Land

Let us pray for structure

Let us pray for government

Let us pray for law

For a land without law, is a land without sin

A land without sin is a land without morality

A land without morality is a land without conscience

A land without conscience is a land without humanity

But then, A land free from humanity is a land free from lies

A land free from lies, is a land free of deception

A land free of deception, is a land free from betrayal

A land free from betrayal is a land free from hurt

A land free from hurt is land free from war

A land free from war is a land blessed with peace

So surely, a land blessed with peace, is a land without war

A land without war is  a land with no conflict

A land with no conflict is a land lacking ideas

A land lacking ideas is a land without religion

A land without religion is a land without a government

So we can only pray for religion

For religion is structure

Religion is the law

Religion is government.

Silence

On Monday the 8th of October 2012, I was unfortunate to have come across a video of such grotesque and barbaric nature. Four boys were literally being beaten to death amidst the chanting of an angry mob. Despite having being told what would eventually happen at the end of the video, I still watched it with some sort of hope, some sort of expectation. I hoped that at the last moment, the boys would gain some incredible strength, stand up and flea. Or that the police would come in and take the boys into custody and safety. Or maybe even a friend, an ordinary person would swoop in and command the lynching to be stopped immediately. But my hope was painfully in vain; there was no flight, no interruptions, no fairy tale movie ending. There was only more beating, more begging for mercy, more stone heartedness, and more jungle justice. At the end, I watched in genuine horror as these boys were being set ablaze. 

Martin Luther King's words rang out in my mind after watching this video: "At the end, we wouldn't remember the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends". So I wondered to myself, at the very end, was that really all what the boys heard, silence? Were they completely deaf to the angered chants and words of the mob? Well, no I don't think so. I think it would be pretty difficult not to hear the voice of your own murderers as they continue to plank you to death. But I think, louder would be the deafening silence of faces that simply stared down at them. Painful and heartbreaking would be the active inaction of people only recording the scene as the boys are publicly executed without a trial or a chance of even being heard. 

Some may blame their silence on fear; some may use the angry mob to rationalize their muteness. Of course these are logical reasons to back and shy away from any the wrath of the angry mob. But when would we finally prevent "logics" stopping us from doing the right thing. It was logical to keep silent, when people were continuously killed in bomb blasts, or when students were called out by names and gunned down in broad daylight. It is "logical" for those in the position of influence to watch muted, as atrocities are committed constantly in the name of one irrational course or another, all because they fear for their safety. By now, our society should have or be moving past the logics of fear and hesitation. It is obvious that our rulers (not leaders) are not willing to move beyond this. However we as citizens and individuals can move beyond the fear and hesitation, we can become LEADERS. We can start by acting, by voicing out when we see the rampant evils occurring everywhere, already at an alarming rate.

 Lupe Fiasco summed it all up; "if you don't become an actor, you would never be a factor". Let us start acting so that the atrocities such as the one committed on the 5th of October 2012 would never repeat itself. May the souls of the Aluu victims find the solace of heaven greater than the pain and silence of the hell they went through.

Amen.

Stories

People no longer told stories in the country...The country used to have stories. Story tellers used tell several tales about the great heroes and their visions. Storytellers used to be eager to pump the myth through the streets of the cities. These myths used to fall on every ear and was retold by every mouth. Every corner, you could hear the whispering and the murmur of the great city. Story tellers used to promise the children, that if they worked hard enough, they too would get to invent and tell their tales however they see fit. Stories assured the old that they had lived a prosperous life, and they can move on knowing that the city was in great hands. That used to be a long time ago, a time of hope, prosperity and heroes, a time of storytelling. 

Now that the old have moved on and the children have matured, there is nobody left to believe in stories anymore. Stories were almost always based on a myth or a rumored truth. Stories harbored an escape from the harsh realities of life. Stories carried with it hope of a better future or just a different future. But what good is an escape plan if it never works? What good is Hope in a city that lacks faith? Citizens of the country no longer wasted their energy believing in such, The only thing concrete for them now were facts. Facts were sturdy, real and certain. They weren't based on false hope or myths, they were based on the realities the city had to offer its people. Facts enabled the citizens to prepare. For instance, the police officer is prepared to collect whatever spare change he can get from citizens at the expense of the general security because he knows the minimum wage salary he is being paid would not be enough to cover his family's expenses. Or the civil servant is prepared to falsify documents to make some extra cash because he knows that he would have to give bribes to the police officers and also ensure his retirement days. Or the youths who are prepared to throw away all moral and ethical obligation to start fraud, theft or armed robbery because they know that there isn't enough employment for them once they finish school. Or the people who build houses behind high fences laced with broken bottles or barbed wire because they know the government cannot ensure their security against the lost youth. These are all facts that help the citizens survive, it's what they need. It didn't do anyone any good to keep believing in ridiculous stories and myths such as the government, the constitution or hope. It was just better not to tell stories at all.

