Association of Nigerian Authors, Obafemi Awolowo University.

Ana Reading

2012-12-03T05:30:00.003+01:00

TRANCE-SEE-SHUN

2012-12-03T04:57:00.001+01:00

The rotten egg crack-broken,

Reeking through the corks

Locked-in on the mouths of our saggy sages.

They satiated the past in their salamislicing:

Is it about Africa? They asked

It is a twig with two horns,

Copulated through manual surgery.

Their faces were saturine.

So, we asked the bald pen of our balds,

Roaming the dregs of the present

In mere oblivion and polyandrous trance.

It was above reality

In black ink on brown pages.

Their stances drown with the dawn

Muling and puking our precepts,

In gargantua brain-washing.

Is it about the past?

“Oh, it was a yoke brandish by liquid shells

Mixed into fired quotidian historical miscarriage,

And colonial disected misery.”

The catechists joined the race,

To pull our spikes out of the spites,

In bowl-tied and hewn suits.

Indeed, they wiped our eyes of drops

That sacred pity had engendered.

But, they enchanted us with watery clog,

And package manna.

Then, we requested,

Bring in the historians with embalmed maps,

Vague directions and formulated geographical ocean spread.

Come, they told us,

“This was where your Grandfathers hid their

Bent barks and worn heads.”

What about this curved clusmy lane?

“Your Grandmothers bore your fated fathers here

And licked their bodies to quench with their rough tongues.”

The seers diced in the lots of a deem sight.

They could not look back but peep afront.

But they gave us a name;

A name beyond what we can bear:

“Oh you of the new generations afflicted by trance!”

The political boars had a say,

At least everybody did.

“Come and see yourself in our mirror.”

It was too soon;

They infected us with electoral jaundice.

And so, when there was no solution

But iodine and plasters,

In the sores of our scores,

We see ourselves the way we are!

The breeds of western pride,

Only watching their plight on

Walls, books, and ill-documented museums.

They call it African Colonial Experience.

We diluted our colour that they call black,

With pancakes and mary kay.

We apply knives, cutlass and stitches,

To change our faces

Giving us long noses,

And white hairs.

We have grown

From the trance they inflicted on us,

We have seen ourselves,

And we shun their ways.

Still we feel the sting of their ignorance.

JOHN LAW

THE SEXY TEMPLE OF THE LORD

2012-12-03T03:26:00.000+01:00

Yeah, see, whatever, whatever, I mean, you can call me whatever you like: heartless, a bad boy and so on, just call me names. I DON’T CARE! You see, the fact remains I found her land, tilled it, farmed and watered it day and night without sleep. Of what love do you think we have for fowl except that it be buried in our belly at the end? Of what love do you think I have for her if not to reap my good reward at the end? I wouldn’t even know why she thinks me the Good Samaritan who helps for God’s only sake. Do you guys think I look like Jesus? Please answer me, do I?

THEN

Ok, this is it, this is what happened. I am from a family not well to do, yeah and I mean it, I got peanuts from home and spent it on her day and night, I got her meals that were forbidden for my mouth and gluttonly she ate without telling me if she was a Mary or not, I bought her beautiful dresses which won her the Miss Campus Beauty Pageant. Yeah, then, she never told me that her body was a temple of the Lord, she happily dressed the temple of the Lord with my beautiful dresses. I took gari upon gari all in the name of saving to buy her the expensives. We had fun and fun but not the real FUN!

NOW

Even in the churches, there is harvest time for all the tithes paid and there are prayers from the priests for contributing towards the growth of the church and even the higher the amount contributed, the more the prayers from the priest.

“Oh baby, let me play the piano on your chest. Let me dip in your well, my water drawer, let me reap the fruit of my labour. Allow me; the enthusiastic drummer beat your drum, the best talking drum ever made.” I told her.

“No! No! You can’t! My pastor said my body is the temple of the Lord which must be kept holy all the time.” She vehemently said.

“Ruth, you see, it isn’t only your body the temple of the Lord, mine too is the temple of the Lord, therefore it will be holy plus holy which equals holy. Besides, just decide to follow the path of the Biblical Ruth and let my holy body merge with yours.”

She wouldn’t accept and dashed for the door, wanting to leave me forever and escaping with all I had spent on her. I grabbed her...!

I glowed with smile and pleasure as I watched her scream and scream for help as I kept giving her the mandate to womanhood. I was the drummer and she was the drum giving out the sound while pleading that I drum gently to avoid being torn.

When I was done with the ‘festival’, up she stood in pain, blood and cry, putting on her panties before later dashing out in annoyance. I’m sure she enjoyed it and even if she didn’t, it’s none of my business. I ran after her and told her:

“Lady, today, I made you a complete woman, you’ve been baptised, therefore, go into the world and sin no more”

THE END

OLALEKAN (LEEWAS)

THE gods ALSO FALTER

2012-12-03T03:10:00.000+01:00

The fiddly woeful hymns,

Conned of rhymes and disconcerted rhythm,

Resurged from the corpse of ignorance.

Wait! Before interment.

A rowdy silent groan,

A new Sodom and Gomorrah

Pregnant with falsehood,

Injected in red wine and vinegar

The faint smoke of wrapped infidelity

Emerged from the secluded secretive open veil of the altar.

Don’t you know it is sacred?

We knew them before the rain of currencies;

We paid homage to famine

and missile drought together.

We ate the morsels of emptiness

In a protracted dish

And ailing desserts.

The altar was leverage;

A penchant for melodious tears,

With bruised shoes and fat limbs;

Hand-sewn pants and patched socks.

Local mess, seasoned by watery diluted beverages.

They saw the need to polish our drain-brains,

Since the government was too busy-

fueling the oven

Baking the National Cake.

They designed a come-eat-tea;

A cathedral and a cholera college.

The gods did the taxing, and fundraising.

We sold our rags,

and sneezes in the heat,

bare-chest, cold nose,

harvestless seedling.

School boys in dusty soles.

Girls with jumpers and old pampers,

Trekking distances with lashes.

They demanded seventy (70) folds,

Instead of the immediacy.

