I yearn for your glorious face,
the little kisses that I hope to get,
and the warm embraces.
I long for the voice of the one who will call me ‘Dad’
and make me a pride among my peers.
I see you grow to be a lovely child,
Taking steps where I faltered.
Your growth will be my work,
and your greatness; my wrinkled smiles.
The world will say of you, my child
as one of the greats.
Your heights will give me pride
and re-assurance of sweet
eternal rest, when the curtain falls.
So do us a favour, don’t die before me.

When I first read about it in a book by Peter Enahoro. I thought it was a wonderful faction. i still think it is. Chidi Opara just confirmed it.

yes I will. I think friendship defies present conditions. The poem is lovely , simple and pleasing yet concrete.

Thanks a lot, writing has always been fun for me but I think I could look at a lucrative possibility. Now that it is suggested I am thinking of a part two. thank you.

He cries.
listen , dear daughter of Eve.
pity a poor son of Adam.
Let your love sieve into his heart again.

He cries.
listen , dear daughter of Eve.
pity a poor son of Adam.
Let your love SAieve into his heart again.

They were shocked. The question was on their lips, ‘how can he appoint Brother Paul as the financial secretary of the fellowship?’ Yet, they had no choice for the Pastor had spoken. As Pastor Bisi shook my hands, it all came back to me- my eventful journey to the fellowship’s moneybag.

That afternoon was hot. I was passing by our gentle Pastor’s house. I had decided to pay him a visit, or at least get a free cold drink. I entered into the compound and walked straight towards Pastor’s room. As I was about to knock, I heard a loud moan. Jesus Christ! Could it be what I am thinking? The noise was unclear but the situation needed no extra clarity. It was hot in there.

The urge to respect privacy wanted me to go away but the personality of the Pastor turned me into a Viewer. The sight was magical. It was a perfect composition, a theatre of life. On the soft platform lay a female looking up to the ceiling, while the male faced downwards. The technique was great but the conception rammed my bone marrow. The picture made a meaning out of the upward- downward movements, filled with rhythms and pantomimes. My leg shook under the might of my body at the sight of Pastor Bisi on heat with the honourable prayer coordinator, Sister Chinyere. It was not a prayer session.

‘Good Afternoon, Pastor Bisi and,  Sister Chinyere.’ No one replied my greeting. ‘I was just passing by and decided to say hello, but I can see that you are busy. Sorry for dist, ’

Pastor Bisi flung the door open. ‘Brother Paul, Good Afternoon’

‘Oh! I will just be on my way’.
‘Brother Paul, I can understand your ,  but we need to talk. Why don’t you come inside?’ He held me back in a calm manner.

I thought he must have been wondering what evil breeze brought me to his doorstep. The show of shame was far unexpected from the two bloody devils who once tagged me a nominal Christian. I was the so-called ordinary follower of Christ, the insignificant Brother Paul. I had to make them suffer. I wanted them to beg.

‘There is nothing to talk about’, I said.
‘Please, Brother Paul, we need to talk.’ Sister Chinyere spoke in her sonorous praying voice.’ What is it you want, anything at all that is in our reach as senior officials of the fellowship.’

Sister Chinyere knew I had always wanted a degree of importance in the fellowship. Getting me up in the council was a dream she was ready to offer me. The Pastor himself could not refuse me that honour. At that moment, an idea struck me. The Financial Secretary was my biggest foe. I realised that taking his position would be a nice way to humiliate him and catapult myself to church glory.

‘Make me the new financial secretary’, I requested.
‘Done’ he replied, without mincing words.

On that Sunday morning, he announced, ‘the spirit have led me to elevate a great brother amongst us to the post of Financial Secretary’. I smiled. It was wonderful to see the gloom on the surprised faces of the congregation as I strolled to the altar. They applauded coldly.

No wonder christian schools are more expensive than other privte schools. Pastors, where is the love? this poem begs for an answer.

I think i might do the same, beat tunisia silly on PS and make Nigeria win the world cup

Thanks a lot. I hope things get better for our beloved Naija, in football and every other thing.