Choice

I wonder, why do I choose to believe?

Do I believe because I fear the label given to those who don't

Or could it be that I believe because in truth I have no choice

Even though, I would like to think that I do,

 For, I choose to stay away from the darkness because I have seen light

I choose to smile and laugh because I  have seen others cry

I choose to read because I have seen illiterates engulfed in deception and lies

So I choose to tell the truth for I have seen the destruction caused by just a single lie

I choose to be strong because I have seen the society prey on the weak

No, I do have a choice, this couldn't have been forced on me

He who gave us the power, must have thought us capable

If not, there would be no freewill, there would be no ability of thought

For the power to choose must have been given to us for some reason

So I  could choose to appreciate and protect my life because I have seen others die

I could choose to run away because I have seen others imprisoned without any chance of escape

The power to choose what I want in my life is mine

For choice is a gift, surely divine.

Numbers

I used to love numbers. They were intriguing and interesting to me. I personified them, gave them human characteristics so that I could connect more with them. Number 2 was a pretty young girl that all the other numbers liked, seemingly because most numbers could be divided by it. Number 5 was the rich snobbish aristocrat, because only double or more digit numbers could be divided by it and mostly multiplies to give double or more digits. My favorite and lucky number was 7 simply because I could not personify it; it seemed to stand alone; unique. I loved them because they gave precision and certainty. It gave organisation and confidence. It was exciting solving for them knowing that you could end up with any possible number; and they were so many, they were infinite. This was why math was my favorite subject in high school. It was the only subject that I did not need to completely memorize, I just simply understood it. I really used to love numbers, but then I left high school.  

Leaving high school was a big change for me. I suddenly became more conscious about everything; politics, religion, society and even the environment. I followed the news more, followed the current events happening around the world. I followed the Arab uprising that occurred in early 2011. I remember watching the news, and listening to figures been mentioned by the journalists. “20 people have been killed and 15 others injured in recent clashes between the Egyptian masses and government troops”. These were some of the figures being tossed around. I understood that this was bad, but I felt detached from the situation, it felt impersonal, like I was listening to someone listing out facts.  

However, the recent air crash tragedy made me realise that it is always different when we know one of the several numbers being mentioned. That’s when we feel the full impact, that’s when we feel the pain, that’s when it becomes personal. It also made me realise that numbers don’t do justice enough to the dead or suffering people. When the news tells of the 33 people that died in a bus crash, it also fails to mention that aboard that bus was a successful business woman and a mother of four, or that involved was a family of four returning home after a joyous vacation. When the news talks of the 50 people that were killed and the 24 others that were injured in the clash between Syrian government troops and rebels, it fails to mention that among the dead was an extremely skilled artist who was preparing to go to France to fulfill her dreams or among the injured is an aspiring footballer who would never kick a ball again because of his broken knee. When the we hear of the 193 people that died on the recent air crash, the numbers do not tell us of the student in his final year heading back to school after a successful summer’s internship or of the young woman going to a new and different state for ‘greener pastures’.

 Numbers are extremely precise but are also extremely anonymous. They are certain but lack any emotional attachment. They are rational but lack any form of sympathy. Personalities and identity of the numerous individuals involved in these disasters are lost or forgotten amidst the figures and numbers being thrown around. To fully understand the gravity of these tragedies, we have to look beyond the figures and reports; we have to look beyond the numbers.

This is dedicated to all the nameless and faceless people who lost their lives in the recent tragic DANA AIR crash (Sunday 3^rd 2012) , and to all the other people who have lost their lives in other tragedies and disasters around the world, May their names and faces always have recognition in the hearts of their loved ones.