They taxed us brain and brawn

Beyond what we can bear.

They fed us with acidic miseries.

We remain ignorant,

Lost in self-seductive penury.

And we could not but watched

The affluent flock to the institutes,

Meant to school our thought.

They laugh at our woes,

Parading themselves in jackets,

And robust garment.

… they now fly above our heads,

Waving in scorning gleam,

In private Jets, and flying boats.

Yet, it is a sacred creed…

The rebirth of Noah’ flood.

JOHN LAW

BlackandBeautiful

2012-12-03T03:00:00.002+01:00

Had it been you were big and busty

Maybe I’d have thought

I tripped for your breasts and hips.

And let’s say you were very fair

I could have reasoned

It was just that. But… oh my, my! What spell,

What powerful spell it is that has completely

Charmed me in your black hair!

What powerful spell it is that has utterly

Captivated me in your beautiful heart!

Goodness me, when I look,

Just gaze at those natural curls—

Oh baby, you can’t be real!

Black-and-Beautiful, please tell me what spell

you’ve won my heart with! O Cute-and-Lovely!

When I steal a glance at you,

I see cuteness like a girl’s;

I see goodness like that of a goddess;

I see beauty, beauty like an African queen’s!

When I steal a glance at you,

I see thrice of you at once!

Now look back in my eyes,

And see you in them!

O rest your ear against my heartbeats,

And hear me in them!

And now that I look in your eyes

And stroke through your hairs

I still feel the power in them,

In your beauty, in your character

That have so drawn

My eyes and my heart after you …

And to you!

Kayode Taiwo Olla

LIFE of ironies

2012-12-03T02:59:00.000+01:00

The beggar sleeps in the cold night, unsheltered:

The rich man suffers from insomnia in bed

The barren woman adopts another woman’s kid:

School girls flushes their fetuses into polythene bags

The adolescent virgin is tired of keeping herself:

The womanizing guy is wishing to marry a virgin when he’s through

Life!

Some people work, some people eat;

Some people steal from what is reaped.

Some babies die, some kiddies die;

Some people live as if they ain’t gonna leave!

Some people keep chaste, some people keep lose;

Some people wonder if there’s a tomorrow to protect!

Some people rape, some people eagerly open laps—

And they forget there’s always an ‘after’ waiting—or piling!

Kayode Taiwo Olla

The taste of it

2012-12-03T02:47:00.000+01:00

The taste of it

[For December 1, World AIDS Day]

I have licked tongue in lust

I have clothe a body in the height of emotion

I have touched the third leg of him to arouse emotion

I have unveiled my two upper balls to gain attention

I have gone to the extreme to make him mine

I know the taste of it

I know the colour of it

Cos I have felt the heat of it

I have been in it

And yes,

I will not deny it

It is a thirst I dare not quench

It is a stream I dare not dry

A fire I dare not kindle

Cos it brought out the animal in me

First time I felt pain when my silk was turn

Second time I felt pleasure cos my hole has been widened

To be keen

It refreshes my skin

It was skin to skin

We had it at the peak of emotion

Yes, we had it on the floor

We were in a rush

Couldn’t lock the door

Right on the floor,

We clothe each other with flesh

We lost the memory of warnings

And wrote the story of feelings

Feelings that passes like season

Oh! We lost our health to lust

We buried our future in the pleasure of it

We had the taste of it

But then we lost our health to it

We naked ourselves to its pleasure

Unknown to us that it’s the closure of our future

We aided ourselves to get aids

If, if and if only

If only the third leg was coated

If only the private hole was rapped

I wouldn’t be down with AIDS

But until I got it I never knew

If you are allergic to abstinence

Then take condom and sieve it

Sieve it before you taste it

Rap it

Coat it

Save a life, save your future

Cos AIDS is real, as real as death

AIDS is real, protect yourself.[*]

Tola Adegbite

[*] Leave the mess, take the messages

YOUR VOICE

2012-11-20T14:56:00.000+01:00

What is this?

Clad with simile and gives smile

Clothed with metaphor and melts heart

Painted with pun and makes one play

What is this that walks on the lane of stanza?

Hey! What are you?

That captures emotions like love

That ensnares attention like a whisper

The greatest summary to behold

At your whisper

Ladies blush

At your citation

Black Adams spray wealth

White Adams rise on their feet to tell you are fit

A sip from your brook

And heads keep nodding

Combination of fingers for thumbs up

Mouth open in daze

Imagination as wild as impossible

Giving you a close look

Sinking deep in you brook

Seeing you in books

Seeing the way you capture mood

Holding your pen

Cornered in your den

I see you are not mere words

Your destination is the whole world

You are poetry

The mystery of words

In combination of mere alphabets

You tell of the ancient and the present

With diagrams in ink

You have words linked

Captivating and makes one think

Making one read without a blink

“Unending war”

2012-11-20T14:55:00.000+01:00

This war cannot end

This wound will not dry

This rain will not stop

This storm will not cease

Until it falls on us

and protest storm strikes the buffoon.

We will fight this war of protest,

To the last drop of our blood.

If gods and goddesses are not favourable,

They should leave man to his own perils.

If this land is not conducive

Then we find solace elsewhere.

But this war will not end;

The hatchets of the war of the last century

are still boiling in their sheathes.

Why on earth should the butcher’s heir

be eating the driest bone?

If I have not witnessed any other war,

That of ‘Adubi’ was in my full glare.

We must fight this war;

If water poured on the head

Refused to touch the toe,

The fingernails must bear witness.

Tread no more on my farm

must one day be put to an end.

We must put an end to this cronyism.

As long as lice remain in the hair

Blood would continue to dot the fingernail.

As long as there is no equal distribution

This war will not go to the stream to drink.

MBA

“The Longest Night”

2012-11-20T14:45:00.003+01:00

Day crept into the darkest night

Like an unannounced visitation of thieves.

Night habitually welcomes day,

Like a long lost prodigal son

With warm hearty and glorious embrace.

Night, only garment that suits the day,

Only bosom companion that never betrays,

Longest night cover me as you cover your friend.

If longest night were oratorio,

I will sing it like concerto till it reaches crescendo.

