Bliss resort

As we gather to prepare for the Sun's birthday, and readings from its personal memoir. I must sent this memo to it's mother, life's mentor. Earth's mayor, Junior and his father the eternal vicar. Life's alumnus, one out of one. As we prepare to shock surprise and drown the ocean, we have written the weather for the rehearsals at Jupiter. Miracles will be wearing white, since they will be ushers, and they have all been informed. The posters are already on display on ocean's streets. soon mars will follow. For we have planned this as a surprise,even to us the planners. And because up there accidents do not happen, we only need faith and not funders. As we gather to prepare for the Sun's birthday, we write to you  the lone scientist, the compass of change, the sole signatory of earth's warranty and the hedge fund for fruit flies. The inspector of the mines: earth, Mars and others. We have spoken to words and they said they have heard.

As usual every evening...cool of the day...I move out to a nearby cave where a rock have formed a natural chair for me to sit... I got there one beautiful evening only to meet a black middle aged man sitting there lost in deep thought. Me: hello The Stranger : (looked at me and replied with two fingers) Me: felt embarrassed... Hey you...am penspeaks...✍🏾 The Stranger (look at me) ...am Khannan black *Me: that sounds like a stage name or nick, anyway i am an award winner, A poet and  a writer. Khannan black: Penspeaks?...award winning 😀(chuckles). Me: (mad) how can you say that?...do you know what I went through to get the ******* glass...I had to figure out something within 6 hours , challenged someone I haven't met or seen before... I just met him at d contest ground for d first time..wait! By the way who do u think you are? A sort of genius? Come I have to convince judges I know nothing about that am d best...and u call et trash?... Khannan black: (laughe

I cried out my eyes that fateful day, When I was forcefully snatched from mother's arm, Into a strange land have I found myself, A sad, lonely Almajiri child. During the day, as I scavenge for food,  I looked up to the sun, but if frowned at me, It's scorching heat burning my bald head, My bare feet begging for mercy under it treacherous heat. At night while I lay on the cold hard ground, I stared at the moon but it laughed at my plight, The stars blinking in happiness, while I wallow in loneliness, The cloud seems peaceful while within me exists turmoil. Tho I try hard not to cry, But tears keep flowing like a fountain of water, All I wanted was to be loved like every other normal child, How unusual has my life turned out to me. How do I think of a future, When today isn't even decided? How do expect me not to angry, When my closest friend is hunger? Oh that the mountains would fall on me, Send the flood to wash me away, End this mirage I'

Before I make sense let me say this, For already our rainbow has lost three colours. And where the Niger meets the Benue river, There's now silence.. There were three strands of thread, And we are now hanging on the last. My ancestors won't like this on facebook. They have said there's a Biafra in the other side. And Ojukwu is still their leader.. but i did not comment. Already, our rainbow has lost three colours, Those yahoo boys have struck again, Or is it the politicians this time, and between them is there any difference? Once we were men now we are mended, menses and the other thing I should not call. The gods were hungry, then angry then both. but now they are not sure... They say Buhari should not die, or he may be their president.. The president of the dead. And how they hated that recession. And just before I make sense.. There were three strands of thread. How did we get here? How can we arrive ahead of the road we were travelling

By Obinna Oke. Prof. Akinwande Oluwole Babatunde Soyinka, popularly and simply called Wole Soyinka was born on 13 July 1934 in Abeokuta Ogun State, Nigeria. He was until his 'demise' on  May 29, 2015 an author, poet, playwright and most importantly an avowed freedom fighter. Soyinka had been a strong critic of successive Nigerian governments, especially the country's many military dictators, as well as other political tyrannies in Africa, including the Mugabe regime in Zimbabwe. Much of his writing had been concerned with "the oppressive boot and the irrelevance of the colour of the foot that wears it". In 1952 at the University college Ibadan, Soyinka started his fit with six others by founding the Pyrates Confraternity, an anti-corruption and justice-seeking student organisation. The first confraternity in Nigeria. While still in great Britain in 1965, he seized the Western Nigeria Broadcasting Service studio and broadcast a demand for the cancell

This owl seems lost in this swirling pool Of vile dance of dinosaurs Who mount our stool This owl frets at this cycle of shame Of starving caruncles chuckling As these wolves play their game Of these youths, these stooges Whose future fades in callused hands While relishing laughter and silent grudges These wolves without souls Clothed in gowns and wools With the sweat and blood of our soles This owl faints At how they praise And call them saints But this owl shall continue to screech At these beetles who suck Our substance and make us bleach To mute it is to crown damnation Like bribery and corruption But to heed is to mother salvation This owl shall hang on this pyramid Of insipid city of salts To weep at the rape of all good deed But this owl, this owl ain't me!