Summer Holiday

I only go home for the summer holidays. It is the best time to be home. Daddy is always on his international trips during this period. This means no restrictions and easy access to the cars at home. My friends are usually also back at this time, so there is always somewhere to go, always something to do. My summer holidays are always filled with laughter, fun and parties. I always look forward to these holidays. Now I am back after my sixth semester in school, and I am looking forward to my normal planned events for the summer. But things are different this time around. First, I realize that daddy is around; he did not go for his international trip this time around. I would have been disappointed if most of my friends had not decided to stay back in school for different reasons; some claim they had to do internships, others say the country isn’t secure enough. So now I am trapped at home, just me and my junior siblings. I then notice abnormalities in the house; I wonder if these abnormalities are new, or I was never around to notice them before. There is constant shouting and quarrelling coming from my parent’s room. My daddy looks as if he had aged ten years in the space of the eight months that I was away. Mummy is always cranky, complaining about the shortage of food, and hounding us about the wastage of food. Mummy never used to complain about wastage. Then, daddy’s cars begin to disappear, first the Range Rover, then the Corolla 2012 followed by the Camry 2011. We are now left with the old rickety Benz 190. My little brother asks me if the cars are being taken for repair. I do not answer because I do not know, I am too afraid to ask mummy or daddy-they are always on edge.

The oddities are not only in the house, I notice changes even when I go out. I take the rickety Benz out to take care of mummy’s errands. After driving for a while, I come across the first of many checkpoints I would encounter. It is manned by five armed soldiers. Two of them look bored, the others look happy, as if they enjoy waving cars through all day or watching as the okada riders get off their motorcycle and roll it past the checkpoints or stopping the cars that seem suspicious. They show off their guns, as if daring anyone to make the wrong move. They wave my rickety car past without any problems. The atmosphere in town is charged with fear and uncertainty. Everywhere is so tensed, it makes the air heavy, and it makes my heart heavy, for it keeps beating faster than normal. I fear driving to a hold up or a crowded area. With the heavy charge around the atmosphere, I fear any friction or spark would set the whole place ablaze. As I drive by through a holdup, a vendor holds out a newspaper over my window. On the front page, there is a bold caption that reads “BOKO HARAM SCARE IN KANO”, with a picture of blown up car beside it. I would have looked away, but then I see a picture of daddy right above the caption, beside it reads “State politician faces corruption allegations from EFCC”. The cars behind me begin to horn, I drive forward and head home. 


P.S this is completely fictional.

Melody

The soft sweet melody of the reggae music slowly fills the dim lit room. People begin to respond, to move slowly to the beat, enjoying the slow sensitive rhythm. There is no rush, the music gives them time, and they can savor each note individually and ask for more. And the DJ is quite the giver; he gives the crowd exactly what is needed and he does so in surplus. There are cat calls and whistling going about now, the room is alive, and DJ is its soul, the crowd pumps the heart and gives it a sensuous beat. If one could truly get high on music, then this crowd would have been completely intoxicated and the reggae would have been the opium. But there is one sitting at a corner, lurking and staring. He wets his lips as he watches the dance floor, like a lioness already savoring the meal to come. His meal, a young nubile girl twists and turns enticingly on the dance floor. Her body gleaming with sweat under the dim light, her steps are wild, her form perfect. He watches on, feeling uneasy on his seat. He can’t hold on much longer, he is intoxicated, but his opium is completely different. He stands up and approaches his meal, making way through a sea of intoxicated people. He is now standing dangerously close to her; he can even smell the sweet coconut butter scent on her skin. But she is oblivious, unaware of the man standing by her because she is in an unexplainable trance. The melody has gripped her; her body is no longer hers. All she wants to do is just move to the sweet rhythm flowing into her ears. This is why; she did not scream or shout when she felt the sharp pain of the cold steel penetrating her chest, right below her ribs. There is just a soft gasp with a shocked expression on her face. It’s like she thought her body could not be touched under the powerful grip of the music. She could not believe it, she had given up her body and the melody betrayed her. She cripples to the floor.

 At first, the screams are not audible under the loud beats of the reggae, but the lights came on-somebody had put them on. The screaming is instantly loud and clear now as the music is stopped and more people join in the screaming. On the dance floor is a young girl soaked in thick blood still pouring from her side. There is panic immediately, the crowd begins to disperse from every direction-people creating windows where there were none. Only a particular boy has the composure and calm to reach for the girl, he takes off his clothe and tries to stop the blood flow. The few people that were remaining watched on in shock and disbelief. The room is now filled with whispers and gasps as people try to identify her but nobody can, nobody knows her or has seen her before. They finally carry her out of the room and into a car, heading for the nearest hospital. The room is left quiet and empty. The soul has escaped through the back door. The heart has long stopped beating because there is no one to pump it anymore. So the room fades into an everlasting sleep. The room dies.   

