The mountain top

III: Not one good deed is free

The vultures do not live on our mountain. Their nests are below in the tall trees on the mountain’s northern side. The old stories told of how the vultures had their nests on the mountain long ago, before they descended. They had to leave when they were hunted by the new human inhabitants of the mountain. We never saw their new nests because they were much lower than it would have been safe to lean over and crane out of the steep edges of the mountain to look down and see them. But we always knew they were there because we were told they were there. We co-existed and cooperated with the vultures in two major ways that circumvented our death or theirs. They clean up the flesh of our dead and we hunted them for meat and feathers.

The mountain top is fairly large with three main parts to its diverse terrain. There is the rough rocky area with huge boulders wonderfully placed on each other in the surrounding hills. Our village is sited on this area. Secondly is the trees and vegetation covered area. On this part of the mountain top is an impressive purely naturally occurring orchard with Banana, Pawpaw, Palm, Mango, Orange, Pear, Guava trees; all randomly but closely flourishing in the dark, thick, moist, rich soil on this part of the mountain. The father of our village found them all already here, high up on the mountain’s fertile loamy soil.

The soil must be as old as the mountain itself and we are very certain the mountain grew out of the ground beneath it, carrying the rich dark soil up with it. The trees must have sprout out of seeds brought up by birds of all sizes to crack and eat or simply eat but didn’t. Or yet still carried in the many birds’ dung, littered all around. The constant rains and fog watered the soil. Particularly during the rainy seasons, this area gets quite swampy because water flows downwards from the smooth rocky hills to settle there and it never drains away. Finally on the mountain top is the mainly smooth broad, flat rocky southern side.

This part rises upwards gently from the centre of the mountain, raising almost steadily outward towards the mountain’s edge and then curves sharply downwards to form the steepest and smoothest side of the mountain, all round to its whole eastern side. It is on this broad flat inclined rocky side that we fed an ageless population of vultures with the flesh of our dead, stripped off the corpses’ bones ourselves.

The bones are thrown over the steep edge of the smooth eastern side of the mountain, all the way down to the sparse shrubby vegetation of the brownish green plains beneath, with the sole aim of terrifying the people of the village below. My father is also a soft hearted man and not the type for aggression or violent behaviour. As a grown man, it also his duty to take his turn in performing the bone stripping ritual at very numerous burial vigils. He always found it difficult to sleep for days afterwards and late on some of such sleepless nights of his, I will hear him talk to my mother about the stomach retching rituals.

He spoke of how they have to use their bare hands to tear off most of the flesh from the corpses’ bones. He described how they dug their finger nails deep into the bloody moist slippery fiber texture of the dismembered dead bodies and slowly collected the body fat. This was set aside for use in stuffing tightly woven small baskets, which are used as the main water containers by the villagers. He had vividly described the gory act. I am glad I never actually saw it performed.

It was always done somewhere within the rocky hills, by the rotating bunch of assigned elderly men, while the rest of the villagers kept an all night noisy festive vigil in the village’s centre clearing. Later when the men had finished, just around visible dawn, everyone is assembled to witness the tossing over of the bones down the steep side and the spreading out of the flesh on the broad flat inclined rock for the vultures. The gathering disperses as soon as the vultures start to perch on nearby rocks. I learnt from eavesdropping on his night talks that the father of our village had designed this type of funerals.

It is so obvious that he had designed this sort of funeral with the main aim of instilling more fear into the hearts of the people residing in the village on the plains below the mountains. This type of barbaric and quite dehumanizing burial style was however naturally convenient for the entire village community that resided isolated so high up on the predominantly rocky enclave. It had its own special merits, which also suited the overall objectives of the founding father as well.

It ensures that our men are hardened and fearless, for only the strong hearted and brave person would painstakingly embark on tearing away all the flesh off the bones of the corpse of a person well known to them. The almost routine display of the heaped flesh of the dead people also attracted the mass of flocked vultures, which we hunted for their meat and feathers afterwards, when they linger around after their meals. Then finally, this sort of nauseating funeral further heightens the fear of the dreaded mountain by the people below it.

Naturally this kept them away until such a time when the grand quest of The Return is activated and actualized by the sudden secret descend of the mountain people for a final war, destined to settle all the cruelty meted out to our ancestor. We were fond of imagining and jeering at what the village people beneath the mountain thought of the bones we threw down after a funeral. We visualized them being terrified with the sheer mystery of the fresh human bones they discover repeatedly beneath the mountain every now and then.

These were bones the residents beneath the mountain would obviously know had been thrown down from their superstitiously named Sacred Mountain of the Gods. They could tell this by the telling bloody markings of the bouncing and sliding bones as they descend down the smooth steep rocky surface of the high mountain. Because they revere and worshipped the mountain, they also feared what they didn’t know about the mountain and the supposed spirits that dwell on the rocky mountain’s misty cloud covered high summit.

This partly superstitious and mostly uncertainty induced dread, ensured they distanced themselves from the mountain side and never attempt to climb it. Not a single attempt is recorded of anyone trying to climb from the inhabitants of the village beside the enormous mountain. Meanwhile, high up on the mountain the peace our village enjoyed was truly based on the fact that we are all actually related. Everyone in the village is from the same single founding father and his two stolen wives. We all considerably look alike; with hard dark hairy skins and thick black springy hair that we always shave off clean with sharpened vulture bones. Our bare scalps are well oiled with bird fat or palm oils. We all go about completely naked, always.

We remain in our compact home shelters most of the time because it is mainly cold up on the mountain, in between the brief display of the harsh low blazing sun. We huddle up together in tight groups of separate families, with the grown ups taking turns on the outside of the family huddled up clusters. These huge embraces kept us warm on cold nights. It was an effective way to keep warm. Occasionally we all stay outside our shelters, around a large fire to tell stories, sing songs and dance. Only the Eldest has the ability to make fire, it is never taught to anyone else. For this reason fires are not lit within home shelters. This had ensured trees weren’t habitually cut down to satisfy this purpose, indiscriminately. Only naturally broken down dead branches that fall off the trees, are collected for these large fires.

The usual cold gets unbearable most times and many families slept underneath extensively woven stringed-out fresh grass mats, patched up and decorated with feathers and leaves. Few privileged families, normally the family of the serving Eldest, own very old sewn monkey hides to cover up with. These were gotten long ago when the earliest residents of our village was still alive and monkeys still lived on the mountain top too. The monkeys were hunted to extinction on the mountain. It is also known that some of the monkeys bravely leaped into the tall trees beside the mountain side, to escape certain death.

I started wanting to leave the mountain right before your birth. I wanted to leave the village and its people. I wanted to find a peaceful place to live, away from the hostile people of my village, to be more comfortable amongst people that will appreciate me for what I am and my child too. I knew that the rejection I was experiencing will be extended to you soon enough and it would have stayed with us for the rest of our lives. I also was certain that The Return will be called in my life time or most certainly in yours. I was then in my early labour pains. My pains were said to be more than usual because you were an unclaimed boy, my mother had confirmed that assumption as well.

This all made me more scared of The Return. I feared I will lose you in the war. The thought occupied me and scared me greatly. I was even more terrified when the Eldest started calling out all the men and older boys for extra war practice every other night. For the very first time younger boys were allowed to take part in performing the bone stripping ritual of the Burial vigils. The Return was surely upon us and it appeared to be quite soon. The many signs were all around us, even though it wasn’t mentioned out-rightly or discussed. It was almost as if thinking and talking about it will carry our words and conversations down the mountain and alert of our planned descend.

One unusually warm night, not long after I had you, I had to come out of my family’s home shelter to empty my rumbling bowel behind a large boulder, just outside our modest abode. It was a dark night; I could not even see my own hands as I spread them out in front of my stooped and squatted frame to stabilise myself as I went about the strain of forcing those relaxing deep breaths that empty the bowel. I had fully bent my knees, taking the ideal position for emptying my bowel. When I finished excreting and was cleaning up my rear by rubbing any residue off against an edge of the boulder, I saw a bright fire lit up at the edge of the north of the mountain, just near the trees.

I silently crept to the spot, hiding myself in the shadows regardless of the darkness of the warm night. On getting there I saw a group of men slowly lowering very long ropes down the northern side of the mountain. I counted twenty ropes lowered and each of the ropes lowered had its still visible end tied to a big strong tree’s trunk. I stayed hidden, choosing to remain there until the group of men had left before I moved, for I feared they might see me. From the dark shadow cast behind a mango tree by the lit fire, the Eldest stood up as they prepared to leave the spot. He had sat there supervising the entire work. He spoke clearly to the few men with him as they gathered round the fire after they had finished lowering all the ropes.

He told them that the entire village’s war force would descend on the plains and attack the people beneath as soon as the night air gets cooler and every sleepless head down below is surely in a deep sleep at last. He assured them that the next morning would be a victorious one after the entire grown up male population of their village had successfully conquered all the people of the plains below. Then I realised with such dread that The Return was the very next morning! It was the moment we had existed for and had waited all our lives for.