Longest night in earnest I wish to see face.

I’m innocuous; I mean no harm.

Let me be your friend like twilight and dew.

I know you’re shortlived, but cool and still.

I promise to be loyal till the end will come.

But longest night, why are you so cool?

Why does man treat you like a domestic fowl?

Why do you keep mute in the face of shame?

Why do you answer the name you weren’t christened?

Wickedness is the son of night,

To you, not only the son but legitimate one.

When did you become a mousy

Who has no strong personality?

Are you not the ravening cloud that possesses the sky?

Are you not the visitor of heaven and earth?

Take the shame no more and reject abuse,

Reject the rod whipping you at the back,

And raise eyebrows to the swollen buffoon.

Ho! Long night I wish you have pudenda,

I would have sharpened my phallus

And descend on you in an amorous ecstacy

And stay on you forever and ever.

MBA

The lady at the bank

2012-11-20T14:38:00.000+01:00

In three poems of three titles,

Sip from my dream kettle.

It is a story of a lady beautiful like flower,

Who sits at the bank of a river,

The Lady at the bank!

Lady at the bank

Almost at the burial of the day,

I resolve to search for clay,

For approaching is the month of May,

The month in which my skill will stay.

In search of clay, I walk miles,

I wasn’t in a hurry so I walk in style,

And as the sun bids me bye,

I waved back and heaved a sigh.

Not far from the bank, is a river bank

I saw a lady, a product of clay,

Lost in thought, she sits at the bank

Oh Christ! Her appearance bids me stay!

I stood in awe, oh what a creature!

Product of creation, daughter of nature,

Lips coloured like fresh stew,

Body fresh like the morning dew,

Oh! She is beautiful!

Her beauty works my tool

And so for her I write,

With my pen of light.

At her sight, my heart pulse races,

She steals her beauty from all races,

She has sipped from the sea of tribes,

Adorned with beads like a royal bride,

Curl and long hair like the Indians of Asia,

Balance like the monument of Persia,

African woman in feature, curved figure eight,

Nose pointed, pointed and straight,

Like the sky, she accommodate all mystery,

Her beauty tells millions of stories,

The mystery of beauty,

And the secret of divinity,

Closer I draw to take a sip of grace.

Her natural seat of earth

Awakened my art of heart

Lady at the bank let no one take her place

As I moved closer

I wonder and ponder

Could she be thinking?

Is she sleeping?

Seconds has passed into minutes

And minutes mounted the tower of hours

Yet she is stable and mute

Seems she awaits the evening shower

Lady at the bank

Please speak

Your voice I seek

And then in the silence of my thought

Came an intruder

In the mincing of words

He tells the reason behind her silence

The lady at the bank

Has a heart of steel

Heart of steel

Heart of steel

Don’t bother to steal

It’s a heart of steel

Don’t bother to break it

It’s been oven-ed by the heat

It’s a heart of steel

Her heart of steel

It’s been fired by the heat of betrayal

Don’t cajole her by being loyal

She has swam through the ocean of deceit

Don’t pretend like you can lick her feet

Cos she has reached the peak of love

Give her a love sum and she will solve

She has reached the pinnacle of lust

Be careful with her you might get lost

From her wound, blood gushed like flood

Peep not you won’t see her blood

Once, her robe of silk was clean

Then she was in her teens

Her orange was then unpeeled

Her cup of milk was filled

She once walked with dignity

Was once treated like a celebrity

In fact, she was being prepared to be a bride

Until suddenly someone plucked her fruit of pride

She once wears shoes

Until she was being fooled

She once speak in words

Until she was pierced with sword

She once looked into eyes

Until she was made to cry

If you can

If you will not be banned

Touch her earthly chair

Feel her flowing tears

You will feel and see

The sorrow in her tears

You will hear

The noise in her air

The reason she is dead to feelings

Why in the school of love she is missing

Look to her and seek

Hear from her as she speaks

Her heart of love is sealed

She has a heart of steel

And so, she wakes from her slumber of thought

And give the answer to my question

She tells the story of a trusted friend

Who showed her the ‘End’ in ‘Friend’

Who robbed her of her pride

Who buried her dignity and pride

She says, ‘he robbed me

He robbed me’

He robbed me

With deceit he laced my drink

With lies he paint me pink

With his sweat, he watered my plant

With force he removed my pant

He robbed me

He emptied my mug of milk

Tore my robe of silk

He rapped my lips in a kiss

Robbed my heart of its peace

He robbed me

He forced his pen on my notes

In lust he tore my clothe

He naked my body in cold

Rust my heart of gold

He robbed me

He buried my dignity in a casket

Turned my bucket to a basket

He naked me, he emptied me,

He robed me, he raped me

He robbed me

At the revelation of the secret

I remember my mission

I’m still in search of clay

To mould a flower vase, not a broken heart

I left the scene, the river bank

I left her alone,

The lady at the bank.

Tola Adegbite

Teach me to love

2012-11-20T14:30:00.000+01:00

Teach me to love

Not to be a novice in the office of emotion

To submit my notion under the reign of emotion

Stark me naked of my raw mind

To love make me not blind

Awake the feelings in me

Make me stop being mean

Let the passions in me swell

I’m ready to learn to stop being cruel

Teach me to love

To comfort a body in sleep

To rap lips with my lips

And touch a tongue with my tongue

To be a cover to an uncover self

To smile and brighten a life

To love, be loved and be a wife

Teach me to love

To trust with no doubt

To give my all to somebody’s in submission

To close my eyes and see ‘him’

To clear my voice and chant his hymn

To think of selves and not myself

Teach me to love

Tola Adegbite

SACRARIUM

2012-11-20T14:24:00.006+01:00

And so,

After the hour of epiclesis:

The salient moment of devotion,

Straight flew from the congregation,

Dirt……O! What looked like dirt,

Into the chalice vessel; the cup of nobles,

Nobles initiated by the smearing of unction,

And the blood,

O the blood!

Mind you, not of bullocks or calves,

Got stained and unfit,

The setting of the ‘Collect’ and ‘Doxology’

Becomes intertwined

Making the sacrifice in disorder.

