Experiment with Naija Langwej: Puwem

experiment' with the Naija Langwej.

A Don Dai!

As a de slip yestade nait
Mai hat jost de nak gbam-gbam
Na so so ''turn'' a de ''turn'' fo bed.
Bodi de pen mi and a no kari fayawud
Mai ai de pepe mi and a no kot onions
Wetin mai iye hia
Mai maut no fit tok
Di kasala we pesin don enta plenti wel-wel.

Mama Naija don lost im pikin egen!
Dem se dis wan no bi 'bomb blast'
Dem se dis wan no bi 'unknown gunmen'
Dem se dis wan no bi 'kidnapping'
Bot wetin man pikin sabi?
Enitin we mek pesin krai no gud lai lai.
Fia de kash mi no bi smol
Bodi de du mi laik se na ''malaria''
Si as Mama Naija sidon
De luk ol im pikin vanish
Opon ol di moni we shi get
Wetin kom bi mai hop?
''Poor'' man pikin laik mi?
A don dai!

When it Alteration Finds: On Love, Family and Friendship II

...Why would anyone take their own life? We ask, disgusted. It's cowardice! We judge. Nobody should ever contemplate taking their life, we condemn, in the comfort of our couches at home. But have you ever thought, wondered just for a little while, how far a kind word could go? Have we ever thought really how many times we have pushed people to death because we refused to listen to them?

Listening makes all the difference. The world is tough enough, we need each other to pull through, to survive, to live. When a child places his arm in his mother's to cross the roads, it is because he trusts her protection. The roads seem less dangerous at that moment. But alone, there are thoughts that he might get knocked down by a vehicle. It takes so much courage for him to attempt crossing, he may give up and turn back. Life is a road and we need each other's arms to cross it. As friends, as families, even as mere individuals, we must learn to avail ourselves. Be approachable. We must learn to listen to people. Regardless of the hurt we bear them, forgetting the grievances, everyone deserves a fair hearing. Condemnation only destroys.

Sometimes all the world needs to get it rolling is a little bit of love. 

Think of the biggest tragedies of life, think of religious violence, think of homes falling apart. Perhaps if we had spent one more second listening to each other, embracing our differences, perhaps if we had opened that door, to that woman, to that child, to that man, pleading to be heard, perhaps if, on our own, we had even reached out...perhaps if we did all these, life would be more peaceful. But we don't. Because it is always easier to point fingers...

*to be continued

Read When it Alteration Finds I here: 

http://chijeniewrites.blogspot.com/2015/05/when-it-alteration-finds.html

The Rock Cries

                                                                                         28th May, 2015.

Dear Maya,

Today, it is one year since your absence. The violence you so much decried still ravages us. Brothers still fight brothers, friends stab each other's back, earth is raped and bleeds. We look at the rivers, trees and rocks and do not see the oneness in them. In us.

The blinds of false dedication to our faiths are yet to fall off. So many mouths hang open in hunger, while others yell hatred and their hands strike out lives. Innocent lives that cannot fight back.

The earth weeps. Your precious little ones go to sleep and wake up stiff, covered in dust. Do you remember the Chibok girls? You prayed endlessly for their safety just before you left. Oh dear Maya. They are yet to return. We wailed and wailed, soiled our beautiful shirts with tears. Ruined our expensive makeups. Believing they would return. But not our tears nor the hash tags could do the miracle. Distant friends gave up sleep and watched sorrowfully, helplessly, as the flames from their lit candles wobbled and wobbled and died. So we forgot about them. We lived on like they never existed. We found new topics. New hash tags and took delight in them. We sought for humour in everything and left no space in our hearts to think, to remember, the captive. We do not even pray anymore for we have lost faith in its efficacy.

Dear Maya, daily, the world loses gems like you and we dress in black as you ascend gloriously to your maker. We cry, because we are afraid. We are afraid because while you toiled to make things better, we slept away. But your departure shook us to reality and now confusion reigns. We do not possess such energy as you did. We escape when we ought to stand and speak and fight. Our walls crumble and fall on us and we skelter around, seeking for shelter.