The Eldest spoke with such vigorous venom that I almost did not recognise him as the gentle man that gave the best judgments, the most reasonable advises, told the funniest jokes and sweetest stories. He was actually this mean blood tasty, war crazy old man after all. Because I had tarried behind a while longer, I saw that they had left the ropes unguarded. When I returned to our damp home space, I was deep in thought and so apprehensive of the imminent doom of my family and loved ones, as I was convinced it would ghastly turn out to be. I looked at my sleeping family and felt no doubts for what I thought was the right thing to do. I picked you up from my sleeping space, as you slept peacefully and crept out silently. Holding you close to my body, in the fast cooling night air, I still kept in the shadows, as I quickly stole away from home completely unnoticed.

As I quietly hurried towards the tied ropes, I kept strictly behind the barely visible huge moon-coloured boulders that are scattered around the village, with the hope that I would remain invincible and not a dead give away mobile silhouette against visibly brighter background to any observant onlooker. When I got to the trees, I set about untying the ropes with my shaking fumbling hands. I untied eighteen of the ropes and dropped them over the mountain’s edge, all the way down; with no regard for all the hard work that was put into making them. I left the two closest ropes untouched and kept part of the last rope I had untied and used a small part of it to strap you, still sleeping, firmly on my back, before tossing the rest over the edge too.

Then I used the two ropes still tied to the trees, to slowly descend the mountain. I was scared and slow as I went over the edge in the dark; holding the ropes firmly, and climbed down with you strapped to my back. It took so long getting down but I did it with blistered palms. I got very tired as I got lower. Bruised, tired and scared, but I did it with you fast asleep strapped to my back. My actions had a selfish intension but I knew it was the right thing to do. I had since paid for it with the loss of my people’s trust. I paid for it with the fear I still experience. And I paid for it with regrets and much pain to follow.

I had since learnt that evil would be punished, no matter how long it takes and nothing is truly free. Since nothing goes for nothing; it must always be purchased and bought some how. Someone pays a price. Someone always pays something for it; tangible or not, whether knowingly or otherwise. Not even freedom is completely free. There are many kinds of currency for payment. Freedom is the absence of force and force is ever present, then freedom is non-existent. My son;

‘Not one good deed is free
Or unpunished evil to see,
Nor something for nothing;
Someone pays something.’


Pictures used with the kind permission of Tracie Louise





II: Expect anything in life

The stories were told of how the father of our village once came down the mountain top after so many seasons away, hidden from his own people on his long drawn out self exile. He was now a fully grown up man and actually wanted to return to his people because he was lonely. He had thought about it and came down well prepared. He took with him lots of gifts. He had with him lots of dried fruits, feathers from hunted birds and dried bird and monkey meat.

He also had large sharp monkey bones for tools and dried up monkey blood; he had grounded into powder for body paint. He had with him tree gum and monkey hide, monkey body fat for body oils and plaited ropes from freshly cut tall grasses bark. He had tied everything into one huge bundle and lowered it down the mountain side with a very long thick rope he had plaited. He tied the end of the rope to a huge tree on the mountain and used the rope to climb down the mountain.

Once down, he hid his gifts, waited till it was dark and walked in the cover of the darkness into the village of his indigenous people on the vast plains beneath the mountain. These are people of his childhood, from the village he had run away from so long ago. The stories were sketchy and it is not too clear what happened on his return back to his childhood village; though it was obvious that he was not recognized.

After being away for so many seasons and only returning when he was already a fully grown man; clearly not the same small shy boy that ran away from the village long ago. He was not recognized. His bad speech was worse and his words could not be understood. It was said that his body smelt offensively and his hair was very unkempt. His badly cut lower lip appeared wider. He must have been a very repulsive and scary sight with his face covered in uneven facial hair.

They must have been suspicious of him and his intentions. That must have been why they chased him away with stones and sticks. It is said that he was stoned, beaten and pursued out of the village. He ran for his life for the second time in his life time; for the second time from the same village, villagers and his own people. He vowed there and then, never to run again. He promised himself that for the remaining seasons of his life time, he would never run again and he never did. He was determined to be the aggressive chaser next time instead.

He spent that night beneath the mountain, beside his bundle of gifts, where he had hid it. Morning came with his final decision taken. He decided to be vengeful. He swore and vowed to have the whole people in the village pay for the way they had treated him. He swore loudly to himself that he will make sure they all die and forfeit their comfortable village for what they had done to him. It was then he made a grand plan to start his own village up on the sacred mountain.

He decided to originate and grow his own descendants, a specialized breed of the most fearless people up on the mountain, hidden away high up and covered up by his old village’s myth of the sacred mountain. In their revered fear and worship they would never climb up the mountain. He would beat drums and the village people below the mountain would say the Gods were singing. He laughed with the thought and he was so happy with the idea. He stayed in the shadows all through the next day and did not climb back up the mountain yet.

He knew that to start a village of his own, he must have a woman. So he waited until it was dark again on the second day and then he stole back into the silent village. As almost the whole villagers converged together in a small clearing, beside a huge fire, telling funny stories, he sneaked into a hut and quietly stole away with two young girls as they slept. He had discreetly tied and gagged them up before they woke up and carried them away quickly, without being seen. He left the still sleeping girls beside his bundle of gift, by the mountain side.

He had already tied up the end of the rope he had descended with to his bundle of gifts, all ready for lifting from the mountain top. Leaving the tied and gagged sleeping girls beside the mountain, he hurriedly returned back in the darkness, to sweep off and wipe clear his tracks, by walking backwards while haphazardly sweeping his foot-prints with a broken short tree branch. A coincidental very brief heavy rainfall that soon followed his quick attempt to disguise his nefarious activity, further conspired to cover up his tracks pretty well.

Then he strapped both the young girls to his back before climbing up the mountain with the rope he had descended with. It was a real mean feat, but he was a very strong young man. Though he had to rest several times on the way back up, he managed to make it all the way back up by using the strong plaited rope with such dexterity. He had managed the ascent with such animalistic skills that made his outwards appearance seem more like a monkey in human disguise.

By dawn he was already on top of the mountain and had pulled back up his bundle of gifts after him. He then set about removing the fresh leaves he had gagged the girls with but delayed untying his captives, as he forcibly fed them fresh fruits amidst their frightened cries. They had woken up as he ascended and had struggled to free themselves all the way up, but since he had tied them up and gagged their mouths well enough, he was able to make it up the mountain with much less difficulty than would have been the case if he hadn’t restrained them.

As he fed them, they still continued to struggle. But after they choked a number of times, they simply ate and drank quietly eventually. He had kept them tied up, without gagging them this time. When he was all done, he felt so drained and afterwards he slept all day long. The two girls had remained tied up for quite a while until he was satisfied they wouldn’t try something silly or stupid. He had to be sure for their own safety too. Soon the girls fully comprehended their situation and like it is usual with children, came to terms with it.

As our village on top of the mountain grew and became a populated community, it very naturally lived for this sole old revenge of our founding father. Old as the village’s existence, this revenge governed the whole existence of our village on the mountain top. We practically lived it and for it. It had conceived us, nourished us and it is us. When I was a little girl, a boy I was purely coincidently seated beside one cold Story night, asked the Eldest what the name of our village is. Without any warning, the old man picked up a large pebble and threw it with such force at the boy. It missed him and hit my fore-head. I bled from the cut of the impact of the sharp stone. I still have the cut it had made on my fore-head. It had healed to leave this straight short vertical mark on my fore-head, which has since been admired by so many as a beauty mark, and I had since pretended it is.

It has always been considered a great taboo to even make reference to a name for our village because it was considered only a temporary abode, until we conquered our real village at the foot of the mountain. Hence naming it, would insinuate otherwise. All the boys of our village are routinely trained in physical combat. The village has maintained armory, consisting of the most diverse arsenal of the crudest contraptions of dangerous weapons. The founding father of our village fashioned out a comprehensive plan that had as a key part of it, the military training of the entire male population.

Systematically, generations of boys were taught the act of war, trained as fighting men. They steadily grew into a fairly big army of strong fearless men that would be needed for that final war. Only the current serving Eldest has the generational privilege of knowing the predetermined exact number of warriors required and fixed by the grand plan of the founding father of our village. Only he will determine when it is the right time for the final war; that one impending war we all called ‘The return’. It is the war that will seek our long sought revenge. We all awaited it for it with hidden mixed feelings, even though we were all conditioned to pretend we didn’t.

The father of our village spoke badly. His ability to talk clearly had never been good. His speech was impaired by the cut on his lower lip from birth. The two wives he kidnapped had clearer speech initially, but since they were still quite young when they were forcibly taken from their family and hadn’t completely developed their speech then, they spoke loosely too and their vocabulary was quite limited as well.

The family they all started had no option but to learn a kind of speech that was a hybrid of their father’s impaired speaking and their mothers’ adolescent vocabulary. Hence their off-springs also spoke in this disjointedly impaired, undeveloped and limited manner. This eventually made the language of the entire village sound funny and with fewer words than is normal for any tribe. We had a hugely depleted vocabulary and we used sounds to mainly register feelings.