Oh! Why has the church become a wasteland?

Why were the floors unceremonious?

Why are the vessels unwashed

The atmosphere corrupt,

Minds are no more intact,

Prayers are no more in fire,

Episcopal robes are now is vogue

Ecclesia est inimicus----the church is unfriendly.

Neque!

Not the church, but the world.

Who conceives in the church?

Who crowds the church?

Who pontificates in the church?

WE. You- you of course.

When you refuse t give the brotherly huge,

When the sisterly kiss of peace is flushed,

When in the spirit, you think of ‘sisi’ on the street,

When in the sacristy, you slay the spirit

When at ‘altar call’, you murder love,

When on the spiritual road, you 2go,

Then- then, the crucifix of the monastery will weep

And our bible will become ‘facebook.’

Sacrarium

Our lives are like the sacrarium,

Nay! Our lives are the sacrarium.

Once, we are saints,

Twice, its I am saved and I’ve derailed,

Thrice, it’s a game of sons and gentiles,

Whatever it is, we are saints anyway.

In us are grains of filth and sanctity,

Our lives are grazed lands where weeds shoot,

When grazed and grazed; cleared of its mess,

We change to base where we hymn DJ.

What way should we now sail

To neigh the ‘full of grace?’

Reserve the cesspit of the sacrarium

For that which lay beneath can be reconceived

And a new live, a pristine life be born.

Sacrarium,

A sepulcher for un decaying saints.

Life is a game of chess,

You muse earnestly before

Swiftly we wing away

From that perfect path we’ve been placed.

Our minds are like nomads of flocks,

It roams and wanders around diverse thoughts.

NAFDAC my poetic products

Let not the EFCC of rendition dash me,

At the village square,

Where we sit in circles,

At our conclave, where we behest,

Will I decide whether to take the oath of silence,

For speaking is for the lip,

Listening is for the ear,

Beauty is for the eyes

For time isn’t on my side

Till we meet next time.

BABAJIDE literati

Romanticization of Boko Haram Terrorism: A Literary Appreciation. (An Irony)

2012-11-20T14:14:00.002+01:00

Before I hastily undertake this non-fictional pilgrimage as my African pen will not concede to a traffic regulation or ‘’go slow’’, I will like to apprise my audience on this ‘’green- white- green’’ stage that it will be disingenuous of my literary characterization and ministry (LITERATI) not to un sheath my fleshy sword from its fragile skin and pierce its blade into the uterus of the situation in status quo as the goings- on in the Nigerian polity thus mandate.

Innocent A. Emechete in his book titled THE CONCEPT OF DEITY IN AFRICAN POETRY makes clear the person and character which sail into the characterization of a poet which I am proud to be one when he says:

‘’A poet is a Teacher, a Critic, a Storyteller, a Musician, a Philosopher, a

Theologian and the moral conscience of society.’’

He goes further not relenting to abruptly add that:

‘’the moral depravity of the action and or the individual involved is thus exposed by the poet.’’

Also, in her Inaugural Lecture Series 2012 titled DESTINATION FREEDOM: VEHICLE, SYMBOLISM IN BLACK LITERATURE. Professor Karen King Aribisala opines that:

‘’the means by which the poet effects this transition is through the vehicle of words. Here, vehicle is seen as ‘’a medium of communication and expression.’’ (WIKIPEDIA FREE ENCYCLOPEDIA). A vehicle can be further defined as ‘’any means in or by which someone travels or something is carried or conveyed.’’ (WIKIPEDIA FREE ENCYCLOPEDIA).’’

In essence, Aribisala is of the opinion that in every activity, there is always a trigger, an impetus and a ‘’metallic monster’’ that carries and dislocates to one’s intended destination one’s ideologies, philosophies, ambitions, prospects etc.

It must not be blindly misconstrued or distorted that this dissertation is on a cowardly campaign or an Islamic exoneration of the frivolous nuclear dispensations of ‘’toy bombs’’ that have selfishly and un- dutifully claimed the lives of innocent, unguarded and unescorted Nigerian civilians in their domestic homes, huts and sacred monasteries. But, I shall employ the instructive tool of the figurative paraphernalia titled ‘’satire’’ driven in the vehicle of ‘’sarcasm’’ by the driver (at least a car must be driven by someone or thing) ‘’lampoon’’ to give a Romanticization of Boko Haram Terrorism.

The ironical episode of these sects’ theatrical display which employs an Elizabethan stage in a Nigerian setting and ambience is the fact that the Hoi Polloi of the society which the romantics adore and deify are the same polity that these ‘’Puritanistic Farcical Characters’’ called Boko Haram war against but yet, the enemy is seldom known, whether this indecisive and depraved ‘’hardcore Northerners’’ as Soyinka calls them are actually vexed with the ‘’upper strata’’ or the ‘’lower strata’’ of the society or even both for as Professor Wole Soyinka exposes in his evergreen enlightening documentary of the Boko Haram genesis that ‘’The third phase of Boko Haram will be a selective assassination of leaders from here.’’ (THE NEXT PHASE OF BOKO HARAM TERRORISM)

Having all these above and employing the permutation devised by the latter in his article, mine as a me-too of his’ shall as well go thus.

Was Romanticism a movement for or against the society?

Having brandished Alfred Tennyson’s ‘’The Lady of Shallot’’, and having understood the essence of Victorian literary works as a work of literature that ‘’evaluate and observe the society’’, I will like to say and postulate (though a prima facie) that the romantics in their ingenuity saw the hazardous features of the technological evolution and proliferation and having foreseen the adverse effects of these technologies on man for whom it was made, they resolved in a common voice that ‘’technology is Haram’’ and should be escaped from, to places where the talons of technology can’t reach and aren’t in existence. So, eventually, they chose the primitive, where perfection, peace, solitude are utopian, courtesies of its proximity i.e. the primitive, with unalloyed nature. They settled in this slum by segregating from the city. Let it be understood that if ‘’the lady of shallot’’ wasn’t mesmerized by the activities of the mirror which we must note ‘’is a product of technology’’, which was capturing the dealings in the world where she had been incarcerated i.e. the city and beholding finally the harbinger that caused her death which is ‘’Sir Lancelot’’. For at the sight of him, she left comfort for discomfort, life for death.