My spirit is hurting... I feel like asking God a question: why is nature this wicked? Why does nature keep afflicting the already afflicted? A month ago, I woke up crying and shivering over my dream about Joshua, my late friend. We were in bed chatting and laughing as always. The piquancy of our reconnection after so many years was indescribable. He beamed with smiles so bright and strong, unlike before. He got up from his mattress opposite mine and with such a brimming glamour held me on my shoulders saying: 'Thank you so much for everything.' He then worked towards the wardrobe and backed me to pull his shirt. He turned after with his shirt off, and I suddenly noticed that his belly was still protruded and shiny. He looked as hollow as prior to death. I sprang up from my mattress in shock. 'Joshua why didn't you tell me you were sick? why? Joshua why?' I questioned in anger and chagrin. 'I'm sorry. I didn't want to disturb you anymore.' H

The truth is that she is not beautiful, And I have told her so. I had watched her through sunshades, But it made no difference. For although the make-up was laid as proposed, One can only build a house on a foundation. And this woman has none. The mirrors had been set, then reset, But they still could not pick her reflection. Then she did it again and again. And it was like adding a color to the rainbow. So I had to tell her that she's not beautiful. That the East and the West can never shake hands. That what will mix with green to give olive, Cannot be too far on the color pallet. And in her settings, there are no options. But she would not listen, so she now weighs more, And one percent is from her makeup. But she's still not beautiful. Sincerely, she's not beautiful. And I have told her so. As I watched her through sunshades, And negotiated with reality. I had blamed the world. But I know it's the woman, She's not beautiful. She

...looking at her face carefully, I could see where beauty once touched down..the marks were clearly visible but only to the trained eye.. she looked more like a story that once happened, a part of a human museum that now detailed the evolution of human attrictiveness..She was now a settling dust disturbed by the stirs of a thousand suitors, her life has been a site where many wars have been fought and life being so kind has  adequately provided for her retirement by leaving her one limb leaf as a spouse... what is left of her prized visage which had been a canvas where a dozen colours has been mixed, and displayed, is the dried-off remembrance of what Perfect used to be..Her memories are her only treasure now, her only consolation .the only evidence of a life in the sun.And even that can only reign until dementia comes with a warrant, a promise which she is afraid will be kept.. (c)Samson Abanni #from a writer's diary.

Oh Dean of light. You who deem deeds wrong or right. This prayer is not to look with with doubts a deal already done, just because I'm now in my night. But you and I know that even wrongs have rights. So treat this tears on my cheeks as fresh water from the blood released from a heart hard pierced. I'm like the hissing song of a snail with a broken shell when that shell is all it has. I'm  Mary your handmaid: the mother of the boy whom they have just pierced. They call him Savior but I call him son. So if by any means you 're at peace with his pain, remember that I am not God so  I may not understand. Although he was a gift promised to be re-taken. Although before he was born we observed a minute silence for his death, I never considered him an 'acting son' or loved him with left-over emotions. I heard the prophecies but I was a mother who had a son. So who will blame me if I also had dreams? since he was a son like any other. Of course I re

They say you are smart modern children. That we tried but you are in a league of your own. And I agree but I don't want to be you..  to eavesdrop from the womb  as mom makes those vows, that should permit her to conceive me even though I'm already here. I don't want to be born before my parents' nine months wedding anniversary. Or have cow milk as main course and breastmilk for desserts. No, I don't want to be you.  They say you are smart, that your gestation period is now shorter. For hardly do they leave the altar before you come tumbling down . But I don't want to be you,  I do want to be the sparks that fly out before the metal has hit the stone, so keep your 'luck modern foetuses. I don't want to be you.  you are unique and speak the queen's English. But please remain you, so I wouldn't. For sincerely I don't want to be you. So I won't join the priest and my parents on the same alter, And say the marriage vows

We had to name him before we buried him. He came to us dead but we could not send him back nameless. The wrapping sheet that come with babies was already decaying when we committed him to mother earth. Mom would have called a few neighbors but dad insisted that a proper burial should have a biography and we couldn't think of anything, because he only almost lived. So we just named him and  buried him. We named him Madu.  Our family name is for the living, not for this event that almost occurred. I don't know what he was rehearsing in the womb but we would never hear it. we buried him without music since we couldn't agree on his favorite but we named him before we buried him. Explanations are excuses we make for fate. these, the doctors gave us enough. God bless their weary souls and the youngest female among them who held mom's ring finger and whispered  "please pray for me" "There are things only time can give you the permission to und