Sixteen children in all were borne by these first two kidnapped girls. Nothing is known of which of them had what number of children or amongst their children, how many wives a brother took from his own sisters in the second generation of the family that pioneered our close knit village on the mountain. It wasn’t stated if the founding father did or didn’t add to his two wives from the ranks of his daughters. It was known that no one came down or up the mountain ever again and that there were just six brothers and ten sisters in the second generation. It was the father of our village that out-lawed marrying more than a single wife, around the time of the second generation.

So we know six of those first ten sisters would have married their six brothers, leaving four unmarried sisters. But it is also known that all the ten sisters had no less than six children each. So we speculate the rest of the story. Brothers had since made wives of their sisters and it is still one woman to one man. The communal coupling rite isn’t new and it was said to have been necessitated by certain skirmishes. The unmarried free girls are still only permitted to conceive at the special combined village ceremonies and give birth to their claimed children.

My only brother is much older than me and already had a wife, so he could not shield me from the shame of the humiliating rejection I lived with. He is not the sort for such strong protective masculine actions. He is a timid emotional sort and was not the type to seek redress through any form of violence. He is the last person to rely on if such act of bravado was required. He was however the most sympathetic of my situation, though he didn’t vocalize it.

The moon lit the village well on its full days. Its gray light reflects on the rocky surroundings and casts a glow that is friendly to the eyes. It embraces the cold nights and calls out the villagers to play. To warm up the people, a dance is often called on such cold moon lit nights and a Story telling night is declared if it is a warm moon lit night.

On these Dancing nights the old and elderly clapped and sang along, as the young danced. The pregnant girls are made to join in the dancing because the older women always said a good exercise eases a child’s passage and a mother’s pains. One of the first things I realized on the next set of moon lit dancing nights, was that no one urged me to dance as usual and I was left to sit alone on my own. Then I heard the words of the new song the new free girls were singing and I knew I was not special anymore. My time of honour had passed and I had turned into a joke, a ridiculed clown for silly songs.

In the new song, they sang of a beautiful bird that once sang and danced well, but it is now all alone and will die alone. The bird is alone because all its mates had been caught and eaten up by the Gods. Only the bird was left alone because of its pride. It wasn’t chosen and it must now die of loneliness, nursing its single egg that will never hatch. The song did not worry or bother me, but seeing my father clap to the tune and the rest of my family joyfully dance and sing along to the words of the song too, was very painful. I felt like the father of our village must have felt. I comprehended his feelings and I was hurt so deeply like he must have been, those so many seasons ago.

My father had told me that the father of our village’s last living child had died only two nights before my great grandfather was born. This second generation son of our founding father was buried differently. His burial vigil was said to be the longest ever held. It had lasted two full nights. It is said that his bones were not displayed and shown to the village until the dawn of the second night. His were the only bones dropped down the steepest end of the mountain at dawn, when the whole world was well lit up and not at night like it is usually done.

We were told the gathering watched as vultures feasted on his flesh, placed on the highest peak of the highest hill on the mountain. Usually people go about their chores as the vultures descend, but his was a symbolic vigil, unique in every sense. I sort of reflected on this as my peers began to let out their babies, one after the other. My own full burden was now large; my skin fully stretched out thin at the place it was housed. The other new mothers received guests bearing gifts from all over the village as I waited for my turn to let out my child. One hot night it was my turn and it was almost easier than I thought and feared it would be. I had eased my child out with little prompting, restrained quiet screams and lots of exaggerated panting.

Then my situation dawned on me when I held you in my arms, not inside me. For days no one came to see us to wish us well, besides my family. No guests came or little gifts sent; even from friends. I knew I was wrong to expect anything in life and right to expect anything. People will only strife for their own good and can be unfair if it doesn’t concern them. Most of those we think are good, are often not worth trusting. I knew I will never trust people again. My people are my family. If I cannot trust them, then who do I trust? My son;

‘Expect anything in life,
In its all human strife.
That very fair sort
Are often so very not.’



I: Looks aren’t everything

In the hidden hills of my birth place, the sunrise is never actually visible. For most of the day we do not actually see the sun. We see its shining rays very early in the day, as it lights up the steep sides of the rocky mountain our village is settled on. Then much later at late noon, the sun almost suddenly appears overhead and instantly it is quite hot and very bright. The hills closely clustered on the eastern and western sides of the mountain also make it impossible to see the distant horizons from these sides of the high mountain top.

The vast expanse of the mountain top is edged out like a rough hollow bowl. On a hot day, the rocky surface of the hills’ smoldering heat burns and dries up our hunted bird meat. Only children dare out to play in the hot sunlight, at that time of day. Our days are short and the twilights long. It is almost like every one of our shaded dawns and dusks are perpetually prolonged. Just like in the morning sun rise, at dusk, the sun just falls and hides behind the hills on the western side.

The northern side of the mountain, high up and barely hidden by the clouds, is covered by all sorts of large fruit trees and dense vegetation, while the southern side is completely hard smooth rock. The southern side rises gently upwards and then sharply downwards to form the steepest side of the whole mountain sides. And because of this, long before night falls, the village is already in dark pleasant shadows.

We all literally grew up with eyes that were not very tolerant of the harsh sun light, because we stayed in the shadows most of our lives. A long time in the breezy shade of our shelters, out of the blazing sun light at mid day, was hardly the way to get used to sun light when it does appear. As such the number of generations that grew up in the village on the mountain had this blurry conditioned eyes defect.

Then early in my teens, I had the misfortune of being singled out as a result of an unfortunate happening and for more weeks than I could count, my father will not even talk to me. He simply looks away when I appear. Mother only smiles politely but said little. I felt my family’s pain. I knew it too well because I was the source of it and it consumed the whole of me. Many stories I had heard over time, had not prepared me for the kind of pain I was to experience. My sisters before me and my lone brother’s bride’s puberty ushered experiences, which they had spoken of always, had not educated me enough.

I heard it is always an anxious time to wait for the groom to make his claim of the girl’s germinated seed. For only him, it is said, will know and recognize his seed. He planted it from the rear, in-between her twin ridged mould as she sprawled on her four limbs, waiting for the pain of his dominant penetration that nature had cursed her to suffer.

Our grandmother told us long ago that the father of the village saw the gullible bearded goats mount their female from behind and they taught him this way only. It was in his early days as a Herd boy on the flat plains beneath the mountain; when he was still with his own people. She said he was mocked for his bad speech, caused by a badly cut lower lip he was born with. He was then a very lonely early teenage orphan, daily watching over his powerful uncle’s large flock.

He chose to run away when four goats drowned while he slept on his watch. Much earlier he had been starved and caned for a whole week when only one small kid had broken a limb once. Surely if he had stayed he would have been starved to death this time. So he ran up the mountain on self exile. For two days he struggled to climb up the only route he had painstakingly discovered up the huge mountain our village is now incredibly well settled on. This was the very same mountain his own people revered and worshiped for much longer than the oldest living generation on the plains could remember.

Our tradition demands that the last rain must have dried up for weeks before the oldest man in the village calls out all the free, newly readied girls to him. They stayed with him all day to listen to his teachings, until the sun goes down over the rocky western hills, for another long dusk. Then he sends them away to find a spot in the northern vegetation, to kneel and wait for the pain of penetration.

With the real onset of night fall, the oldest man permits the variously aged free boys and men to pursue the girls to their chosen kneeling spots. The race is short and it ends with each male’s return back to the oldest man afterwards, to confirm a successful penetration. For a couple of weeks afterwards, many free girls walked wrongly, with some strange discomfort that showed they were in pain for days.

Mothers make these girls sit on their bare upper legs’ rear cheeks with their knees apart and pointed up, as they position themselves closely spaced and all seated on the hot rocks at sun up. The older married men enjoy these very revealing sights but kept straight faces and never point in the seated girls’ direction, as they also appear to sun themselves in this daily solidarity pastime. Then five weeks pass by and some of these successfully ‘Penetrated’ free girls do not need to hide for a few days in their home shelters, like they had done for a few days before; each and every four weeks.

They don’t make sand seats or sit still all day long or change bloodied sand seats, because they did not bleed naturally for weeks. Soon the bare flesh above the bushy triangles around their hips’ frontal centre and beneath their firm liberally exposed breasts begins to swell. Then the very anxious wait for the groom to make a claim starts. A wait so tasking and unfair. It becomes a pastime of the girl’s whole family. All young or older free male visitors to the family’s home shelter are hopefully welcomed until their mission is stated. I found my own wait quite unfair because I knew my discreet groom was watching and keeping away deliberately, for his own malicious reason.

I started to wish I hadn’t been penetrated like many other free girls, who pretended for weeks that they had been. It wasn’t until the customary few months had passed and I was the only free girl, who was visibly successful with child, that hadn’t been claimed by her supposed responsible spouse, that my father stopped talking to me. He looked away when I came into view and my reluctantly compliant mother only smiled at me politely, like all the other women did too.