The world misses you. Bravery. Love. Grace. All that you were. It deepens, this void. This realisation that there is no Maya Angelou speaking up for the marginalised. No Maya Angelou striving to create a balance in this stricken world. So we simply trudge on. With the pain of your absence in our hearts. Seeking solace in your words and literature and as the night gets longer and tougher, all we yearn is your voice, your voice saying to us...

Good morning.

Forlorn Lover III

You left. But you forgot your poetry. What do I do with it? Set it ablaze? But how do you burn something already burning in you?

Today, I wore the last drop of our perfume and the smell of you followed me everywhere. I returned home, sodden in my own tears. Of liberation. Of nostalgia. After today, I won't have to remember you. I will wash clean this dress, rid it of every scent. I will bury deep the empty peach container of our perfume. Then you will be forgotten.

But here I am, again, your poetry in my heart with my soul on fire...

When it alteration finds...

Growing up, I used to think that family meant blood. You know blood, right? There's no separating it from itself. I used to think that a father doesn't only cheer his children, pride them in everyone's face and shower them with praises. I used to think that he doesn't only provide for them, but that he also cautions. Cautions his children when they go wrong. Spank, spank, if necessary. I didn't think that a father, on finding out that his beloved child robs people, rapes, gambles and even murders, denies him a benefit of doubt. I didn't think that he would slam the door shut to the very face whose forehead he once kissed. I didn't think he could become forever deaf to the incessant sounds of palms banging the door, begging to be held and heard. Where went all the love? Was it a farce?

Now, I seek to understand, what does "ties" really mean? This thing called family and friendship. What does it mean? Embracing me because you think I'm good and dumping me almost as soon? Why are people ever friends, family, if they can't say to each other, "Hey, I heard what you did. You messed up big time" How does one form and break these ties all by themselves? What fate then do we condemn the "bad" to? What if they wallow so because no one ever cared? Because every other person dumped them and moved on? Again, what if they aren't really so bad? What if all they needed was to be heard...but no one ever asked...No one.

And we wonder why people take their own lives...

Forlorn Lover II

Love's a state of mind. It is sitting cold beside the one who makes your heart flutter and wishing you can run a stake through him. It is lying in bed with the one who makes you whole and feeling incomplete. It is giving a handshake and not a kiss. It is walking alone. With your companion, far behind.

unruffled

i stroke my teddy and ask

why is your face so pale
why do you not smile
you who do not  wear tragedy's pants
the sun scalds you not
you are not made wet by the
cloud's falling tears

here, you sit
all day,
unruffled
while breaths slip out of bodies
hearts hardened
by the incessant blows they receive

but you sit all day
unruffled
while dreams become ash

yet red is the colour of dreams
that flow out of men
with their eyes shut
and limbs lingering
like the poor cow's
at the butcher's

grey is the colour of ashes
that rise to the sky
from charred bodies and
lips that once laughed

ashes become cloud
cloud is heavy,
tainted
and weeps
like the charred bodies
alive in the classroom
and sulking, "i want my mummy"

but you sit all day
unruffled
while i'm deafened by this
strange noise
though distant,
it pierces me
how laughter becomes tears
screams liquidized
how blood flows freely free
than water

how they do not see the us in them just before they strike...

Forlorn Lover

I see you everywhere. I see your face on all paintings. You are in every song and even birds now tweet your name. Every prose tells our story and I hear your voice in the lines of all poetry.

So I pile these books and reduce them to debris. So now, I dread poetry and my pen flows not, in fear that it may, your name, write. You are the death of my Art.

Yet, you linger.

Tell me, how did you become Air?

#TheForlornLover

love not meant to be

what do you do with love not meant to be?

do you shove it back to the heart, its root

and let the rough spiky hairs pierce you

or vomit it out of your mouth and burn in a furnace?

do you leave it locked up in the bedroom

seeking liberation

and walk around, body like carcass

or do you carry it along

trudging from its weight and pain

tripping, rising, slogging?

would you rather live the love in faith

like the mustard seed

feign blindness and ignorance?

embrace its folly and just smile

even when your eyes harbour tears

and your stomach rumbles: this love is not yours

what do you do with love not meant to be?