I told them that I loved you because my eyes have already said so, And I didn't want to be like a house devided against itself. Amongst truth there is a hierarchy and I had wanted the beginning to start first. So I had to tell them the whole truth. I have told them how we met and how your eyes took mine water skating among those tall waterbirds. How we started building our rainbow after we agreed that seven colours will not be enough. I had told them I knew you when time  stopped to ask  why the sun smiles. It was that day the universe lost a planet to hoodlums and I recommended you. I have asked them if I can keep you since I have been waiting for the clouds to settle so I can write your name. And spend my life watching your gentle breathing as you puff on the cigarette of life. And how colours are only fully expressed when you are around. For it seems that the only purpose of the earth is to help you fulfil purpose, like a diamond reflecting stars from a bowl o

One of our greatest strengths in life is the ability to look at anything, no matter how important or otherwise and decide what meaning you want it to hold for you. Be it relationships, money, news or acquisitions.  What makes gold , gold is more of the substance of human value than the substance of the metal itself. Our ability to choose our own value system is clearly our ability to choose our life, our joy, happiness and freedom. So a colleague receives an amount of money and takes his wife out for a celebration, because "he tells himself it is enough", maybe not enough to meet all his needs but enough to be thankful for. Meanwhile you get the same amount and lapse into depression,wondering how you would get by. When we fully appropriate this inate ability, we discover the ultimate source of freedom from the rat race . we individually carry around our own universes where we choose what matters and What doesn't. And most who have found peace and quiet are those

If tommorow does not come. what will I write in my autobiography with all these plans still in my head? These dreams, exiled hopes and my un-used honeymoon hours? If tommorow hold back or shed some days, If they get there with zoning- all these politicians. And zone my days for more votes- my only part in life's choir! If tommorow does not know that Silence is an unspoken question. So that only Hollywood may show how fragile is the thin line,  between the beast within, and this beauty we portray. If tommorow does not come. If tommorow does not come. Will my stories not be like the stories of those who tell stories? For already Inflation has not spared hope. Or should I just stay awake like the bride would, to keep watch so the wedding eve won't be longer than twenty four hours? For tommorow is the only  lorry with my everything, The few not yet in heaven.  And I know I have no card of the party in power or the one to follow, So what if the budget is on di

By Samson Abanni Waiting is a silent protest..A very loud demand on life. It's a placard saying , "meet my demands or give me nothing else",  waiting is not an inactivity, it's not idling. And even if you don't get what you want eventually , you may  get something better, maybe in knowledge or depth of understanding. Life respect time, you should too. Give your expectations time to bud and ripen, give your dreams space to grow.. Stop giving life deadlines, life does not run on your schedule, learn to wait.

The earth has always been dark and that darkness is now  going blind. As we now flip sides faster than a gambler's coin, What can I promise now, that have not been doomed  to fail? For my dreams can fill eternity but my life is only one. So look into my eyes and contain the streams. Truth and lies now wear the same haircut so where on earth do I Start? For the sky used to be up and black used to be dark,  but  we are no longer sure. But in this civil war of uncertainty, there's a promise I dare to give. I will be faithful to you. We Cannot run in the rain and not get wet. And here I'm promising you warmth at the height of winter, But this is a promise you can be sure of; I will be faithful to you. I will stand by you until my last breath evaporates. I will remain open like a faithful mission house. Though I can't tell when wealth will visit or if at all he will. but I will never leave, I will always be here. Until here is no more, until here h

By  onyekachi    Apr 15, 2018   Dr Obinna please with the family of his late friend okorie Joshua  Today, I feel light with overflowing joy and relief. I finally pulled off the burden that had yoked me for the past five years. I was able to visit Joshua’s family again. Joshua, a friend I would never forget my entire life. His father had died soon after he started school. Back then in secondary school, Joshua was the Chapel prefect. Before the appointment, everyone knew it would be him. He was a Catholic charismatic. He sang and prayed every minute; while on bicycle to school, while copying notes. All the time, he mumbled hymns and prayers. On the assembly ground, Joshua would preach with so much conviction about the supremacy of God and his unflinching love for mankind until he lost his voice. He would finish, leaving everyone shaken. ‘SP, any announcements?’ He often said to me. And as I stepped forward, he would whisper into my ears while zipping his large Bible: ‘God l

