Travelling down empty road, one filled with despair
no turn off point for happiness
like the empty swing that rocks back and forth
the empty slide with no laughter filling the air
and the house, dead quiet as the night.
Maybe tomorrow..
wanting to disappear is a solution you have been entertaining,
been in a crowded room and the feeling still resides
you are the solitary figure that walks along the beach
with eyes that seem forever
always gazed towards the ground
Everything suddenly feels upside of down
like the inside of out, with worried look in the eye
you look out your window at the sign Faithcity''
you find no faith in your city only for the one you await
just wishing, maybe tomorrow, there might be laughter,
and the empty house will not seem so bare
because you miss him so much and its like you are insane..
maybe tomorrow and all will be alright.
Wednesday 26 October 2011
Saturday 1 October 2011
LAGOS, land of dreams
The alarm rang through my ears, opening my eyes to the harsh reality, that it’s yet another day, another day to join the hustles and bustles of Lagos.
I slipped out of my wrapper into the bathroom with sweat dripping down my neck, I felt the coolness as the shower rained down my head, as i washed myself with soap..my mind drifted back to the night....
The heat was so much I couldn’t sleep, we hadn’t had light in almost eight weeks, I tried seeing with a candle while struggling with the charcoal prints on my shirt perfectly stamped from the locally made stove iron.
I laid on my bed and reflected back on how the journey through the day went, I felt stress and pain all over my bones. I laid, looking straight up the dark ceiling and drifted into sleep at about 12:35am.
Another slap of the water at my face, I jumped out of my reverie and dashed back into the room, the time was 4:25am, in another 20mins,I was back on the streets of Lagos.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Lagos, the land of dreams…We hope, pray, smile and cry.
The sky so clear, the sun so bright, from the suburb to the island,
Lagos, a land to all, people of tribes, tongue, and race with an estimated population of about 9million people.
The future seems so bleak for many who rise in hope at dawn only to drown in tears at dusk. Men and women, boys and girls, all going round but in circles, facing the harsh realities of life in a city, in this city called Lagos.
Iya Abeke, A woman from the down side Ajelogo in mile12, she lives with her six children in a cubicle built on top of water, a swampy mosquito infested area, where refuse is dumped, she lost her husband in an auto accident, life is so tough for her and has no option other than a shelter in d slum.
Waking up to the stench which is now a very familiar aroma, her children queue up to buy drinkable water, at least that can be afforded, and afterwards, stroll down the back of the house to fetch the swamp water for a bath. Life seems so hard, with the children falling sick and not been able to provide white medicine but herbs and other concussion.
Before 7am she sets her fire wood and frying pan out for her regular sale of Akara and Yam which is the only source of income for her bills to be paid. At sun down the children hawks pure water and come back at night to eat Yam and Akara which has been a usual menu since they can remember and probably till death.
With bright eyes shinning with hopes and a fighting spirit, Iya Abeke keeps hope alive.
Lamidi, is a graduate of Accounting, he’s been six years and counting on the streets of Lagos, he walks the length and breadth of Broad street, with a brown A4 envelope which contains his life most precious asset, his credentials. He dreams of been a chartered accountant someday, maybe working in one of this very tall buildings. He was brought up and has spent most of his life in Ibadan, heard news of greener pastures in Lagos, he squats with a friend who squats with a distant relation, all with the hope of a better life in the city of dreams.
Lamidi was born into a family of eight, his father, a farmer and mother a petty trader in Ibadan. Coming to Lagos for Lamidi's parent was like a son traveling to the New York City. The harsh realities of Lagos and the unfriendly environment turns Lamidie’s hopes into dreams. He cant go back to Ibadan with nothing, so he hopes upon nothing, the Future seems so bleak.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It was a regular Friday evening, I headed for the bus stop, the crowd was intimidating, no bus, I thought to myself, "not again", then a bus came speeding down the park, I was now at alert and as d bus came to a halt I rushed, squeezing myself through as others did the same, holding my bag so tight so I don’t become a victim to pick pockets, I secured a sit right behind the driver before I could catch my breath, the conductor started shouting ''wole kpelu change o" I had no change but I ignored him, a look at his face, I was annoyed at his arrogance, and then I thought ,he looked like one around 21/22 years, dark and painfully thin, with red eyes and black lips, he obviously has been drinking and smoking.