Insomnia

Sometimes, there's really nothing to say. Nothing to write. Just these eyes, open and thinking.

what is right

there is a void
deep
that can’t be filled
there is hunger
fierce
that can’t be satisfied
thirst that lingers
though water abounds

to do what is right
is to give up what you love

the sick eats not
for the law says to fast
there are no pools to hide in
when the sun unleashes its fury
a tough skin you must possess
repelling the weather
hot, dry, cold or wet

too many daniels lurking
these laws must be obeyed
hearts have been captured
chained by dos and don’ts
lives stiffened
in hope for that which is eternal

daily i die
in good deeds
watching all i love
live

and leave

love

this is what love is:

house on fire

water quenching it

Remembering Maya Angelou...

the earth rejoiced at the advent of wonder
her cry made path for glory unknown
embedded in splendour and striking like a thunder
success fully blown

her fame cut across the universe healing
and mending hearts broken,  restoring lost peace
showing how words can rekindle  feeling
teaching  love to those who hatred alone kiss

i hear this voice from a distant hill
survived of life so harsh, refusing to be smothered
carried on against tribe, race or creed , only to heal
souls tortured, souls torn apart, souls smouldered

the voice grows dim today, her last song, she sings
and now, i know too, why the caged bird sings

Adakaego

Life slipped out of her; a breathless, stiff form, like leaf broken. But in that last second, she toured the cities of her heinous life. She visited, once more, the shadows she inhabited, that lived in her also. And then there was that mansion, where she traced her ruin to the semen mapped bed. She had slept with the cursed one; one whose darning lay in the juice of experienced loins. She knew, but the price was too charming. A hundred nights would not earn her such money. But it was her lifestyle. Even though her name was Adakaego.

victoria island

victoria island

of busy roads
and high towers

of sands
and waters

witnesses
to dreams chased
lived

and lost

she stares on...

The Last Straw

“You're not listening, Tola!”

He tried to grab the phone from her but she pushed his arm away.
“I said we need to define our relationship. This whole thing isn’t making sense anymore,” Donald continued.

Tola sat still, clutching her phone. Her face was blank. Donald moved closer. He gazed at her. Since the day she told him she was diagnosed of asthma, she hadn't been herself, she had changed, but Donald could not say exactly how.

‘”I love you, Tola, I love you so much can’t you see? I want you in my life, the whole of you.”
With a vacant look, she asked:

“Do you know what love is?”
Donald sat back, puzzled.

“I ask you, D, what is love?” she repeated staring blankly into distance.

Donald wiped his face. He was confused. What is she on about? He thought.  They had been friends for almost a year.  He had given up so much for her: he had stopped going to clubs and parties, he'd been baptized and became a practicing Catholic.  He even went for confession every weekend so Tola would be proud of him when she saw him join the queue of the ‘faithful’ to receive Holy Communion on Sundays. He made sure he didn't call her at 3pm, because he knew she would be absorbed in her Divine Mercy prayers.
The few times he had convinced her to spend the weekend at his place, the furthest they went was a peck. The last time he tried to steal a kiss playfully, she slapped him in the face to remind him the boundary. Nevertheless, he loved her. True they weren’t exactly dating, but Donald knew life would only be meaningless if he didn’t have Tola to share it with. She was the world, his world.

“Look at you, you speak of love but you don’t know what it is,” Tola continued. “Is it because you feel those silly butterflies in your tummy when you are with me? Or because you've given up your bad habits to make me happy? You think you are in love. What is love, Donald? Tell me, what is love?” She suddenly burst into tears.

Confused, Donald held her in his arms. He made sure he didn't grip her too tightly, he knew she despised that.  Then soflty, like a whisper, he replied “Love is you, baby. Love is you and you are love.”

Tola sniffed and pushed him off gently. Without a word, she walked away from him. His eyes followed her to the bathroom and he heaved a sigh of relief. He toyed with the box-shaped object in his pocket, begging to be let out.

I'm going to ask her to marry me as soon as she comes out . Donald thought. He loved her and wanted her to be his wife. The bathroom door creaked open and he composed himself. Tola walked in unruffled, her tear stained face strangely pale. She sat next to him and took his hand.