By Jude idada And we raise psychopaths. These parents who blame the government for their woes and yet can't raise their own children to be sane, civil, courteous, law-abiding and functional individuals. My friend came to see me with her son this morning. A 7 year old. At the door I exchanged pleasantries with my friend and said hello to her son. He didn't respond and walked past me, got to the living room, sat on the glass coffee table, picked up the remote control and changed the channel. His mother didn't say anything. I told him the glass table will break and he should sit on the couch. He ignored me. She said to him. 'Uncle says the table will break, stand up and sit on the couch." He ignored her. She continued. "If you don't stand up, I won't take you to Cold Stone." He stood up and eyes still fixed on the disney channel he backpedelled to the couch and sat on it. As they sat in the living room. I

Dedicated to Olorunshola Victoria  May-26-2018 Beauty that can't age; the consistency of an adage. I'm addicted to your name; apparently love is to blame. My candid comfort; a pillar no one can abort. The blood in my veins; without you, life is in vain. The sweetness of honey; you're worth more than money. My definite sunrise... there's always hope in your eyes. The sweetness in a sensation; you've given life a direction. If the sky refuses to be blue; still it will forever be light for you. Happy Birthday to you.. 

Another sinister stab... a bed as a slaughter slab. A branch broken down; death with a fierce frown. Another drunk knife. An assailant of a wife. Neglected role of a mother. Now a brutal butcher. Body riddled by holes... sadness slays our souls. Another gruesome death; candles about to melt. Fear in the camp of men... a callous campaign by women. How many more men will fall? Devilish handwriting on the wall. No more dreams in our sleeps. Our slumbers are no longer deep. A death devoid of bliss; we still pray you rest in peace. Lanre badmus November 2017

The blistering breath of a desperate death. A slain season; we all know the reason. A life, long lost... disappearing dust. Oblivion as a grave; no one can save. The rain is gone. The waters are done. Time is a murderer; the blades of a butcher. Impotent clouds; sterile skies, no doubt. Earth seems dehydrated... a season, outdated. Disappearance of the rains. We're left with thirsty drains. Dryness drastically drags. The dry season can now brag. Lanre badmus November 2017

Photo credit: BOLA IRUKERA YHERMIE Beauty boldly black; my composure, hacked. I'm a slave to your perfection; purity devoid of every infection. An African angel for your poise, I fell. The aura of confidence. Your excellence isn't a coincidence. The smoothness of your skin; my sanity on a serial spin. A face fervently fresh... I'm a prey to your ravishing beauty Candid and captivating contours; in floods, my emotions pour. The grace of an african goddess. With your charm, my soul is blessed. Eyes like Sensual stars. they shine like golden bars. Beauty forever exquisite... perfection that'll never quit. Happy Birthday JUNE 8th- 2018

Broken chains. No sad stains. A helpless grave.. life seems so brave. Death put to shame. Her fangs so lame. Light above the dark. Resurrection with a spark. A king in the clouds. Sacred supremacy, no doubt. Melody parades the skies... what a spiritual surprise. The birth of a mystery. Golgotha, a total history. Jesus worn with wealth... death just bled to death. Eternal life as a new bride. Hallelujah sashays with pride. The scent of amazing grace... heaven remains your place. Lanre badmus April 1st 2018

-Photo credit: Christie -Literatural credit to LANRE BADMUS The death of a night. The rejuvenation of light. The return of a morning. My mood seems to be burning. The arrival of a day. Joy is apparently on her way. The birth of a celebration... give me more than a ration. The addition of another year. No single reason for tears. With the world I wish to dine. Kindly pour me a glass of wine. A candid chance to desperately dance. Another bite at the cherry. Let's make a healthy merry. I'm in a party mood. The feeling seems so good. Come celebrate with me; grateful I'll forever be. Dedicated to Olugade Christianah

​ By Fadiji Dolapo Trouble looms without bound, We’re in state of anarchy , We running after our tails, Keeping on with a struggle that’ll never end. Confusion is the order of the day, We accepting our misfortune, Cos we lost hope on redemption, The bad ones are excused, The good ones are mocked. Who will wake the sleeping giants? Let them know the day is here, For them to blow the trumpet of restoration. Oh! I wish I could be the one, To ink the words to their ears, But I already lost the quest, Cos I lost my pen.