Looking at him just reminded me of a young boy I interviewed some months back, he was lost in Lagos, those were his exact words, a boy with no future, he had chosen his own life path, he came from faraway Kwara state with no relatives in Lagos, he sleeps under bridges and buses and at dawn, jumps on the next bus as a conductor. So many other young boys of his age have the same life circle, they roam aimlessly on the streets, bus stops and under bridges, with little or no hope for tomorrow, they go into robbery which is the fastest way to earn money and shortest cut to hell and then again, I thought to myself, what’s the remedy out of this life? Can’t somebody be responsible? May be the government, the thought of that brought a sour taste to my mouth, well that’s a thought for another day, I said to my self.
It was a long ride down to Ikorodu, the traffic was heavy, and then I noticed a familiar street hawker, a little girl of not more than 12years of age, she sells candle stands in traffic, my heart wept for her.
she lives around my neighborhood with her blind father who makes the candle stands, how he makes them I still don’t understand despite his blindness, she hawks the stand from noon till sundown. Isn’t that what is referred to as child abuse? Then I took notice of more young and old, selling different things in traffic, this has become their profession, I wondered how long this will go on.
Life is hard in Lagos, how can we have adequate amenities? at least light and water? the new government promises a better life, by providing all the basics but that hasn’t really improved. Despite the BRT transport which you would need to queue for hours to get on the bus which people stand in between the rows, still not convenient. The promise of uninterrupted power is a far cry, In fact we virtually live without it and so used to it. Having a private generator set is now the remedy in Lagos, where the generator traders connive with Nepa to with hold the light so they can make more sale, isn’t that pathetic?
The rich stays rich and the poor, poorer. I took a ride down to the Lagos island sometime, though on a mission and not aimless, I saw life, beautiful houses and sleek cars, the gap between the rich and d poor is just so wide, I couldn’t comprehend, maybe Lagos is really meant for them. Better roads and electricity, which is readily given to choice areas.
and I wonder to my self ,do I belong? I am affected by this hard life and a victim of the hustle, but I wonder, if other states were well catered for like the posh areas in Lagos, if they had good roads and the basics, then we would all rather stay in our different states.
Some where far down east, is were I come from, were civilization hasn’t touched its borders, long untarred dusty roads, no basic amenities, not to talk about jobs. My Ibo brothers have no choice but to jump in to the next Ekenedilichukwu Transport to the city of dreams EKO.
EKO! The land were we struggle, hustle, fight to survive, keeping our head above the waters, we try living our dreams but watches as it fades, we cant go back without noting so we live and hope that some day we'll live our dreams in the land of dreams.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It was some time in April, some where in Ajegunle, stood a little settlement for the for people who couldn’t afford so much for a better accommodation. These houses were built with woods on swamp, even those built with blocks were on swampy grounds and like the tears of heaven, the rain came pouring with dark clouds, children playing in the streets ran for refuge, the woman gathered all they could in to the house, if only they knew what was to come. And the wind blew so hard, the roofs came tearing down and the rain started ,it seemed forever, it seemed endless as the water rose and rose, even to the roof level. They lost everything, all of the little they had, they were homeless, in the dark night, in the cold, the children, the dream, there was no hope, all chattered dreams, all they worked for, all drowned in one night.
Looking out my window as I rode in a bus, I watched the scene and I thought to myself, "waiting for help is like waiting for rain in the drought" after several weeks, help finally came, the government was able to make channels for the water to flow, but no channel for homes to be restored. That is the harsh reality of life in Lagos.
* * * *
From month to month and year to year, the black smoke from her fire wood painted the twilight skies. Gentle old lady squats by the black big pot on the burning fire wood, stirring her fired fish, afterward she puts her fried yam on the hot frying oil, she feels the pain through her back spine as she squats her back down, her old palm has been severely bruised by hot pots and woods, her eye color is constantly now yellow as the smoke goes directly into it. In all she finds her joy in her three grown sons whom for them she does all this, training them with her profit. They stand proudly behind her, helping their old lady set the fire woods, cut the yam and also sell the cooked products to the long queue of buyers including me. This is yet another hard story of struggling to survive in Lagos to make ends meet to train her boys, all in this land of dreams.