The romantics sought their Destination Freedom via the vehicle ‘’imagination’’ into a particular part of the world which they considered the best, their Eldorado i.e. the slums, villages and the primitive setting.

What is a romantic man’s disposition towards the harshness and eccentric destructiveness of nature?

Since as earlier said that the romantics see nature as their dues ex machina, it can’t be disputed as false that we have and there exists natural disasters that as we know have brought some nations to their dark ages. But let me quickly say, ‘’if not for the scientific explorations of man on nature and man’s technological exploitation of nature, would she rage and be violent?’’ The romantics, especially Byronic Romantics see these natural anomalies as a means by which ‘’mother earth’’ sheds her tears and expresses her annoyance as natural humans will do when upset. These literary blocs also see beauty at the moment when these natural unoccurrences occur. This is not ordinary if agreed with me; rather, this is mystic and scholars have given this mysticism the term ‘’TRANSVALUATION.’’

Who is Boko Haram and what does it stand for?

I will not want to give an animate nominal design ant to the non polar question about Boko Haram because to me, whatever it stands for or whatever grievances it aims to project, whatever its composition is and is its ‘’Lord Voldemort’’, I won’t want to believe its assembly, congregation or audience to be made up of rational human beings but rather, a colony of destructive ants and a gathering of blood thirsty vampires with un-deserved ‘’black skins’’ and betrayers of the sanctity of the ‘’Nigerian Lingua Franca.’’

Well, with all sentiments tamed, I think in his article stated above, Soyinka, I opine, has given a satisfactory analysis of ‘’the Whos and What’’ of these fundamentalists. These are things that have decided to publicly rape Islamic religion of her dignity and fuelling its hideous shenanigans and pollutions in the filling station of ‘’diluted religious principles’’ under the ‘’phariseeship’’ of accursed and excommunicated ‘’mullahs’’ and political Nebuchadnezzars.

Soyinka in his wit says;

‘’ all they need to be told is that this is an enemy of religion and

they are ready to kill. No matter the motivations, no matter the

extra-motivations of those who send them, they need only one

motivation: that they are fighting the cause of that religion.’’

Does Boko Haram have a destination freedom and what is the conveying vehicle?

Boko Haram in its shallow mind might be thinking or might have thought it has a destination in an enslaved doctrine and rite, riding in foolishry and in the delusive vehicle of mediocre bombs and dud galloping guns. The Latin dictum that prophesizes ‘’vox populli: supreme alex’’ will bring hungry Boko Haram to a barren wilderness where it will ‘’weep and gnash its teeth.’’

Does Boko Haram have ‘’akin’’ relativism with the romantics?

Maybe a morphological dissection of the entirety of the compounding communion of the word Boko Haram should be explained. BOKO means western education, HARAM means forbidden. Having this at the back of our minds that they say ‘’western education is forbidden’’, it should also be emphasized that romanticism after which romantic writers are named is a ‘’highly intellectual’’ literary movement that has its full expressions in EDUCATION. So, to say Boko Haram is akin relatively with romanticism is a logical contradiction and an irreconcilable fallacy. In fact, it is an exaggerated oxymoron driven in the vehicle ‘’ignoramus’’ to an enslaved destination. Romantics are diplomatic people rooted in sensibility. Believe you me, if William Wordsworth were to be alive and were to be apprised of the delinquencies of this sect, he would have entreated Lord Byron to plead and evoke ‘’mother nature’’ to cause an earthquake in the hidden graves of this sect. Though, romantics are against rationalized knowledge that books and civilization brought and celebrated natural ingenuity and knowledge of the commoners, though romantics disliked technology and the rationalization of nature by science, Boko Haram is just a feeble and malodorous usurper of these principles at the surface level.

Below is a simple dramatic similarity and dichotomy

Similarity

Both Romantics and Boko Haram preach the theme of austerity and primitiveness in entirety.

Dichotomies

Romantics we employ the wit of poesy and rhetoric to preach our ideologies.

Boko Haram: look at this fools and neophytes, the only drilling and effective mechanism is to act on the outside and not the inside, so bombs, guns, matchets and violence are my diplomatic permutations.

Romantics: that is too animalistic pal, psychological and physical escapism from the urban to the rural would have been better instead…….

Boko Haram: shi shi shi… look at these ‘’fiful’’, don’t you know that the illegitimate ‘’farafernalia’’ is struggling where you have been declared ‘’fersona non grata’’ and make yourself legitimate?

Romantics: well, since I’m a Luddite and a lover and pioneer of natural things and her offspring, I can’t afford to self- contradict myself.

Boko Haram: My own is even if your mother nature stands my way, I go Haram am. If you are not for me, you are against me.

Are you saying that Romantics didn’t fight or kick against education and books?

In William Wordsworth’s THE TABLES TURNED, he mildly and diplomatically through the educational vehicle of poetry, speaks about the stress and burden of books compared with the relief, enjoyment and relaxation that natural knowledge, education and entertainment which nature brings. If William Wordsworth didn’t have and taste education, would he have known the weariness of education and its stress?

At least it’s said ‘’No pain, no gain.’’ I wouldn’t have read his poems if I had not reached this echelon of education. The essence and ideal end product of education according to Auguste Compte is for ‘’the betterment of the society.’’ Even if Boko had any educated ant in its colony, it wouldn’t have been the kind of educational advantage Auguste spoke of for the society.

Your word to Boko Haram

If any of them relishes intellectually and not in an Islamic or political semantics this dissertation, then, ‘’it’’ must be a chronic betrayal of the education that groomed ‘’it.’’

My literary epilogue to Boko Haram is that as the romantics escaped from the urban to the rural through imagination, and also physically exiled into the rural places, let Boko also take such noiseless and impalpable salient move to places where ‘’its’’ doctrines will be held sacred and this pettifogging hullabaloo would easily be avoided. For the audience are tired of ‘’its’’ theatre and all the ideals of neoclassicism are apparently as proposed by Aristotle and Horace in their treatises are oblivious in ‘’its’’ drama on stage, for dialogue hasn’t been employed. All we have seen is soliloquy that is nebulous and unrealistic into the intangible wind which has made the air poisonous to the breathing masses.