This was a totally new situation, quite unusual and it was completely unheard of in the well detailed verbal history of the listed generations of the mountain top village, as passed down. No other pregnant bride in the meticulously passed down history of our village had ever remained unclaimed, that is before me. Soon all the revered old men in the naked community were said to be holding constant secret talks about the unique situation. It was clear that my case presented them with a situation they were quite unfamiliar and uncomfortable with.

The whole nude village is peopled by one spiral large family, all descendants from that one self exiled Herd boy that climbed up the sacred mountain so long ago. He had lived alone in the natural weathered carvings and cracks in the rough rocky hills and basked in the luxuriously fertile vegetation on the mountain, for many seasons on his very own. He lived off the plentiful produce of the rich fruit trees and drank the collected very frequent rain water or the daily dew drops, just like the whole village still does now because there are no water falls, brooks, streams or rivers up on the mountain.

I became the main talking point of the village and boldly they point at me as I walked by, doing my daily chores of collecting dew drops or gathering fruits. These simple tasks didn’t give me the pleasure they used to because of the many staring eyes and pointing fingers. It hurts even more because I hardly knew what was to become of me and my yet to be seen child, still visibly buried within me. But I’m pretty; I knew this in my own deliberately arrogant immodest way.

As a young maiden I had a very dark clear skin, with little body hair. My ears were cut well, with three spaces on each earlobe for my flowers. My mother had asked the village ear-cutter to make two extra cuts on each of my ears, not just the conventional usual one on each ear. She wanted something different and she paid him well for the extra cuts. She also sought to ease his apprehension since his concerns were well founded, because it had never been done before. He had to succumb because the handsome price of two large pieces of dried vulture meat for just four extra cuts was too tempting to refuse.

I grew up being able to fit in more plant blossoms into the holes in my earlobes than every other woman in the village. Sometimes I wonder if these extra ear spaces are not the reason for my misfortune. Just maybe my mother’s hasty deed is the source of my worries. But it only served me well in my envied fame as the prettiest girl in the village. I was especially spectacular on celebrative occasions.

On dance days, story nights or burial vigils; I was always the most colourful maiden around, with lots of flowers and feathers stuffed into my broad earlobes. My clean shaven head was always well oiled with palm oil and shinning in the sun or moon light. I always stood out and everyone looked at me with admiration. I actually thought every girl was my friend and everyone in the whole village liked me.

I talked very little and enjoyed all the free boys’ attention, which I mostly learnt to ignore. I worked hard for my family and tried to be very respectful to all my elders at all times. I knew lots of erring free girls were told to be more like me and that felt good. I danced very well, like my mother had taught me. In the quiet dampness and half darkness of our home covering, my mother had taught me how to twist and turn my body, how to bend down low with my head and shoulders close to my knees and my bare rear leg-cheeks raised up to the crowd; exposing the slit in its middle divide. She taught me to shake, swing and dangle my bare breasts in time with my arms.

She taught me how to stand up-right and kick my legs up and down, not just straight and horizontal from the ground and front-like; this only showed little of my highest leg partings. It should be side ways as I bend my waist in the opposite direction, so that the crowd can see the centre of my legs well enough. She taught me to jump with my hands on my head, it always gives my breasts a very full look, frees them and hardens them so that they are more erect and vibrate well in their frontal fatty response to my irregular jumps sharp energetic vertical rapid hops. The crowd cheers each time I dance and the free boys and men watched with mouths agape, as they cross and uncross their legs repeatedly in an obvious display of masculine discomfort.

None of my teeth is bad or missing and is revealed as evenly yellow when I smile, and I smile quite a lot. My sweaty smooth skin was the best in the whole village and every one knew this. I thought I was loved and every free girl appeared to want me to be her main friend.

I made plans with different girls on how I would lead in ceremonial dances and sing special songs at these graceful occasions. My speech was clearer than most of the other villagers and I sang like the morning pretty little birds. My family was highly respected and we lived in one of the largest home shelters in the village. My looks spoke for me and my family also spoke for me with its revered status.

With that rash quest to be acknowledged I inherited from my mother, my looks also spoke for me last of all and I felt appreciated. I had a good body and I entertained sights as well as imaginations with it. I sang with a sweet clear voice and I danced flirty steps that made mourning men forget to frown at burial vigils. Yet there I remained, unwanted and left to pine with a fatherless pregnancy. My son;

‘Looks aren’t everything,
But certainly something.
For they do speak first
And last too in their haste.’



All in the hands of God

This is a reblog from Ninure da Hippie’s Blog
(Just another Rainbow Christian’s Blog)
Posted on June 24, 2012


“Excuse me, sir.”
“Is that you again, Moses?”
“I’m afraid it is, sir.”
“What is it this time, Moses. More computer problems?”
“How did you guess?”
“I don’t have to guess, Moses. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
“Tell me what you want, Moses.”
“But you already know. Remember?”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Well, go ahead, Moses. Spit it out!”
“Well, I have a question, Sir. You know those ten things you sent me?”
“You mean the Commandments, Moses?”
“That’s it. I was wondering if they were important.”
“What do you mean ‘were important, Moses? Of course, they are important. Otherwise I wouldn’t have sent them to you.”
“Well, sorry, but I lost them. I could say the dog at them, but of course you would see right through that.”
“What do you mean ‘you lost them! Are you trying to tell me you didn’t save them, Moses?”
“No, sir. I forgot.”
“You should always save, Moses.”
“Yeah, I know. You told me that before. I was going to, but I forgot. I did send them to some people before I lost them though.”
“And did you hear back from any of them?”
“You already know I did.”
“What about the one guy who said he never uses ‘shalt not’. Can he change the words a little bit?”
“Yes, Moses. As long as he doesn’t change the meaning.”
“And what about the guy who thought your stance was a little harsh and recommended calling them the Ten Suggestions, or letting people pick one or two to try for a while?”
“Moses, I’ll act like I didn’t hear that.”
“I think that means, ‘no’. Well, what about the guy who said I was scamming him?”
“I think that is spamming, Moses.”
“Oh, yeah. I e-mailed him back and told him I don’t even eat that stuff, and I have no idea how you can send it to someone through a computer.”
“And what did he say?”
“You know what he said. He used Your name in vain. You don’t think he might have sent me one of those plagues, and that’s the reason I lost those ten things, do you?”
“They’re called viruses, Moses.”
“Whatever! This computer stuff is just too much for me. Can we just go back to those stone tablets? It was hard on my back taking them out and reading them each day, but I never lost them.”
“We’ll do it the new way, Moses.”
“I was afraid you would say that, sir.”
“Moses, what did I tell you to do if you messed up?”
“You told me to hold up this rat and stretch it out toward the computer.”
“It’s a mouse, Moses. Mouse! Mouse! And did you do that?”
“No, I decided to try the technical support first. After all, who knows more about this stuff than you, and I really like your hours. By the way, sir, did Noah have two of these mice on the ark?”
“No, Moses.”
“One other thing. Why didn’t you name them frogs instead of mice, because didn’t you tell me the thing they sit on is a pad?”
“I didn’t name them, Moses. Man did, and you can call yours a frog if you want to.”
“Oh, that explains it. Kind of like Adam, huh, sir? I bet some woman told him to call it a mouse. After all, wasn’t it a woman who named one of the computers Apple?”
“Say good night, Moses.”
“Wait a minute, sir. I am stretching out the mouse, and it seems to be working. Yes, a couple of the ten things have come back.”
“Which ones are they, Moses?”
“Let’s see. ‘Thou shalt not steal from any grave an image and ‘Thou shalt not uncover thy neighbor’s wife.’
“Turn the computer off, Moses. I’m sending you another set of stone tablets. How does ‘Same Day Air’ sound?”

This makes a good laugh, but a subtle message does come across and it sounds out quite loudly too. It is in the manner in which man chooses to either misinterpret the message from God he does understand or as it is the case most times, misunderstands the message completely.
The following poem however touches on that essentially rare moment when the message is not misunderstood and not misinterpreted, but oddly it proves to be rather not realistic. This is because of the very humanly inability of man to determine the practicality of the message.

Speak, Oh Lord!

(A very famous trial ahead of fashion)

“Wake up, you’re dead.
What says your plea?”
“Pray, I am in bed.
You come and flee.”

“Arise, you sleep not.
Your dreams all end.”
“Pardon, my reason is rot.
I am no fiend.”

“I ask not for I know.
State your stewardship?”
“To those above I, I bow.
For those beneath I, I reap.”

“Did they smile above,
Were they glad beneath?
“With every pain I solve,
With every single breath.”

“What of all the lands
And all that is of it?”
“With my mind and hands
I cared for every bit.”

“What of I, thy Lord?
Did thee walk My path?”
“I knew not only one word,
Couldn’t tell lie from fact.”

Which Way?!