Fate

I am no man, nor am I a woman. I am an ideological entity. My existence is sometimes based on beliefs, but my reality is ever present. Everybody knows me, but few people recognize me. My recognition is difficult for some, for it would mean that they have no control over their actions and lives. Some other’s who cling on to my reality are afraid of taking control, or responsibility for their actions and lives. They may be right, they may be wrong. I cannot say, for I do not praise nor do I judge. I do not advice nor do I ignore. I simply observe. I move, watch and weave in and out of the lives of several people, watching as their actions affect them and all other people around them. Actions that are spurred by emotions; love, hatred, anger, passion are just some of the emotions that guide and influence their actions. I do not understand how or why these emotions overrule their better judgments, for I have seen countless men sent to their peril just simply because they were blinded by emotions.

I watch this happen to George Kweku. A young handsome man, ready to start a new life in a world of possibilities. Everybody watching from his perspective could see that his future was nothing but bright. Unfortunately, my perspective is different, what I see is different, for I have already seen the path which his decisions and emotions would lead him to. His emotions would lead him to make hasty decisions, one spurred by infatuation, about a young beautiful girl. The girl gets pregnant and his life spins out of control. The bright future is instantly covered with a swooping dark cloth of confusion and regret. Soon he begins to suffer but in silence, for society holds him responsible for his actions. I see George, a couple of decades later hanging from the neck. The suffering finally became unbearable, he had given up. In one single move he had destroyed his bright future. I see all this, yet I say nothing to anyone, not even George with the bright future, I only watch.

Prayer

A prayer for you
I pray that you would never let go of the coup,
You have over my heart with every little thing you do
I pray that you find d path to genuine happiness
And before and when you do, I would be there to serve as your loyal witness
And I would tell every one of your incredible deeds
Of how you planted peaceful and loving seeds
In the heart of those that saw your service as leadership
And of how you gave people the strength to take the leap
Most of all I would enjoy telling the world that you brightened up everyone’s face
With your lovely childlike grace
Yet there was an unmistakable trace
Of a matured and adult intelligence
That would make an encounter with you a worthwhile experience

A prayer for me…
I pray that I would be a certainty in your future
One that would create the perfect picture
One that would reflect my new growing love
Eager like a cocooned caterpillar
Into a creature that would strike beauty into the eyes of any beholder
I pray that I would be able to show proper gratitude
To God for making me stumble into you
Just like an earthquake, without warning
You broke down my wall of fear
And replaced it with a wall of love and understanding
Because u have seen me, my heart and my soul completely bare

A prayer for us…
I pray our happiness would not be limited to just our dreams
I pray our hearts would always support each other like construction beams
Our relationship would have a foundation of trust
Mixed with sold granite blocks of understanding
Our love would build up strongly, truthfully, never waning
I pray that our future would be certain
For only with you would my greatest dream come through
A prayer for you, for me and for us
In God I put all ma hope, faith and trust
For I know that He would never put me at a loss
Because what we have is real and goes beyond mere lust
What we have is pure fate
All we have to do my love is endure the wait.

happy valentine's day dear...

2012

The year 2012 started off different for me, for one I wasn’t surrounded by the usual jolly music and dancing that had become a ritual in my home back in Nigeria. I was with a very good friend of mine and His family, a deep sleeping friend of mine anyway. Instead of entering the new year with the sounds of Sunny Ade filling my head, I was serenaded by his deep snoring, I still could not believe that he could sleep through the excitement of entering 2012, I guess to him, it’s just another day. I lay there beside him watching motivational videos off YouTube, trying to sort of psyche myself up for the year to come. I don’t know why, but I feel this has to be the year for me, a year that would finally define my individual. A year of the beginning of the true me, this is ironic as this year has already been predicted by some as the year of doom, as the end of life as we know. Perhaps deep in my subconscious, that’s where the motivation comes from, the inspiration to make something out of my life before the so called end of the world. Even now, as different thoughts run through my constantly distracted mind, this goal stands out clear and defined.
I have always had this feeling of time running out, this fear of not achieving anything before the end. This fear has not been helped by the numerous events that occurred last year; the Arab revolution, the emergence of the extremist group back home, the continued and increased awareness on Global warming and not to forget the predictions of the Mayan calendar this 2012. These all added a great deal to my ever growing anxiety that has been with me for years, it has truly hindered me from great deal of things. However, this year would be different; my fear would serve as fuel for my goal, my goal to achieve my true individuality. 2012 shall clear all doubts of previous year; it shall answer all questions of previous years. This year, I refuse to let my fear stop from being who I am supposed to be, who I am meant to be. This year I shall not hide behind a wall of uncertainty, I shall not be controlled by the lazy nature of procrastination. This is not a resolution, but an epiphany. The sudden realization that I must show the world who I am, the sudden need to be defined. This is a yearning to hear the world tell my tales.