BABAJIDE LITERATI

Riding the Cockroach

2012-11-20T14:12:00.003+01:00

The contemptuous laughter jabbed

the heart of the lovely fiend

Like a derisive moan of lovers.

The shallow craft

culminates picayune and piffle.

Rhea, Penguin rode on cockroach

And piercing the tunnel that mirrors

the globe in an eddy rotunda.

Mind thrilled; building castle in the air

Drinking to stupor from reverie gourd

Shearing with palm wine drinkered

the hallucinating fable.

A distant cookoo echoed

Like bong dripping tone

Struck eardrum like traditional

Drum of Sango, jostling my medullar

to ponder the yonder of SAVANNAH.

The acclaimed patriot of ANTHILLS,

The vortex of crafted moral,

The harbinger of right and fortune,

A paradigm of prime

BUT

If ingratitude is the reward to patriot,

Let him carry on!

If ‘one nation’ clamoured and sustained

By premier derailed the tame,

I begin to ask!!

If stoppage of diversity gave birth

To the titular that does not have opinion

Of his own,

Let him defend it!!!

III

Maybe or maybe critics will gather

the rubble and mould the pebble

and stone the ingrate waddling in shame!

Maybe or maybe not scholars will mend

the abyss, journey down the matrix

Of the polity,

and search the rainbow

and find the colour that suits

the garment of Nigeria outfit.

MBA

Halcyon Moment

2012-11-20T14:10:00.000+01:00

She crooned melodiously to my ear

Like an ecstatic lullaby;

soft gentle song sung

to make a child go to sleep.

Her soft sonorous song

granted my tender mind asylum

In gaga would I be for more than a century.

She nuzzled my nipple

And my mind travelled miles

hanged limply on an empty space

between heaven and earth.

Would I ever recuperate from this love tumour?

Her sweat sprinkled and drizzled;

And my body hair stiffened

and my wrinkles smoothened

ho! Would I ever forget this halcyon moment?

Even if I am battered by rain

And scorched by sun

Or petrified by night.

I will not but stand to say I missed that…

MBA

A Lady of Virtue

2012-11-20T13:50:00.001+01:00

If love sharpens the sword of life,

it would cut deeper and the scar

can ever be trivial.

If life hangs limply on verge of love,

it would never fall till thy kingdom come.

Behavior, beauty linen the fabric of love,

Let us live long life laden with love.

Behavior is the connoisseur of beauty;

A woman lacked moral

and jostled out of matrimonial home.

She gnashed teeth recounting losses;

Had I known ends her journey of I don’t care.

A lady of virtue,

has her name written in marble

carrying about by the noble.

Her name is more than worth

Her weight in gold

She doesn’t need to be told

Even to the young and old

She is bold to showcase what she holds

because she came from the virtuous home of old.

But I have two questions to ask

If it’s worthy to be asked

Is there any error in trial?

Not at all, as long as it is moral.

ARE YOU THAT LADY OF VIRTUE?

Because I need to be told

Before I encase your name with gold

And bold enough to pose

Before my parent and say;

I present to you my gold

from the virtuous home of old.
M.B.A.

ANA Writer's Workshop

2012-05-19T20:29:00.002+01:00

ANA Writer's Workshop has come and gone. Watch out for images and videos.

LETTER TO MY LOVE

2012-05-19T15:18:00.000+01:00

Dear Taram,

My love, how have you been? How is life over there? I hope you are fine and that they are treating you well? Yes, yes, I know you must be smiling as you are reading this and murmuring that I’m silly; I shouldn’t worry about your welfare because you are in the best place anyone could wish to be, but I miss you Taram. When they closed the shutters at night and the wind howled outside, daring me to come and stand in the mist, just the way you and I used to do when the rain was coming, all I could think of was the moments we shared under heavy torrents, oblivious of the angry roar of downpour as we danced like kids in the rain. I want to hold your hand soon, Taram, and sing sweet nonsense into your ears at night. I want to wake you up in the morning with the smell of my awfully made Chinese tea. I can’t wait again, baby, I have to come to you.

But the good news, my love, is that they came again yesterday, they came to tell me that I’ll be joining you soon. They said I’ll be seeing you in four or five days from now. You cannot believe how happy that made me feels. That I’ll soon behold my angel’s face, that I’ll soon hold you and never let go again. I promise you dear, once I join you, I’m never letting you go again. I will never make such a careless mistake that almost cost me the love of my life. I’m going to be counting the minutes from now on, the seconds, the minutes, the hours and the days standing between you and me.

God! Taram, why did you ever have to leave? I wake up every night searching the bed and under the blanket for that heavenly soft body of yours. I looked into the kitchen hoping I would find you in front of the gas cooker humming afro-beats as you cook. But my dear, our spacious white kitchen is deserted, plain and empty, just like my heart, ever since you left.

I remember how it all started, that rainy afternoon, exactly eleven years, three months and thirteen days ago. I was on my way to the gym, my every morning practice when it suddenly began to pour heavily. Colourless sky began shedding tears without warning. I was breathless from jogging and the sudden rain on my body didn’t help matters. My asthma came with a bang; I was breathless and was almost doubled over. I checked my pocket, my inhaler wasn’t there. I must have forgotten it while I was trying to leave the house and escape my mum and step dad’s usual early morning fights. I struggled to hold something but there was nothing in sight to hold. Then I gave up and lay quietly by the roadside, waiting for the grim reaper to come or for help which considering the crime rate in Yenagoa, I was seventy percent sure I’d be mugged while dying rather than be helped.

Suddenly, like the flash of rain on a famine land, I heard a voice that sounded like its coming from afar. “Are you okay, sir?” the soft angelic voice asked.