“At eighteen,” she began. “I lost my mother. When my mother died, a part of me went down into the grave with her. I tried to be strong for my father but he was broken, he blamed himself for not having the money to fly her abroad for treatment,” her voice cracked, but she continued.  
       
 “Anyway, he took to waywardness and eventually lost his job. There were no relatives to turn to. I was helpless...” Tola trailed off and began to sob.

Donald was getting impatient. She had told him the sad story of her life a million times. Where is she going with all this? he thought.

“That's all in the past Tola. I love you and that’s all that matters now,” he said. He looked at her and although he wasn't sure if the time was right, he put his hand into his pocket and brought out the box.

“Tola, will you marry me?”

Tola smiled through her tears and shook her head. She resumed her tale, leaving Donald feeling stupid and more confused than ever.

“One night, my father came home drunk. The neighbours were dead asleep. He was staggering all over the place and I had to help him to his room,” Tola paused and took a breath. “As I turned to go back into my room,” she continued quietly, “he pulled me back...and he raped me.”

The box fell from Donald’s trembling hand. Reeling from the shock, he tried to gather himself. “Tola...” he stuttered.  “Y-y-you never told me any of that.” But Tola hadn’t finished yet.

“I packed my things and left the house,” she sniffed. “I squatted with different friends for a time. I started to feel sick, but I assumed it was due to the constant moving...A friend eventually persuaded me to see a doctor.”

Donald looked at the ground, terrified to hear what she would say next.

“I tested positive for HIV. My father must have had it,” she said.

Donald froze. He thought of many times he had tried to cajole her into sleeping with him and how she fought him so viciously, as if her life would end the moment they had sex. He thought of those times she locked herself in the bathroom taking the so-called 'pills for asthma.' He thought of her strict, unimaginable rules: no kissing, no eating from the same plate, no sharing of anything whatsoever. He should have known, he should have understood.

Tola smiled sadly, “So Donald, I ask you, what is love? Do you still love me?  Do you still want to marry me?”

Her eyes were filled with tears. Donald looked up at her, he had never been more confused in his life. “One year, Tola,” he said. “One year we’ve known each other and you never said anything? Why?”

She looked to the floor, “I'm sorry,” she mumbled.

Donald grabbed her and held her tightly. “You should have told me,” he said softly.
Tola felt her body slump as she tried to fight back tears. She couldn't allow herself to hope that Donald could love her in that way anymore. She knew in her heart that he would leave her forever, and she couldn't blame him. She would do the same if she were in his shoes. She allowed herself to relax, to enjoy their last embrace, before he walked out of her life for good.

Donald broke the hug and picked up the box from the ground.

He looked at Tola and said “You are still my world, Tola, my love, my life.” He opened the box and slipped the ring on her finger.
***
Poor Tola wiped her face with her already sodden handkerchief. The thought of her good times with Donald saddened her. Two years had gone by since Donald married her despite her ailment. He had grown wearied overtime with the dos and don’ts of living with a person with the HIV virus. What was left of him was mere sympathy for Tola. His undying love for her had long drowned in the misery of her reality. Sitting on the bed just like she sat that day two years ago, she watched his reflection on the mirror as he struggled to loosen a stubborn tie on his neck. They had just had one of their frequent brawls. In a bid to break the silence, she said

“My only happiness is that you knew. I told you everything, D. I didn’t force you to stay. You could have walked away then like I thought you would. But you stayed only to cause me greater miser…”

“Just shut up, Tola!” Donald cut in facing her. “You want to lecture me on misery? Do you know what I pass through daily? The burden of keeping your status a secret is tearing me apart. The fact that we may not bear our own children alongside mama’s nags is killing me. Your constant sulking, the helplessness of the situation is enough misery. I’m just a miserable man!” He rasped, adding softly “all because I chose to love you, Tola.”
Rapid tears ran down Tola’s cheeks. Her drained eyes darted about, seeking for something to take their attention off the monster facing them. Donald moved to the bed and sat close her. Taking her arm into his, like he did two years ago in his marriage proposal to her, he said,

“I’ve always loved you, baby. You know how much I’ve given up for your sake. Please try to understand me. I’m human and sometimes I get fed up. Forgive me dear.”
She shoved her head into his chest, sobbing. He wrapped his arm around her back, stroking her hair.

