, as I concluded my formal post-primary education at the college I went to, near their home. But when I started to come over less, I missed out on two of the family’s saddest moments. Strangely though, in all the time I enjoyed the family’s hospitality, my friend Stephen only came to my home once. It was like I wanted it. The family were like imaginary friends; my own private pastime, which I wasn’t willing to share with anyone else.

I knew my own family wasn’t even keen on knowing the friends I kept, much more care about some imaginary friends I might have. But while I kept away the family had experienced two unfortunate sad events around this period that I missed. The first sad event I missed out on was an incident that got Janeth injured.

Some thugs had molested her and struck her wrist with a blunt knife. She got stitches and when the strings were removed, she was left with a slightly deformed hand. It hurts me to just imagine how frightened she must have been and how frustrated and anxious the incident must had made their whole family.

The simple are always confronted by the complex, who always seeks to tint their simplicity and make it more complicated. It is a tough struggle to remain simple, surrounded by a world of complexities. Personal lives have gone beyond live and breed. Man works to walk, not walk to work and he inevitably strives to out-walk the next man and the next, again and again.

Honesty is not seen as it should be anymore, it is not seen as a wholesome noble act of justice and not even measured and scaled properly or ensured or indeed insured. In its place is an insatiable quest for a luxurious life style that guides a preference scale of needless priorities. As the family became the least of my priorities, I stayed away for much longer spells. When I strolled over again one humid afternoon, I also heard the second and saddest event I had missed out on.

Janeth was alone at home and was reading in the sitting room when she let me in. I had no idea she would be alone because I had stayed away for many months. I was sure we could still enjoy each other’s company and was all smiles as I bantered on about nothing really significant. She appeared tensed and I asked loosely about their mother, deliberately digressing before I could figure out why she was so tensed up.

“Mother had cancer and mother died.” It was instantly real as soon as she said it and it startled me into an instant deaf mute. Open lipped, tears filled eyes and startled for a complete minute as she kept her eyes fixed on me, just as I did her. It was rather naive and impolite; on both our parts, but quiet humanly expressive. We speechlessly waited for the moment to elapse.

My tears broke their separate banks simultaneously and raced each other down wards, to the two edges of the sad curves my unhappy lips had made. Janeth said nothing still, as she appeared not to have notice this, because she might have turned away too as I discreetly wiped my tears, hurriedly. I wanted her to say she was sorry or something. God! I lost a mother too. Another minute passed before I got my wits back. “I am so sorry for your loss,” I think was all I finally said, after reminding myself that she lost her mother and not me.

I can’t remember much of the rest of that sad day. The family subsequently moved to England but not after a horrid couple of years or so in another house somewhere else in the outskirts of town. They left separately, but they all left. I got an address for Stephen, which I never used. I still have it but I just never contacted him or any member of the family. I choose to remember them like I last knew them, for the time being.

Victors don’t flourish if their vanquished had perished and death can only lose. If the fear we bear of death doesn’t give death peace of mind, then what has death? He can’t keep us for he passes on only, going through us for the briefest of moments.

Death reveals the two most important lessons in our lives. These are; where there is a life, there are lies and every road leads to the same place. Death’s power ends where it starts. For I see the mother still, like I first saw her. First impression lasts? It has been advocated, but it doesn’t just make a case for my view of her brief reign in my life; it embodies it.

‘A gust of strong air threw the door’s twin curtains inwards and they hung horizontally in mid-air, like you imagine an angel’s wings majestically would. Then walked in the mother and I had my first brief glimpse of her before she shut the door behind her with a loud clatter and the twin curtains returned down swiftly with the seized strong air, covering her all up in the door way. One of her light complexioned bangled up fore-arms emerged through the gap in between the twin curtains and she moved one curtain aside as she stepped out of their covered space.”

She had epitomized an angel stepping out of her wings and into our mortal world. It is true that God sends his Angels to live amongst us. He then takes them back when he misses them; out of our world, when we cherish them the most.

A strong gust of air blew
And twin curtains withdrew.
Float horizontally in mid-air,
Like Angles’ wings would pair.

The mother walked in her peace,
Embodied in that first brief glimpse
From within a curtained covering;
Into our world an Angle steps in.

Unique as, loving every person;
Everyone passes her tests’ reason.
Saw goodness, polished badness;
Her large heart sought happiness.

This world her one own family,
Which will see her out, sadly.
Her motherhood a duty not a task,
In her circumstances that lack.

A right for which she had fought,
Is her motherhood in every breath.
She lost physical battles down here,
But won the war with years to spear.

Then she had cancer and died,
Joining all those from us deaths hide.
The victor hasn’t yet flourished
When his vanquished all perished.

Death can only but surely lose,
Yet the fear of him we choose.
He doesn’t get the peace we see.
Then what really, really has he?

He can’t keep us as ornaments,
Passing for the briefest moments.
His power ends where it starts,
Coming and going, never ever lasts.

He reveals two very key lessons
In this very life for all persons;
Where lies a life there are lies
And all roads to a same place plies.

It is really true then and no fuss;
God sends his Angles amongst us,
Takes them when he misses them,
Out of a world that cherishes them.