Massage from Ninure da Hippie’s Blog

Every 3.6 seconds a real person dies from hunger somewhere in the world!!! Feed a hungry person today:
God is still speaking



THIS IS A MUST READ! How is it possible?? To be as humorous & as horrific in one normal fold!? Wonderfully moulded into a captivating piece. It is silly & almost illogical, yet so believable & totally engrossing. You will surely LOVE THIS BAD GUY & commend him on a beautiful piece. I am hooked already!


The scriptures

The word of the LORD reads to me; “Son of man, there are four women, daughters of the same mother. Born at two settings, two sets of female twins. They became prostitutes long after their Egypt, engaging in prostitution from their youth. In their own lands of indigenous birth, their breasts were fondled and their virgin bosoms caressed. The older were named Oholah, and their sisters were Oholibah. They were mine and gave birth to sons and daughters. The twins, Oholah are Europe and Northern America, and Oholibah, Africa and Southern America.

“Oholah engaged in prostitution while they were still mine; they lusted after their lovers, the Ishmealites – warriors clothed in white, governors and commanders, all of them handsome young men, and mounted horsemen. They gave themselves as prostitutes to all the elite of the Ishmealites and defiled themselves with the idols of every one they lusted after. They did not give up the prostitution they began long after their Egypt, when during their youth, men slept with them, caressed their virgin bosom and poured out their lust upon them.

Worshipping the wrong God yet again

“Therefore I handed them over to their lovers, the Ishmealites, for whom they lusted. They stripped them naked, took away their sons and daughters and killed them with their own sword. They have become a by word among all other women, and punishment has inflicted on them.

“Their sisters Oholibah saw this, yet in their lust and prostitution they were more depraved than their sisters. They too lusted after their Ishmealites – governors and commanders, warriors in full dress, mounted horsemen, all handsome young men. I saw that they too defiled themselves; both set of twins went the same way.

“But Oholibah carried their prostitution still further. They saw men portrayed on walls, figures of old Babylonians portrayed in green, with belts around their waists and small suede turbans on their heads; all of them looked like Babylonians chariot officers, natives of Barracks. As soon as they saw them, they lusted after them and sent messengers to them in their Barracks. Then the Babylonians came to them, to the bed of love, and in their lust they defiled them. After they had been defiled by them, Oholibah turned away from them in disgust.

“When they carried on their prostitution openly and exposed their nakedness; I turned away from them in disgust, just as I had turned away from their sisters. Yet they became more and more promiscuous as they recalled the days of their youth, when they were prostitutes after their Egypt. There they lusted after lovers, whose genitals were like those of donkeys and whose emission was like that of horses. So you longed for the lewdness of your youth, when long after your Egypt, your bosom was caressed and your young breasts fondled and drained.”

Therefore, Oholibah, this is what the LORD says; “I will stir up your lovers against you, those you turned away from in disgust, and I will bring them against you from every side – the Babylonians and all the Barrack men, the men of intelligence and wisdom and craft, and all the Ishmealites with them, handsome young men once, of the best of your kind, all of them governors and commanders, chariot officers and men of high rank, all mounted on horses you had given them. They will come against you with new kinds of weapons, chariots and wagons and with a throng of people; they will take up positions you will choose for them, against you on every side with large and small shield and helmets you put on their heads. I will turn you over to them and their kind for punishment, and they will punish you according to their standards.

“I will direct my jealous anger against you, and they will deal with you in fury. They will cut off your noses and you will not smell their plots. Cut your ears and you will not hear their steps. Those of you who are left will fall by their sword. They will take away your sons and daughters and those of you who are left will be consumed by their fire of change. They will also strip you of your clothes of honour and take your fine jewelry of freedom. So I will put a stop to the lewdness and prostitution you began long after your Egypt. You will not look on these things with longing or remember your Egypt anymore.”

For this is what the sovereign LORD says; “I am about to hand you over to those you hate, to those you turned away from in disgust. They will deal with you in hatred and take away every thing you have worked for. They will leave you naked in clothes and bare in conscience, and the shame of your prostitution will be exposed. Your lewdness and promiscuity have brought this upon you, because you lusted after the nations and defiled yourself with valuable idols. You have gone the way of your sister; so I will put her cup into your hand and see how you will fare.”

This is what the sovereign LORD says; “You will drink your sister’s cup, a cup large and deep; it will bring scorn and derision, for it holds so much. You will be filled with drunkenness and sorrow, the cup of ruin and desolation, the cup of your sisters, Europe and Northern America. You will dash it to pieces and tear your breasts. I have spoken, declares the sovereign LORD.”

Therefore this is what the sovereign LORD says; “Since you have forgotten me and thrust me behind your back, you must bear the consequences of your lewdness and prostitution.” The LORD read to me; “Son of man, will you judge Oholah and Oholibah? Then confront them with their detestable practices, for they have committed adultery and blood is on their hands.

“They committed adultery with their idols; they even sacrificed children, whom they bore to me. At that same time they defiled my sanctuary and desecrated my Sabbaths which I have shown them to respect and glorify. On the very day they sacrificed their children to their idols; they entered my sanctuary and desecrated it. That is what they did in my house.

“They even sent messengers for men who came from far away, and when they arrived you bathed yourself for them, painted your eyes and put on your jewelry. You sat on an elegant couch, with a table spread before it on which you had placed the incense and oil that belonged to me. The noise of a carefree crowd was around her, drunkards were brought from the desert along with men from the dirt waste of civility, and they put bracelets on the arms of the woman and her sister and beautiful crowns on their heads. Then I said about the one worn out by adultery, ‘Now let them use her as a prostitute, for that is all she is.’ And they slept with her. As men sleep with a prostitute, so they slept with those lewd women, Oholah and Oholibah.

“But righteous men will sentence them to the punishment of women who commit adultery and shed blood, because they are adulterous and blood is on their hands.” This is what the sovereign LORD says; “Bring a mob against them and give them over to terror and plunder. The mob will stone them and cut them down with their swords; they will kill their sons and daughters and burn down their cursed houses. So I will put an end to lewdness in the land, that all women may take warning and not imitate you. You will suffer the penalty for your lewdness and bear the consequences of your sin of idolatry. Then you will know that I am the sovereign LORD.”


In Europe and the Northern Americas
The gospels invaded and cleansed.
Inspired and man made mild crude fracas
They nourished and exposed as it pleased.

The lust that is man is adulterous,
To feed it he opens his sacred legs.
Consumed, he treads only the dangerous
And is so enslaved just like he begs.

Then Africa and all Southern America
Enthusiastically gulped the gospel introduced
With their orientations still Juju and Inca,
Their experience only confused and infused.

The curse of God’s people of old
Is all new in these times as before.
When His covenant does not uphold,
Sovereign LORD remains true as before.

POEMS: Rotten, Wretched and Right, Reliance & The Egg and The Chicken


Crust is land,
Human is man,
Spirit is God.

Aging like land,
New like man,
Old like God.

Produced by land,
Ate by man,
Owned by God.

Waste to land,
Health to man,
Breath to God.

Marbled in land,
Wealth in man,
Might in God.

Stench of land,
Sweet of man,
Grace of God.

Spoilt as land,
Doomed as man,
Certain as God.

Rotten the land,
Wretched the man,
Right THE GOD.


A step after another and I walk,
Letters make the words I talk.
As easily simple, I rely on these;
Bringing all of man to his knees.

What`s What


New and true,
Join the queue.
Feathered noise,
Scared poise.

Seed and food,
Never alive nude.
Glamorous pecker,
Gainful trekker.

Stable innocence,
Ebbing confidence.
Richer dreams,
Rehearsed screams.

Ever its so,
The esteem low.
Desiring more,
The future sure.

Suddenly it matter,
What is the starter;
Egg so stricken
Or miserable chicken?



What future is there?

On this very sad Father`s day in my home city of Kaduna Nigeria, where three seperate bomb blasts had killed a number of innocent worshippers inside their respective churches during morning service, starting off a spade of angry vengeful violence, I suddenly recall an old conversation I had with my late father about two decades ago.

He had wanted to know what I thought our country would be like in a decade. That was in 1993 and I thought I was being clever when I said; Our country will be a land our founding fathers would be very proud of in ten years time.

I was so wrong and in a strange sort of way, I am so glad my father did not live long enough to see how wrong I was. It would have killed yet again to see the mess Nigeria has become. This land he had taught me to love and cherish like he did, is today the very opposite of what our founding fathers wanted it to be.


Baba, mutuwa na da wuya?
Mun amince duniyar ka da wuya.

Father, is it hard to die?
We acknowledge the hassles of your world.
With life’s wards always roams a lie;
We all are reproductions of its mould.

Choking in the presence of its grip,
The inscrutable crux not familiarized.
Do we sit out the stages of its trip,
Like your peaceful love that wasn’t recognized?

From the weep the baby wails
To the whip’s lashes life hails,
These tastes we own and inherit.
Say oh father, is there better to merit?

