the morning after love

one moon since he who loved those who love
had life stolen off him
one moon since hearts sang
for the hearts that made them dance

and here i am
you in my head
the moon birthing noon
and you’re in my head
playing strings
that bring shine to my face

and though this moon says bye
the music never ends
my head is where you live
and though sometimes you leave
you find your way back
my heart is your home

so fare thee well, love martyr
and thy moon

welcome, my beloved
hold my hand
let’s walk
together
today
always
-and if your feet do not tire-
forever

Igwe m

my mother, her mother and her mother's mother
were known for their (re)silence

but me, born into chaos,
arrived rioting
and I learnt to roar
so when I scream
beloved,
it is not to raise the hairs on your skin
lift my skirt
see the fire on my bottom
only you can quench it, beloved

-Your Lolo

THE DEBUTANTE

By Osareme James Edeoghon

This is the story of how I helped an enthusiast "come-out"

My friend Bobo had sent me the invite on facebook, Patabah books was hosting the alpine Chuma Nwokolo who was going to be reading from the triad of The Ghost of Sanni Abacha, How to Spell Naija in 100 Short Stories and Diaries of a Dead African.

I had happened on her on Facebook(what Facebook has helped us achieve these days) after she commented on a friend's wall asking him why all his posts were in inverted-commas. I fell in love with her smile-an outpouring of blessings. She looked erudite(how one can tell that from pictures still beats me), not the inate type though, it was more of the enforced type, the type school enforced on you so you could make good grades.

Anyways, I liked her. She had accepted my request pronto though further efforts to establish a fluent rapport kept hitting a Berlin Wall(which I took down eventually but we will get there soon). At one point I called her a Purist for having declined contributing to a near-lascivious post I put up. I even "famzed" her sister, got talking about Nigerian history and politics but lai lai this girl no gree look my side. I posted Catholic-related pictures (being Catholic) only to get likes but no chat. Having almost explored all the options at my disposal, I was poised to pay her an unwelcome visit at the school where she taught English and Literature. I wasn't going to give a damn about the consequences after all my friend Eroms once told me "Guy when it comes to woman matter, You Only Die Once". Just then Bobo's live-saving invite came in, so I thought to my self, why not invite her too, I did and she inboxed me saying she was interested. But this wasn't the "cotillion Balls", this was another event, a month away, which was way too far, way too far to wait for.

I had to meet her. So there I was, looking all good, mind made up to visit her at the school where she taught. Once again, Bobo, my Bobo of school days saved the day. I was almost on my way when he sent another invite for a literary event, one that was coming up just that weekend, I was elated, I felt like a flying pig. I sent the invite to her inbox on Favebook and not quite long after that, she replied with her phone number and declared her chastity of such events. Could I be gladder? First date and I was gonna rip her open, rip off every petal of that beautiful flower, blow her, blow her mind away, I was gonna be THE "DEVAGINATOR"! I called her a day to the event and in this uber-suave voice made the arrangements.

The Black Swan arrived. Adeniran Ogunsanya, Shoprite, Patabah Books. I was gonna be there. I had called her the morning of the day and she had gladdened my belle. I got to the Mall and as expected fine fine ladies everywhere(Ashewo mi abi?), potential Caros, and even though I was hungry, I thanked God that super-ego triumphed. So I waited for the Sokoto brought up Ibo girl.

It was 3pm and Patabah, a smorgasbord of books, was scanty as expected, only a few high school students and a couple of customers(a pointer to our declinining literary interest as a people?). Chuma was nowhere to be found so I went window shopping only to come back and he was concluding an obviously hilarious story(judging from the different angles and shapes the jaws of the listeners were taking). Questions were then asked, answers provided and just as he was going to begin the second reading my phone rang. I crept out, walked to the entrance of the mall and there she was, looking as picture-perfect as I had expected, maybe a little too self-conscious, maybe a little too prissy(but do I care? No). And then she was all-smiles, and I was getting all the required benediction.

I held her arm. Tried a hug which collapsed to a handshake. No need being too forward, I told myself. We walked back in together. And see! Such brightness! She was awed, excited, she couldn't take it all at once(Hemingway and Faulkner will be happy, Achebe and Tutuola too, a new convert, a dainty one at that). We bought Chuma's books, Bobo came in, Chuma read again, we all laugh, we ask questions, he answers. Then its picture time, everybody's happy, but she's ecstatic.
Greasy KFC depletes our wallets thereafter, we call a cab, we head for British Council-A Book Party. Yay!!!

At the British Council its Lagos 2060, a collection of short stories about the future of my Lagos. Almost every contributor reads their piece, only Rayo is impressive, the others sound like Timid kids infront of a class of bullies, Chuma is a reading Gibraltar I whisper to her, give them time, Chuma has been reading for years she counters. I passively submit. The book party comes to a close, we have small chops, Vodka, Sodas and mingle a bit before we set for the other side of Lagos.

On our way home, she can't believe everything. She's mor than happy, she can't hide it so much that for the next few days, facebook is deluged with pictures from that day, her Blackberry phone doesn't miss out too.

I am glad eventually, I have initiated someone, she has seen the light, you may call her Illuminata!

it’s okay to cry; a poem for reme

the smiles on your face

are ribbons for your wobbling feet

cheery words fall from your lips

but your heart is distant, cold

fear spreads its arms

building an ice in you

you freeze

still, you march

 

break, break now

i’ll fix you

fall, fall

take my arm

rise

let me walk with you

the ice makes you cold

 

come, come

step out of the cold now

here

take the sun

feel the warmth

 

cry, cry

purge

the ice melts

let the tears flow

now fly

to the sky

claim your star

 

 

 

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.