“She’s moving in tomorrow”, he mumbled.

Tola lifted her herself slowly from his hairy chest, the word dropping on its own, “who?”

“The rumours are true, Tola. I’ve been seeing her for over three months. She’s heavy with my child. She’s moving in tomorrow.”

Tola sat motionless. Memories of her depressed childhood came rushing to her mind. Donald had been her only saviour from suicide. Her only reason for sticking to life. If only he had left then, she thought.

“I’m truly sorry, Tee”, said Donald not knowing the effect his words already had on her. "I'm sorry", he mutterrd again. Then shocked at her calmness, he ran his fingers through what turned out to be a stiff body and called out, “Baby?”

Tola fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

What do you think about Donald's decision? Would you stay with Tola? Tweet or Facebook us and let us know!

The Last Straw

“You're not listening, Tola!”

He tried to grab the phone from her but she pushed his arm away.
“I said we need to define our relationship. This whole thing isn’t making sense anymore,” Donald continued.
Tola sat still, clutching her phone. Her face was blank. Donald moved closer. He gazed at her. Since the day she told him she was diagnosed of asthma, she hadn't been herself, she had changed, but Donald could not say exactly how.
‘”I love you, Tola, I love you so much can’t you see? I want you in my life, the whole of you.”
With a vacant look, she asked:
“Do you know what love is?”
Donald sat back, puzzled.
“I ask you, D, what is love?” she repeated staring blankly into distance.
Donald wiped his face. He was confused. What is she on about? He thought.  They had been friends for almost a year.  He had given up so much for her: he had stopped going to clubs and parties, he'd been baptized and became a practicing Catholic.  He even went for confession every weekend so Tola would be proud of him when she saw him join the queue of the ‘faithful’ to receive Holy Communion on Sundays. He made sure he didn't call her at 3pm, because he knew she would be absorbed in her Divine Mercy prayers.
The few times he had convinced her to spend the weekend at his place, the furthest they went was a peck. The last time he tried to steal a kiss playfully, she slapped him in the face to remind him the boundary. Nevertheless, he loved her. True they weren’t exactly dating, but Donald knew life would only be meaningless if he didn’t have Tola to share it with. She was the world, his world.
“Look at you, you speak of love but you don’t know what it is,” Tola continued. “Is it because you feel those silly butterflies in your tummy when you are with me? Or because you've given up your bad habits to make me happy? You think you are in love. What is love, Donald? Tell me, what is love?” She suddenly burst into tears.
Confused, Donald held her in his arms. He made sure he didn't grip her too tightly, he knew she despised that.  Then soflty, like a whisper, he replied “Love is you, baby. Love is you and you are love.”
Tola sniffed and pushed him off gently. Without a word, she walked away from him. His eyes followed her to the bathroom and he heaved a sigh of relief. He toyed with the box-shaped object in his pocket, begging to be let out.
I'm going to ask her to marry me as soon as she comes out . Donald thought. He loved her and wanted her to be his wife. The bathroom door creaked open and he composed himself. Tola walked in unruffled, her tear stained face strangely pale. She sat next to him and took his hand.
“At eighteen,” she began. “I lost my mother. When my mother died, a part of me went down into the grave with her. I tried to be strong for my father but he was broken, he blamed himself for not having the money to fly her abroad for treatment,” her voice cracked, but she continued.            
 “Anyway, he took to waywardness and eventually lost his job. There were no relatives to turn to. I was helpless...” Tola trailed off and began to sob.
Donald was getting impatient. She had told him the sad story of her life a million times. Where is she going with all this? he thought.
“That's all in the past Tola. I love you and that’s all that matters now,” he said. He looked at her and although he wasn't sure if the time was right, he put his hand into his pocket and brought out the box.
“Tola, will you marry me?”
Tola smiled through her tears and shook her head. She resumed her tale, leaving Donald feeling stupid and more confused than ever.
“One night, my father came home drunk. The neighbours were dead asleep. He was staggering all over the place and I had to help him to his room,” Tola paused and took a breath. “As I turned to go back into my room,” she continued quietly, “he pulled me back...and he raped me.”