BY Ola Vincent Omotade Suddenly the Fulani don turned our country' ” First it was “dogs and baboons”. But Now it is “hyenas and jackals The jackals had taken over the kingdom,  trampling the lesser animals with the hope  that the sleeping lion does not return. And come rage once again his territory So how do we do our jungle seized ? How do we restore it's Bio-diversity? When will the Fulani Don return home? To claim  the kingdom of his father's. Of course when the Don comes, Joy of new dawn  hits the nation' From revelation of his far away Their are thousands of stars away Everyone who attends a party, Has no choice than to ask for takeaways On the King's return, The hyenas and the jackals would be sorely disappointed cos the lion would soon return and throw them out of the kingdom. Long live the weaker animals, Long live Nigeria” Long live the Hyena's  long live the Jackal's

By Ola Vincent Omotade It's just a season it will pass away, Darkness will give way to light some days, We know the feeling but we can not say, We can all live in peace adorned. We will give it all it wants, We will give it all it takes, We will give it all our hearts, We will just say our prayers, Bright is the day that follows the night, Though we are seeing the little sun hidden, Lost under d sky. We've been in the valley, The valley of death, We were worried but fathers said it's okay. So now we're acting on the father's word. Now I know where majesty is taken us to. Brothers, sister's  and indeed everyone, These are thoughts from the wise, Never look back rather keep running.

By Ola Vincent Omotade They’re the destroyers of destinies The great killers of noble dreams Snatcher of bright futures Haters of good and virtues Enemies of our country’s peace They condemn the innocent And free the guilty They feast on the blood of the innocents And celebrate the presence of anarchy For that is when they make their gains They are the looters of our nation’s fortunes The Hitlers of our own time Sponsors of destructive campaigns Answers to the evil mysteries bedeviling us They are the reasons for the bad seasons But those are the freest of this society Citizens above our country’s laws To them we pay greatest homage They occupy the highest positions And there manipulate the masses’ opinions Because they feed on the flesh and blood of the innocent These shall turn to bitter poison in their stomachs Mother earth shall deny them rest on their death day She shall demand from them The souls of her children killed in darkness of politics

         By Ola Vincent Omotade Though its tingling in the cup, Thin tube tobacconist won't stop. Stop! stop!you're been defiant, You always want to have a nap, Forgetting we have your snaps Ecstatically, you overenjoyed it, With familiar radical faces You guys begins to see sounds And taste colours Mum and dad wants for you long-life, But you're liable to die very young. You're are seeing your death rainbow, All you do is to shout Skibo Its pushing you to the grave Though after the smokes you shave It makes you what? Unrealistic to life Then you will say, Have lost my senses I need my lenses Stop it now, very simple Or call on me for your tribute STOP SMOKING, DRUG-ABUSE, RAPE All are punishable under the law

OJA ABAMI (A mysterious market) By Ola Vincent Omotade Oh joy!  of a freer and fuller life, It sedates sober pace. Light hearted  indifference Opened windows of the sky, Where all our needs  is met, the Yoruba markets Multiple voices of towered cities, Loud shout to lower ones. Enjoying cool and bad odours From perfumes to locust beans Seeing different colors and people. The Yoruba markets Are filled with mysteries With head spirits walks around Some spiritual touches People fall feeling pushed But can't see the person pushing them.

By Ola Vincent Omotade Coming and going every season, Lodging our gentle eyes with tears With dept of loves and reasons Panting our cheeks with ice Please come and stay, stay awake From the nezt of on and off Your stay rises on Mondays, And your sun sets in Tuesdays Please comely come to stay, Wait, be beautified  to slay. Will you pity the skirts and trousers? Life is swift and sweet, Cos we have days and nights. We have sun and moon, Come taste the stores of joy. Come taste the gentleness of it breeze

By Komolafe Samuel This moment, defying gravity and fall. We would run back in time. Receding all through, through space; Here huts the dusty road to sculpting the skies best. With history being the ageless wall we etch our faces into. We were artisans and we would tribute ourselves in totems of silhouettes. Myself? At the white wall where men died to pray the firmament must not fall. I would stand aloof to awe at my oddness. I was hewn from a generation of madmen. I do not try to say I am sane. Even as fire hopped into horses, I was eye to an era that never seemed to cease. I know a name sung in the lips of men and it is mine. I know praises carolled from the glossy lips of tulips, all mine. So I ran into time and exclusively by meditations. And of a surety these things would be in time; Tongues for a people without, Cold wars like never, Even the recolonization of a skin. Now, if in death's grope I fall, lay me down then my bones. The faith of a myth