It was a Sunday evening. I had donned my green and white jersey with a strong determination to celebrate a victory. The game began amidst crazy shouts and arguments by my fellow street boys inside the barbershop. Chukwudi was at the forefront making the loudest noise, ‘Up Naija! Oh boy, we go win today’. Different reactions came up as some unpatriotic compatriots behaved as if they were Tunisians. They shouted at the top of their voices rubbishing the Nigerian players as a bunch of unorganized talents. I stood up in defence of the G-W-G like a true Wazobian. We continued to argue the rating of the Nigerian footballers above their Tunisian counterparts.

  ‘GOAL’, the victory shout rent the atmosphere. The Russo Nigerian maestro, Osaze had gone past two defenders and put it straight into the net. My joy knew no bound, it was better than when I passed my JAMB exam or got admission into the university. I left the barbershop with some other boys and began dancing round the street. Then another shout of  ‘goal’ increased my joy and I ran into the shop but many faces looked gloomy while a group of Arabs celebrated on the TV coupled with some treasonous Naija boys dancing with joy.

‘How can they allow them to equalize?

It was Chukwudi again. ‘Those defenders are crazy’ 
The barbershop went quiet for some minutes till the referee signaled the end of the first half. No one argued, we just left the shop. True Nigerians like me, sat down by Iya Tuwo’s little shop and discussed the life of a legal icon that had died. He was a great man, a fighter for the masses, killed by the poor management of a health sector.

‘Ladi! Chukwudi! Won ti bere o.’

We ran into the shop again still unable to talk and praying that the true eagles, the super ones will fly and not the eagles from Carthage. The game went on for a while until another opportunity came, this time, we did not rejoice to the extreme but made good fun of the rebels and they were ashamed. With the clock ticking, victory was at hand.

Bloody defenders.
The Tunisians had equalized again and we expressed in dismay how our defenders had robbed us of a golden victory. I placed my hands on my head feeling a sense of loss and disgrace as the anti-Nigerian players sang a famous football victory chant. It ended in a draw but we needed to win. Those useless Nigerian players, unpatriotic, unreliable, disappointing, punishing, tragic, agonistic, tyranic… my ruffled minds produced thoughts like Soyinka’s Lakunle in The Lion and the Jewel. I stormed out of the shop but they followed and jeered at me. A group of fellow Nigerians robbed me of an Azikwe-d currency, though it was a bet but it wasn’t as painful as the dent on my prestige as a supporter. The Rossoneri Milanos had earlier rubbished it after an embarrassing four goals defeat and I lost a thousand naira on that day no thanks to Mourinho’s soldier boys. Tosin D’almeida, a strong Brazilian team supporter of Brazilian heritage danced some pathetic samba steps and flaunted the five hundred naira I lost. It was pitiful.

The next morning I proposed on a Nigerian forum that Yobo should lose his citizenship for marshaling a failed defence line. I think he will be better off an Iraqi, Afghan, Sudanese, or anywhere there is a war.
[center]………
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[center]That’s how angry I am.[/center]

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A loss to a nation.
A temporal victory for decadence
and a gain for heaven.
Tell Dele we miss him,
that the G-W-G still flies
and the fight will go on.
Requiescat in Pace, Gani.

i love john grisham but sheldon is also tight.

It always begins at birth
and ends at death.
The genesis of life seek
revelation in the grave.
If the eyes open to the bright sun
then the fiery nights call for a close.
Today, I walk atop the ground,
and below the skies.
One day, cold stiff under the earth,
I am told,
I will be up in the heavens
looking down to the land
where babies’ cries are heard, and
dirges are composed.

mama afrika don suffer o, but all will be well.

amen. I miss them a lot.

I am sad, angry and belligerent,
but my limbs are weak; he charms my fight to fright.
He came, beauty embodied, man’s irresistible lover
and took my peers away.
Roaming the streets of Lagos, with its frigid face,
Oh! Santa Claus of pain and cry
with gifts of broken bottles, knives and guns,
shared among friends lost to senseless, youthful arrogance.
I weep for you now and then,
great jingoists of street warfare.
You could have been great men,
if you hadn’t board the bus to Hades.

( To my friends who died during the PDP/AC Lagos Island clashes.)

Truly Nigerian, honesty died on the streets of FCT, spreading its disease, towards the sahara and down to the the gulf of guinea. nice. I love it.