The box fell from Donald’s trembling hand. Reeling from the shock, he tried to gather himself. “Tola...” he stuttered.  “Y-y-you never told me any of that.” But Tola hadn’t finished yet.
“I packed my things and left the house,” she sniffed. “I squatted with different friends for a time. I started to feel sick, but I assumed it was due to the constant moving...A friend eventually persuaded me to see a doctor.”
Donald looked at the ground, terrified to hear what she would say next.
“I tested positive for HIV. My father must have had it,” she said.
Donald froze. He thought of many times he had tried to cajole her into sleeping with him and how she fought him so viciously, as if her life would end the moment they had sex. He thought of those times she locked herself in the bathroom taking the so-called 'pills for asthma.' He thought of her strict, unimaginable rules: no kissing, no eating from the same plate, no sharing of anything whatsoever. He should have known, he should have understood.
Tola smiled sadly, “So Donald, I ask you, what is love? Do you still love me?  Do you still want to marry me?”
Her eyes were filled with tears. Donald looked up at her, he had never been more confused in his life. “One year, Tola,” he said. “One year we’ve known each other and you never said anything? Why?”
She looked to the floor, “I'm sorry,” she mumbled.
Donald grabbed her and held her tightly. “You should have told me,” he said softly.
Tola felt her body slump as she tried to fight back tears. She couldn't allow herself to hope that Donald could love her in that way anymore. She knew in her heart that he would leave her forever, and she couldn't blame him. She would do the same if she were in his shoes. She allowed herself to relax, to enjoy their last embrace, before he walked out of her life for good.
Donald broke the hug and picked up the box from the ground.
He looked at Tola and said “You are still my world, Tola, my love, my life.” He opened the box and slipped the ring on her finger.
***
Poor Tola wiped her face with her already sodden handkerchief. The thought of her good times with Donald saddened her. Two years had gone by since Donald married her despite her ailment. He had grown wearied overtime with the dos and don’ts of living with a person with the HIV virus. What was left of him was mere sympathy for Tola. His undying love for her had long drowned in the misery of her reality. Sitting on the bed just like she sat that day two years ago, she watched his reflection on the mirror as he struggled to loosen a stubborn tie on his neck. They had just had one of their frequent brawls. In a bid to break the silence, she said
“My only happiness is that you knew. I told you everything, D. I didn’t force you to stay. You could have walked away then like I thought you would. But you stayed only to cause me greater miser…”
“Just shut up, Tola!” Donald cut in facing her. “You want to lecture me on misery? Do you know what I pass through daily? The burden of keeping your status a secret is tearing me apart. The fact that we may not bear our own children alongside mama’s nags is killing me. Your constant sulking, the helplessness of the situation is enough misery. I’m just a miserable man!” He rasped, adding softly “all because I chose to love you, Tola.”
Rapid tears ran down Tola’s cheeks. Her drained eyes darted about, seeking for something to take their attention off the monster facing them. Donald moved to the bed and sat close her. Taking her arm into his, like he did two years ago in his marriage proposal to her, he said,
“I’ve always loved you, baby. You know how much I’ve given up for your sake. Please try to understand me. I’m human and sometimes I get fed up. Forgive me dear.”
She shoved her head into his chest, sobbing. He wrapped his arm around her back, stroking her hair.
“She’s moving in tomorrow”, he mumbled.
Tola lifted her herself slowly from his hairy chest, the word dropping on its own, “who?”
“The rumours are true, Tola. I’ve been seeing her for over three months. She’s heavy with my child. She’s moving in tomorrow.”
Tola sat motionless. Memories of her dispressed childhood came rushing to her mind. Donald had been her only saviour from suicide. Her only reason for sticking to life. If only he had left then, she thought.
“I’m truly sorry, Tee”, said Donald not knowing the effect his words already had on her. "I'm sorry", he mutterrd again. Then shocked at her calmness, he ran his fingers through what turned out to be a stiff body and called out, “Baby?”
Tola fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

What do you think about Donald's decision? Would you stay with Tola? Tweet or Facebook us and let us know!

unnamed

i am the one
who must not be mentioned

i am the one
who must not be known

i am a secret
a whisper

just like my birth,
i die

unannounced

red like valentine

this love stabs
tears become blood
red like valentine