Of course, I’m dead! Where else but heaven amidst angels would such soothing voice exist? Not Yenagoa and certainly not the small towns around it, except my spirit had woken up in another state, where girls spoke good English and not the customary Pidgin English. I tried to open my eyes, but the angels must have glued it together. Then she was lifting me up, her hand around my waist, mine thrown over her shoulders.

The next time I opened my eyes, I was lying on a sofa in a strange room. My eyes strayed to an inhaler right beside me. Yeah, I just knew she was a witch. Wasn’t I looking for that inhaler before I blacked out? She must have seen where my eyes was fixed and read my mind. “That’s my father’s.” she said. Of course, it wasn’t mine, but I was just returning from that little place between Heaven and Earth, so I couldn’t really be blamed for not recognising my own inhaler. “Where are you going in this rain?” She asked, “You must have known you have asthma? How come you are out without your inhaler?”

Taram, my love, that day you sounded like an angry mother. I was just a stranger and you scolded me like a mother or sister would. I fell in love right there that moment with those sparkling burnt-chocolate-eyes and the soothing voice that seemed to drown me. I was lost forever; head over heels in love with you. But I couldn’t have said anything. I had never been into any relationship before. I was twenty-one and shy. But something in your eyes stuck to my soul. I was a goner where your love was concerned! Our love kicked off like the game of horse racing. I was a child of a broken home; you just lost your mother. You gave me the listening ears that my mother couldn’t afford. I became a watching hawk in your life, showing you the right and the wrong. You were the sister I never had, and I, the day-old brother you lost the day your mother died. Sweetheart, I know we went through a lot together; remember when I left for the university and your father’s relatives tried to marry you off to an old man after your father’s death. You ran away from home to join me in school in Port Harcourt. You were so small, so fragile, and so brave. You worked hard to get some money, and sat for JAMB. It was a red letter day the day you got admission into University of Port Harcourt to study Sociology.

I remember the day I proposed to you. It was two years, seven months and three days ago. It was the best day of my life, when you said yes you would marry me. Wedding preparations began in earnest. Our wedding was the talk of the town for years after. But something happened during the preparations for that wedding. Something I hope you will one day forgive me because I doubt if I will ever forgive myself. I am sorry baby; I don’t know how to start explaining it. I don’t know where to begin. It was a stupid thing to do. I just wanted to humour my friends. I wanted them to see me as a complete man. I guess I was stupid enough to place what others think above what you my love would feel.

It was our wedding eve. The little bachelor night you and my friends insisted I observed. You must have trusted me so much to willingly support a bachelor’s party, and I never wanted to break that trust. But at the party, something terrible went wrong. My friends - Douye, Ekine and Bibo - had all insisted that I picked a woman to celebrate my last day of freedom before marriage. I never wanted to; but all through my university days, friends had always made jest of me because I was hung up on you. They said I should prove myself. So, I decided to prove them wrong.

Her name was Ebitari, the one to haunt me forever. She was fair and quiet like you. They said she was not a prostitute, they said she was one of the receptionists at Ekine’s firm and was just there to have fun.

I’m sorry Taram, if you had waited that faithful night two years and four months ago, I would have told you how it all happened. How after three filled cups of wine, I had succumbed to my friends’ request and taken Ebitari to a room in the hotel. It was thirty minutes of pleasure; it was thirty minutes that cost me the most precious being that I was ever fortunate to call mine. It was thirty minutes that cost me you, Taram. If I could turn back the hand of time, my love, I would have looked my friends in the eyes and would have told them that I have chosen you and you alone I would have.

The destructive wind in my life started howling the day you fainted and I rushed you to the hospital. The doctor had told us that you were two months pregnant. I was the happiest man on earth that day. It was just three months after our wedding and I was already blessed! I took you back home. You were weak and coughing and the doctor had prescribed bed rest. He said he would run other tests on you, because you might be suffering from a serious case of cough. Two days later, Douye, my friend and family doctor had come visiting, and dropped the bombshell that you were suffering from tuberculosis but that tuberculosis was just the least of it. He said you tested positive to four HIV tests done at different laboratories. He said the pregnancy and the virus had weakened your strength to fight diseases and that was why your body had surrendered so easily to tuberculosis. You were in the bedroom resting and I never thought you could hear us. I was shocked. I had asked Douye what had happened, how you could have been HIV positive. Douye asked if I had used any protection the other time when I slept with Ebitari.

I replied, “No, the girl said she couldn’t get pregnant!”

But then Douye dropped the bombshell that ruined my life forever. “Stop sounding so ridiculously naive, Fred.” He snapped at me. “Unwanted Pregnancy is not the only risk attached to unsafe sex,” Douye lectured. “There are one thousand and one reasons why you should protect yourself when having sex with someone other than your legal partner. As a matter of fact, you should try to abstain as much as possible, which is what I was trying to tell our other friends on your wedding eve. I’m sorry, Fred, but the receptionist you took to bed that night came back to my office about two weeks ago for medical check up and among the tests carried out on her was the popular HIV test when malaria treatment failed to heal her. Fred, I don’t know how to say this.”

“Say what?” I had opened my mouth to scream at Douye but all I could manage was a croaked whisper.

“The girl, Ebitari, tested positive to HIV. If you had an unprotected sex with her that night then that explains where Taram got the virus from.”

It was like my world was sinking. Worse when I discovered you were not in your room but had been at the passage listening to everything Douye and I were saying. God! Taram dear, I never want to remember that look on your face when you walked into the living room and stared at me over again. The flame of accusation burning like fire in those pretty eyes that was once full of nothing but admiration for me. You never waited for me to explain, although at that moment whatever I said wouldn’t justify the fact that I’d managed to ruin your life along with mine, because I was trying to prove some stupid point to myself and my friends.