I Would Sing the Dance of Fireflies


Closed eyes clasp the warm darkness,
Shutting out the silvery glow of the moon smile.
The cantata contest invade with its happiness,
Carrying all in the still air of the mating mile.

Oh how simple the peace of this revelry,
The mind and ears wonder the vastness of it all.
Clinging on sanity with man’s overt mystery,
Wishing all love melts into this dream so tall.

LIfe’s nAtural bOOk cRaft..

If I sang a song of Summer,

I would sing the dance of fireflies.

My lullaby would frolick across the winds,

Filling the hearts of bumble bees.

A cricket symphony of violins,

A deep bass of pond bullfrogs.

I would sing the dance of fireflies.

My lullaby would be of sunshine, of starshine.

The sound of lady and hummingbird wings.

If I sang a song of Summer,

We would make love by the light of the Moon.

(c) Saturday, 16 June 2012

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A Little Sparrow


Even the sparrow has found a home made
In the shallow nest she makes for her young.
For in those periods all so dry, dark and dead,
Despair is a refusal to struggle and belong.

While I sat thoroughly disillusioned in a park,
With a disappointed heart deaden to all hope.
Like it wouldn’t often do to anyone; even in the dark,
A little sparrow bird picked my hand and on hopped.

Then my mind tugged at how amazing a sparrow is;
A very small feathered reflection of true doggedness.
As through all the four seasons the rolling year is,
The sparrow lingers on the land’s harsh barrenness.

Chirping cheerily in the dreary winter ending year,
Perched on bare brown twigs of the bleakest days,
Begging on frost glued door steps of a starting year,
Abiding through yet another year till its wintry days.

While the swallow darts off after the sun elsewhere,
The sparrow stays home and braves stormy blasts.
So can I; if it can fight it and still remain right here.
Its gaily lesson brought me back from despair at last.

Hope took on its feathers and perched on my soul.
Sang without any words and never stopped at all.
When despair over takes us and erases our goal,
God can come to our aid and we really never fail.

Free Bible Studies Online


I’m only a little sparrow,
A bird of low degree;
My life is of little value,
But the dear Lord cares for me

I know there are many sparrows–
All over the World they are found;
But our Heavenly Father knoweth
When one of us falls to the ground.

Tho’ small, we are never forgotten;
Tho’ weak we are never afraid;
For we know that the dear Lord keepeth
The life of the creatures He made.

I just fold my wings at nightfall,
Wherever I happen to be;
For the Father is always watching,
And no harm can happen to me.

I am only a little sparrow,
A bird of low degree;
But I know that the Father loves me,
Dost thou know of His love for thee?

~Author Unknown

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Shephards & Sheep

The word of the lord came to me: “Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of Africa; prophesy and say to all of them: ‘This is what the Sovereign LORD says: Woe to the shepherds of Africa who only take care of themselves and their kith and kin! Should not shepherds take care of the whole flock they had taken on? You eat all the curds, clothe yourselves with the wool and slaughter the choice animals, but you do not take care of the whole flock. You have not strengthened the weak or healed the sick or bound up the injured. You have not brought back the strays or searched for the lost.

“You have ruled them harshly and brutally. So they were scattered because there was no dedicated sincere shepherd, and when they were scattered they became food for all the waylaying wild animals. My sheep wandered over all the difficult mountains and on every worrisome high hill. They were scattered over the whole earth in utter disarray, and no one searched or looked for them again.

“Therefore, you leading shepherds, hear the word of the LORD: As surely as I live, declares the Sovereign LORD, because my suffering flock lacks a shepherd and so has been plundered and has become easy food for all the exploiting wild animals of the world, and because my allowed shepherds did not search for my flock but cared for themselves only rather than for my flock, therefore, O sit-tight shepherds, hear the word of the LORD:

“This is what the Sovereign LORD says: I am against the shepherds and I will hold them accountable for my flock. I will remove them from tending the flock. I will rescue my flock from their mouths, and it will no longer be food for them. For this is what the Sovereign LORD says: I myself will search for my sheep and look after them.

“As a true shepherd looks after his scattered flock when he is indeed with them, so will I look after all my sheep. I will rescue every one of them from all places where they were forcibly scattered on a day of judging clouds and punishing darkness. I will bring them out from the many spread out nations and gather them from the countries, and I will bring them back into their very own land. I will pasture them again on the abundant mountains of Africa, in the fertile ravines and in all the rich settlements in the vast land.

“I will tend all of them in a good pasture, and the mountain heights of Africa will be their fruitful grazing land as always. There they will lie down in its good grazing land, and there they will feed in a rich pasture on the free mountains of Africa. I myself will tend my sheep and have them lie down restfully, declares the Sovereign LORD. I will search for all the lost and bring back all the strays. I will bind up all the injured and strengthen all the weak, but the thieving sleek and oppressively strong l will completely destroy. I will shepherd all the peopled flock with justice.

As innocent, as lost

“As of you, my shaded flock, this is what the Sovereign Lord says: I will judge between one kind of sheep and another, and between righteous rams and mischievous goats. Is it not enough for all of you to feed on the good pasture? Must you also trample the rest of your pasture with your feet? Is it not enough for all of you to drink the same clear water? Must you also muddy the rest with you feet for others? Must some of my flock feed on what some of you have trampled and what some of you have muddled with you feet? Therefore this is what the Sovereign LORD says to those of them: See, I myself will judge between the glutton fat sheep and the bullied lean sheep.

“Because you shove with flank and shoulder, butting all the weak sheep with your opportune horns until you have driven them away, I will save those my flock from you, and they will no longer be plundered any longer. I will judge between one sheep and another plainly. I will place over them only one shepherd, my servant and chosen one, and he will tend them; he will tend them and be their shepherd. I the LORD will be their God, and my chosen servant will be their prince among them. I the LORD have spoken.

“I will make a covenant of peace with them and rid the land of wild beasts within it so that they may live freely in the desert and sleep openly in the forests in safety. I will bless them and the places surrounding my blessed hill and heavenly throne. I will send down showers in season; there will be showers of blessing as ideal. The trees of the field will yield their fruits and the ground will yield its crops; people will be secure in their land, in their homes. They will know that I am the LORD, when I break the bars of their afflicted yoke and rescue them from the hands of those who enslave them.

“They will no longer be plundered by the descendants of foreign nations, nor will the wild animals amongst them devour them. They will live in safety, and no one will make them afraid. I will provide for them a land renowned for its crops, and they will no longer be victims of famine in the land or bear the scorn of the world’s other nations. Then they will know I, the LORD their God, I am with them and that they, the dismembered house of Africa, are my people too, declares the Sovereign LORD. You are my sheep, the special sheep of my abundant pasture, you are my people, and I am your only God, declares the most Sovereign Lord.’”


Woe to the shepherd
If his foe is his herd
And damned is the sheep
On a pasture they can’t reap.

POEMS: Running Child, The Evolution of Earth & Gay

It hurts you will find
Away from me


Child, I love you so
And mean you well.
But from me you go,
Running away you fell.
This freedom you know,
It hurts you will tell.


Each day we groom little rapists
Another fuel for those arsonists
Ruling the realm of all realists
Trading in the gluttony of egoists
Housing all those unconscious theists


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


To me, the real beauty in blogging is having persons of like minds limitlessly partake in their favourite pastime of writing and reading. If we can do this and also make lots of incredibly smart friends while at it, then indeed it is a beautiful thing.

I extend my sincere thanks to a very special person, who indeed personifies the beauty of blogging in every regard, for nominating me with the Beautiful Blogger Award.

It is only fitting that such a beautifully minded individual should list me amongst her nomination for this award. Beauty brings forth beauty. I feel elated, proud and humbled at the same time. This award is even more special because in was given to me by Rhonda: http://www.help-me-rhonda.wordpress.com

Swords & Pistols
As I rake in more of these nominations (Awards), it is getting quite overwhelming and one is conscious that it could also get heady and lead to an overconfidence in the value of one`s work.

I thus feel the need to invite a lot more criticism of my efforts, so that I can improve on them as well as my overall writing skills. It is important to me that I do a good job of putting out my creative thoughts to enable my readers both comprehend and enjoy my creations in every ramification I reveal them in.

My ultimate objective of being a successful writer can only be achieved if my creativity matches my abilities in expressing them and that is the part a blogging community can play for me in particular and other writers in general.

So people, unsheathe the swords and do not holster those loaded pistols you are keeping in check and let fly those constructive criticisms. By all means, do not dispense with the friendly and encouraging chit-chats. Every emerging talent needs a nudge of encouragement to spur them on at their early nursing stage. Still let us know when we are wrong and doing badly, when we are being unconvincing and also what we could and ought to do better.

So to my delightful friend Rhonda I extend my gratitude for this nomination. She has a wonderful blog that helps without making a fuss about it and you would love her overtly steadfast perspective and sincere critique of everyday issues, garnished with humor and a mature sense of well being. I recommend her dose of logic any day! http://www.help-me-rhonda.wordpress.com

To comply with the provisions of this nomination, I am expected to nominate 7 blogs too. This, I will do with some effort because there are so many wonderful blogs to choose from. I will however make an effort to nominate some of the ones I had only recently fallen in love with.