It will always be a thing of agony to me that the last time you raised that beautiful eyes to look at me, it was with tears and accusation because you didn’t wait to hear me out. You pushed me away from you when I tried to hold you and tell you to remember your condition. Before I or Douye could stop you, you had grabbed your car keys from the shelf and leapt out of the house in anger. It was raining cat and dog outside but that had not stopped you from driving with furry away toward the main street, by the time I got outside, all I could see was the tail of your car disappearing around the corner. Douye ran after me and gave me a lift and we drove after you, but the rain was heavy and so was the traffic. We couldn’t locate your car and by the time we checked everywhere I thought you could have gone and places no proper lady would imagine going in Yenagoa without success, Douye had returned me home and urged me to wait for you and hope for the best. By seven that evening you were still nowhere to be found. It had stopped raining outside but the weather was as dark and gloomy as my heart was. Then a call had come through on my phone and I had been called by the police to come and identify your body. The police had found out the car belonged to me and called. I died a thousand deaths that moment I saw your bloodied body and your surprisingly unscathed face looking as calm as always, even in death. That calm face is forever going to haunt me, unless I see you and ask for your forgiveness.

They buried me with you the day they covered you and our child with sand. I took to drinking after that; heavy drinking and smoking. There is this feeling of oblivion that often blanketed me each time I finished a bottle of wine. I was drinking away my sorrow and my life with it, but nothing could take away the memory of you. They said I should go for therapy, they said I should go for counselling. Oh, they even said having HIV is not the end of the world. Of course, I’m not stupid, I know you can use drugs and maintain a good diet and live a normal life even while the virus lives in one, but I also know having to live without you is the end of life. How will I wake up to the rising sun and face the day without that morning sun of mine by my side?

Now they came to me yesterday, Douye and his medical colleagues. They said the wine and the smoke had destroyed my liver and lungs. First, they said I had less than three months; now they said three days. I’m so happy, Taram. That means I’m seeing you soon, that lovely face, the soothing voice. I just can’t wait!

I hope you’ll forgive me dear. I just hope it isn’t too late yet, that I’ll be able to look upon that lovely face of yours again, and know that you are mine, and that nothing will take you away from me again. And that I could have a second chance with you. I’m coming soon Taram, I’m coming to make it all right.

Love,

Fred

Tola Adegbite

2012-05-19T14:53:00.000+01:00

Yes, there will always be a face behind every mask and there is always a name behind fame. Tola Adegbite is my name. I’m a 300level student of Obafemi Awolowo University and I’m studing literature in English. I write and perform poetry. I believe in the power of words and that why I will conclude with these words.

‘When your word is different from the world, live by your word in your world, someday, your word may change the world.’

KAYODE TAIWO OLLA

2012-05-19T14:13:00.000+01:00

KAYODE TAIWO OLLA has had a good many poetry performances (directed and/or written by him) and poetry recitations before many audiences, varying from a few hundreds to some thousands, from spiritual to secular, from live to telecast. A writer whose literary skill spans across the three genres of literature, he has got a published work in prose and one work each in poetry and drama yet in the press. His fiction titled Sprouting Again, was published December 2011 in the UK by Syncterface Media London [www.syncterfacemedia.com] and is presently on sale in Europe via online print-on-demand technology retail sites such as amazon.co.uk among others, and in Nigeria.

Kayode presently studies for his B.A in English in the prestigious Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, Nigeria.

Olatunde Busayo Solomon

2012-05-19T13:39:00.000+01:00

Olatunde Busayo Solomon (O. Busayo). His interest spans over all the genres of Literature. He lives a n interesting life of voracious reading and writing. His enslaved with all Shakespearean works. his philosophy is; Love without a reciprocal, makes a lonely passion sits in a citadel of disgust. His favourite words; Laughing is a major consequence of entertainment and the edifice of foolishness. His D.O.B is November 27, 1988. He studies English Language at Obafemi Awolowo University. He is from Ilesa, Osun State.

THE RIOT IN MY HEART

2012-05-19T13:37:00.000+01:00

Oh! we taught, our tears has dried

Now we must eat rice that is fried

We drank wines of victories in our mind

Shutting our ears to the ringing sounds of wisdom

In chorus we say, go and be our eyes

This we knew not

Our days of sorrow state, on the way to come

ALAS!

There is a riot in my heart

This makes me to forcefully speak

There I found myself, in a citadel of disgust

They promised to give the land, a Roman look

This we gave, a standing Ovation

What we see A genuine Roman gabbage

They promised to make our sands shine like stars

At last what we have

A rocky sand full of thorns

Our tears of basket full

Now a means of entertainment for our lord fools

The more they boom, the more we are doomed

What they say

If you want Good luck you must be patience

Oh! we taught, our sweat has dried

Now we must eat egg that is fried

Not known

We are dancing to our place of doom

Smiling at our imminent death

We cry they laugh

Celebrating golden years of classic corruption

We lain our head in grief only for them to take their leave

Oh! it worries me, it worries me

Our souls blown away like balloon

The land is naked

My naked soul drew me into confusion

Behold!

Our heroes are sad

Their graves are shedding tears

Because their labours are marched

Now I knew

It is a strife of interest

Masquerading as contest of principles

the conduct of public affairs

for a private advantage

You artificial saviours

enough of your masquerade democracy

Please accept our traditional cap

Olotu Joy

2012-05-19T13:25:00.000+01:00

THE CALL

2012-05-19T13:13:00.000+01:00

YES! This sad journey is beeping “END TIME”,

The seed of 1914 perishing before our eyes,

This entity is breaking into PIECES,

While lifeless living beings are nagging and biting their fingers in regrets,

A sad song is playing in my radio.

A dark cloud is looming above,

Will the earth be able to stand its down pour?

Now, the thunderstorm is creating panic,

Still they are embarking on VOYAGE OF LUNACY,

SIGIDI thirsty for a show of shame...

As the candle light is burning down.

I sense expressive jovial happiness from mockers,

I hear ice cracking and yet they are not careful not to drown,

These hens of poverty dynasty are not changing their ways.

Where hath our brains?

For when lions become historians, hunters are no longer heroes;

Only if wishes were horses...

OH! Alafin Abiodun, where hath thy wisdom?

SANGO OLUKOSOoooo! Where hath thy rage?

AMADIOHA! Where thy judgement?

FODIO AL’MUMINI! Where hath thy wisdom?

Look! Look!! Look!!! And see the seed of the penguin growing in your lands.

Good speed and this new moon will have shed a brief but mournful light.

I weep for my motherland.ss