My Seven
Breyonnamelicia: The simplicity of her poems disguises the force they are packed full of! http://www.breyonnamelicia.com

Peter Kerry Powers: You will want to read him repeatedly and then definitely write too! readwritenow.wordpress.com

Southernwild: The saying goes; Southerners are Wild, and this one truly is!southernwild.wordpress.com

Sheila Hurst: Description is never fully done and here is another reason why!www.sheilahurst.wordpress.com

Camgal: Delightfully fresh and so youthful in a strangely quite mature way! http://www.camgal.wordpress.com

Allthingsboys: There is more to things than are said or told, seen or show! http://www.allthingsboys.wordpress.com

Veehaunanifitzhugh: A lot of things get written but a lot more comes across unsaid, yet as clearly! http://www.veehaunanifitzhugh.wordpress.com

These are great blogs and you will do well to drop in on them!

Now if you seven nominees choose to accept, copy and post the award icon to your blogs, provide a link to your nominee, then nominate any other seven blogs you would like to recognize, and let them know you have nominated them.

SONG OF AN ALMAJIRI~ (Tale of a begger boy)

He just sailed away with his sad thoughts, with the immediacy of his worries that will not abate any recently. His traveling thoughts had never detoxified his situation but he had somehow made it a pleasant habit. Like many times before, his mind recoiled, leaving his body still sitting there like a very lost malnourished puppy; scared, uncertain and alone.

The sandy banks of the seasonal river receded and repeatedly lost ground as the fast running water they channel eroded their loose soil right before his sad eyes, but he does not notice all this. The snobbery of his state of mind wasn’t meant to be insulting. It was only prompted by its rich abundance of worries.

His eyes see everything as they flicker their lashes in continued sight, but his sailing mind does not notice the spectacle the heavy rains had created of everything around his open choice of secluded refuge. The birds barely up in the low fruitless trees shading the water, sang cantatas in quick short bursts. Without rhythms they sang, in a sequence so irregular.

They fill the domesticated wild with their songs. He hears but does not share the pleasantness of the soothing but seemingly haphazard tunes. Their apparent mutual superlative discourse was saying much more than time could ever reveal. They were literally slandering the parallel dominion that belittles them.

He just sat there on the ridged out long stretch of sandy hill, bordering the trees and water, beside the overflowed bank, watching the dirty water race away with that contentious submissiveness it incredibly has such an expounded embellished mastery over everything else with. Water’s frailty is its strength. Its functionality makes its simplicity nature’s own most conventional dictum. He sat there in the lusterless present yet with the past that will never reply to his invitations, no matter how he might put it. He just sat there alone from the world, with his thick flood of so many unpleasant thoughts.

The first person he remembers is always his mother. She was singularly the most dominant being in his short life, so far. She had never said a thing about his father and he never asked because he trusted the fact that she will tell him when she felt she should. But he knew he should have a father, every other child in the village cruelly reminded him of it.

He loved his mother too much to worry her and he pretended he was stupid like a child should, respectfully. He let her control all their conversations. When she talked, she puts bits of platitudes in his mouth and made it sound like it was his idea. She managed their discourse with these silly bits like she would have done a well trained donkey without the slightest qualms.

When she told him he would not see her ever again, he had simply laughed. The mere thought of it was too stupid and shocking to be credible. Her indefatigable attitude of ridiculing his perception of reality and fiction had been a continuous source of humourous entertainment for both of them in the past, so he made the appropriate mockery of this statement too.

She was ill in bed when she finally thought he should know about his father. Then realized she probably didn’t know who his father really is. She was thin and couldn’t eat anymore, so he and his cat ate all her meals. Though he was so young when she later died with her noxious knowledge of what the city’s fun filled freedom does to naïve adventurous village girls, he also painfully knew. And this trail of thought led him to his cat next.

He pictured its black flurried coat as it always appeared to prefer it; moist and shaggy. It spends the whole day working on its state with it tiny pink tongue. It was the smallest kitten of five, when it was given to him, painfully thin and barely able to carry its weight on its frail limbs. It took to him like it would a second mother and he gave it a quarter of everything he eats. Though the cat ate everything he gave it in those long two months he had it, it didn’t survive. His cat also died.

It is uniquely strange how days always seemed to have appeared much longer when the perceiver was younger. The swifter passage of time always seems to come with the rational assessment of the usage of time. The restful utilization of time at various ages is given so many varied conceptions to illustrate this point even more. An inactive day that is leisurely spent by an adult is perceived to be wasted by an early teenager.

As he supposedly wasted that quiet wet afternoon idly by the dirty running water, his reappraised assertion of his present situation weren’t ill conceived, but the haplessly penned up anger they reflected within him was just ill mannered. Then next on his mind was his grandfather. He remembers him easy enough because he had such a very distinguishing character that wasn’t unnecessarily nice when he didn’t feel like it.

The old man didn’t pretend. He was a scoffer that continually showed his discontent with the dishonorable circumstances that made the boy his grandson. With the most solemn rude words, he always reminded the boy that he was his mother’s father. The fact that the old man could easily break the egocentricity of his spontaneous dislike for the boy’s origin and still show him considerable favouritism, spoke volumes for the aged man’s fair personality. The boy warmed the old man’s heart and he loved the boy so much, but he always had a strange kind of difficulty in showing it when they had visitors.

The boy was scared of the old man at such times because he shouted at him and never used his pet name for him then. It almost appeared like where the boy was concerned, the old man had to rashly claim to be ready to accept the boy as a demeaning relative, when he wasn’t ready to face all the appending less prestigious societal circumstances. The impassioned plea of the honest affection he had for his wayward returning daughter had made him accept her when she suddenly returned home from the city, helplessly ill like a bad fruit and with a fatherless son.

The boy had slept with the old man because the bigger children always bullied him at night, after trampling on him physically and emotionally to their hearts’ desire all day long. The upheavals the boy experienced daily where too lopsidedly unfair to be addressed easily, as they perverted societal justice by ironically buttressing fakeness in their cultural correctness.

The hypocrisy that kind of treatment encouraged was intensely debauchery, so much that it accordingly interposed the fabric of sincerity in the people’s tailored prejudice. Even as the old man had thunder in his throat, the boy only heard the throaty roars when the old man slept. But before the old man suddenly dozes off, like he always seems to do because he never goes to bed until he naps off while sitting, the old man always speaks of the peace that awaited him somewhere else. He always spoke his thought provoking paradoxical sentiments like he was talking to someone else and not his grandson that barely understood him.

He gave the impression he was still struggling with a problem he had since effortlessly solved. He was never uttering any improper vulgarities, even when he was not being particularly friendly. He was a freak for probity and sincerity, tradition and fairness, standard in quality; not minding contradictions woven into his principles by the time induce revolutionized thinking modernity ushers in. Then he died peacefully, like he should.

When the boy came out here, to the new city’s extensive, far from modern suburbs, the first thing that struck him was its emptiness. They had arrived around noon and there were very few people moving around at that time of day. He had a small tin box, a small rolled up mat, an old blanket and a small plastic kettle balanced up on his small head. His mother’s cantankerous brother’s friend’s cousin had brought him along. They had taken a long dusty lorry ride, which he had initially enjoyed. The rough and bumpy ride, he had found pleasurable to his young excitable mind, but it didn’t help him ignore his hunger.

He hadn’t eaten before they set off early in the gray hours of the morning, on the long their trip over a terribly bad road with its weathered remains of decades old tar top still defiantly lingering in utter disrepair. Through the bumpy journey, he had followed every eating passenger’s mouth activity with a pained salivated interest. His childish enjoyment of the rough ride didn’t help his physical state as the dominantly bolted wooden lorry structure dipped, hopped and swayed its creaking frame in and out of crater sized potholes as old as the old man noisily maneuvering the big vehicle along the pathetic apology for a federal highway.

The shrubby landscape plains they crawled pass beside the bad road, appeared more of a drivable prospect than the torture of these hard landed waves they had paid for with their fares, to be ferried on. The head and body aches the entire passengers alighted with wasn’t bearable, by any regard. It was nauseating and a physical ailment. But the excited impact of seeing the city for the first time had initially hit the young lad with its dreamy wonderment, which is so commonly reserved for all first timer sorts that endlessly wade into the city with their concoctions of plain assortments of inabilities and expectations.

That is before the many unsettling abhorrent characteristics the new visitor is unaccustomed to, descends on the whole fantastic setting with its empty recess of intangible importunity, soils it and floored him, bringing him down to dust his troubles. This ideally brought his thoughts to when he first got here and met the callous old man who is his teacher, an insatiable old man so full of calumnies. Few knew that his endless clatters of words aren’t the doctrines he made them out to be but silly platitudes.

His lack of complete knowledge of the sacred reading art had been successfully disguised by his remarkable memory of a life time endless repetitions and ceaseless renditions of the sacred text, which fooled everyone. This was the first person he had ever hated. The old teacher actually beats them for exercise.

The teacher’s whip cuts their backs again and again. The harsh memories of begging for food with a battered dirty pan, which they carry for that purpose, flashed through his mind as he watched the dirty water race pass. He remembered the cooked solid mashed dry grains doled out harden cold, painted with the traceable remain of the cheap red coloured oil, but without any remote serving of soup because the supposedly generous givers had licked it up before doling it out to the singing beggar boys.

The food is always rudely given to them not out of sympathy but as a means of discarding wastage. Their hunger forces them to eat the food, as they helplessly join an age old excess food disposal system. He remembers the frustration of shouting pleas and getting nothing but insults from disrespectful over-fed children, barely his age. He remembers the chasing dogs barking at them, biting them and certainly, the ever lingering presence of hunger and then the memories of the cold.

The harsh cold harmattan weeks that stretched his misery came along like those of the wicked lashes of his much older fellow students. He relived all of the students parked into the single densely crowded room, on the cold bare floor their sparsely covered skinny bodies warmed up. They display their hardly juicy bare fleshy body parts to feed the endless living smoke of mosquitoes that noisily buzzed over the fatigued sleeping boys. And those weekly only baths in the terribly cold and dirty stream. He remembered the utter frustration and pain of it all.

His pains is constant; with his sores that never dry up and heal, with cuts on his heel and under his feet, with rashes in his full unkempt hair, with constant headaches from falls or a deliberate cruel knock, with belly aches from hunger or bad food and with steady beatings the bigger boys gave. He felt the lightness of his body, painful coughs year round. His sleepless fear of death all around still doesn’t keep him awake no matter how hard he tries to stay awake and not sleep off, and die like many of his mates.

In the like nature of the espoused human temperamental recess of every age and gender, he lost control of all his reasonable thoughts. Only death has power over reason because it defies the divided realm of unconsciousness and sanity. In the tapestry that is the turmoil of reason and emotion, his memories increasingly came in floods. Try as hard as he could to steer his thoughts aright, it defied his attempts and strayed away still.

The widely emotional feebleness of all his efforts didn’t heed the helm of reason and most certainly finally headed for the crushing finality of the rocky coast line of dejected despair. He had apparently set the course for a potentially permanent destructive doom as he repeatedly secluded himself and his thoughts, remained strayed with self pitying worry and sorrow.

His grandfather and mother came around again, vengefully. His cat and dead mates appeared as if to stake a claim. All the dead showed up together again defiantly, as if waiting for him; but not in his empty old village certainly. His village came to mind and all the other village children that still played with him, even though they said they wouldn’t. He remembered the childish meaningless games they played and all the fun they had, away from the huts, in the wild, away far from the big bullying boys. Then returned the pain he had felt since he left them to come and learn to be holy in the ungodliness of a hybrid civilization that does not recognize itself for what it had become.

It still calls itself a virgin when it is clearly an old religious whore on her wedding day. The city tastes of blood, smelt of corpses, sounded like a drowning crowd and yet looks like a prayer field on a holy day. Surely with all this hypocrisy, prayers must have a difficult time to state their pleas at the sacred courts of the Almighty. The worldly arbiters are humanly inclined to value sentiments and honourable intents but not assessable deeds. The motives are always ever portrayed in very fair light and can not be ‘unbiasly’ accepted. And every single judge has to handle his very own case and sentence himself.

He cringed from his loneliness amidst so many others like him, in this expanse of uncivilized caricature of civility, that the abridged abstract of modernity had made this city as all others with its similar history. He tasted his hatred for this way of life and all the people who he recognizes represented it. He moans from the hunger that kept returning to stay for days after every meal. He loathe all the frustration of being unable to change a thing in the physical and emotional cocoon of pain he exists in.

He couldn’t out race his fear of the past that had vomited him and the future which promises to be akin to the permanent present, all patiently waiting for his return to their living quarters. Everything was waiting for him across the termites eaten rotten wooden bridge he had come over a moment earlier, waiting for him to take a break from his real world of abject misery and lounge in fantasies he couldn’t create. He looks at the bridge and cringed from what it suddenly signified at that instant. It represented the route to a past he dislikes but still wants him again, to consume him like it does every body else.

He pulled his thought away from where it strayed and tried to focus on something pleasant. But it lingered on nothing as it searched still, found nothing pleasant because it chose not to. So he returned to his grandfather again and the peace that the old man had said waited for him before he died. He returned to his mother again and what she said about him not seeing her again until after he dies. He returned to his cat and quite suddenly convinced himself that it is with his grandfather and his mother.

Somehow they are somewhere together in peace, waiting for him. The coward seeks to recognize danger and run away. He didn’t feel like a coward because it is the brave who ventures into the unknown and what is more unknown than death. The uncertainties that hold the void beyond death in a firm grip, is really unknown. So when one seeks it consciously and willingly, then one is indeed brave. Suicide is the bravest act of stupidity.

Killing ones self is a grossly imprudent act of desperation that is perceived to be an escape to anything rather than to something, which generally should be regarded as worse and not better. But there is something better in every summation of a situation; and indeed worse. A state of nothingness does not exist, even if it can be perceived and acknowledged by some intangible myth or by some talented concept. In man’s continuously blind search for emotionally spiritual comfort, his conscious choice of death is still a lingering choice in his limited repertoire. But as suicide is thankfully an option and as long as it is, it will be sought.

He is scared but he knows he must be brave. There were only two clear alternatives visible to physical and emotional mind, handicapped perspectives. The routes are either across the rotten wooden bridge or inside the running dirty water. It is not a capricious act, he thought it through. He stood up and jumped into the deep looking, fast running sand coloured water, though he couldn’t swim. He didn’t bother to say his prayers. It would have been his last and a good thing to do, but he didn’t bother because in his hurried thoughts he forgot to remember to bother.

Their wicked greedy teacher, in his near perfect religious stern scholarly act, had told them long ago to always pray first before embarking on anything or else their wishes will not come true. Maybe this once if he didn’t say the short prayer that states in whose name he ventures, his wishes may come true. He didn’t say the short oath-like prayer and his wish didn’t come true, yet again. The deep looking water stopped at his knees. His prayers weren’t ever answered before, so it can’t be because he forgot to pray. He would have asked to live on fairly. Maybe his teacher is right after all; their prayers already forgot them here.

I live to die,
To all knots I tie;
So much I try,
I will still say bye.

What you see

This is yet another gripping, thought invading and yet simple compositions. It speaks of an identity we all crave for but few of us really do stand up for.

Exciting piece!

Simple Words

I am tired of apologizing for being me

I  can alter my ways just to give you

the respect you deserve

but I won’t change me

This is me,

My right

My life

My culture

It  is who I am

Accept me

Respect  me

or just

Forget me

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… Wait …

It is always a delight to stumble into something gripping in its expression but quite simple in its presentation as this!

Totally enjoyable!



Is it a dream, or is it for real ?

Do I foresee or am I just Idle?

I lost my words in a sea of hopelessness and

Sang with tears in my eyes in a bath filled with liquor. 

The truth was far from implicitness, and closer to being spoken too often

I could soar in a field of lies and not feel a thing … 

Or travel for miles and feel not the existence of an entity.


I lost my emotions to the one I let loose the chains of my aorta for.

A choice for which I shall sit and wait for its produce.

Till then …




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I had the strangest experience that I would love to share with you just as it happened. Usually I dress up this experiences of mine as a story or a poem, but this once I chose to tell it as it is and leave the creative visualization to you.

I was reading a beautiful post; Moths to a Flame (Posted on May 28, 2012 by http://www.veehaunanifitzhugh.wordpress.com) and out the blue I literally found myself living & experiencing his illustration in the most simplest of forms.


“What specifically is a moth ball, and should one be surrounded by so many of them in such a small space?” she ponders.

“Meemaw! Are moth balls related to asbestos?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh, no,” she groans.

As her skin begins to crawl and her lungs begin to implode, she finds an unmistakable Tiffany & Co. creme blue box.

Instantly forgetting her brush with death, she opens the ring size package.

She gasps and runs to show her grandmother the unexpected treasure.

Meemaw opens the box, pales, drops it to the counter, and quickly leaves the room without looking at or speaking to her.

Her granddaughter follows her to the hall, where she finds Meemaw weeping soundlessly against the wall nearest the kitchen.

“Caroline, call your-”

She gasps and falls.

She never sees her awake again

Then the weirdest thing happened, just as I finished ‘Moths to a flame’. It is the middle of the raining season here in my tropical abode & lots of insects converge at the slightest glimmer of light. We have the most epileptic public power supply system in the entire west coast of Africa, even though we are by far the wealthiest country in the sub-region.

So there was I, sitting only an arms length away from my glowing candle & reading this brief but very engaging post on my cute little smart phone. And just when I read that powerful ending & tried to visualise the exit of life from a resisting soul……. and presto! A Moth actually flew into my candle flame and became toast!

Now how weird is that!