The story seems endless as there is another collapsed building on Lagos island. Ifeanyi, of blessed memories who was married with a wife and two kids. He was able to secure a room and parlor in one of these very "slim" building on Lagos island "Isale Eko" a poor structure which he paid too much for, he grumbled as he observed the smelly gutter, he had no choice, but at least it was cleaner than the one room apartment he was moving from in Ikota – Etiosa, with small space, he could hardly even open his window for it would definitely hit another neighbors window, he was a trader, he had a weave on store in the heart of Balogun market, business was going fine with him, at least he could travel last Christmas to the east to show forth his hard work to his people. On that fateful Sunday morning, preparing for early morning mass, The children were all dressed and ready for church after a healthy meal or rice and beans…then it all happened suddenly, in a twinkling of an eye..
The rest is history, a part of what I write today, he is gone and so also his family. Life goes on like nothing happened, and a lot of "about to collapse buildings" still stands tall on the streets of Lagos with more lives to be lost.
It’s an ordeal been a victim of circumstance, life has been so cruel, it has left people sad and many dead. Seems like the grasses are greener under other skies and not this part of our world.
There are definitely no green grasses under Alima’s skies, she was a victim of this feelings, thinking a lot and most times finds her self in the cool of the evening roaming the streets aimlessly. She was born from two unstables who fought to become stable, a victim of broken home and child abuse. Her story begins on the streets of Ajose adeogun were she lines up amidst other young girls to be picked by the high and mighty men who are patriots to this profession. She thought the body trade business was not so profitable as she does so much for just a little Naira, she wishes for a better life, maybe to learn a trade or get an education but were on earth will help come from? These and more questions she asked with tears in her eyes as she narrates a bitter tale of her life’s story. Is there truly help from somewhere, anywhere? what Is the government doing about situations as this? What measures has been put in place to eradicate poverty, prostitution, robbery etc.
Our people needs help from all aspect of life but I know helps comes from no where else but God, for when all routes seems blocked, through obstacles and bridges over troubled waters, HE will surely cater for his own.
Through teary eyes and smiley ones, the sorrowful and the contempted, we lift up our eyes to the heaven with the believe that only there our hope lies.
On a quiet Tuesday evening, we were all set for dinner with our plate of hot rice and stew with the steam causing the ceiling to sweat, with just about three spoons of rice down my throat, we heard a knock at d door, it was a very unusual knock, I got up and headed for the door, who is that, I shouted and it was Miss. Ross, our neighbor from the back flat, a middle age lady who has had her fair share of life’s bitter taste and resolved to a life of solitude. She seldom goes into peoples houses so I thought for her to be at my front door, it must be important. So I opened up immediately as our eyes met, she gave a quick wink at me but it was too late. I had guns pointed at my fore head, the rubbers were two and the others were positioned around the compound. They raided the house and threatened to shoot if we dint cooperate. They looted to their satisfaction and left us locked up in the toilet. When we were sure they were gone, we screamed aloud for help..we got none cause the neighbours locked their doors instead and turned off their lights for they also feared for their lives. The robbers flew free.
Precisely 6:15am on a Monday morning, on my way out early to beat traffic, right under the Ojota bridge laid a man rolling on the floor, he was an albino and probable could not see clearly cos it was still very dark at that time, he had just been hit by a hit and run vehicle, passers by as usual placed their hands on their heads, screaming but no one went for the rescue, he suddenly laid looking dead at some point and moved his legs weakly intermittently for people to know he is still alive, he laid there waiting for help as he passed on slowly. I was right on the opposite side of the road screaming ‘somebody help him…he is still alive’’ just like the other lagosians, I couldn’t do much but scream as my bus rolled away, I felt depressed that whole day as I wasn’t sure if he survived. This albino was with a traveling bag, probably one of the night travelers who just got back from a journey. He sure would have come into Lagos with dreams, but Jan 12th 6:20 am, he might have just died with those dreams. This sad scene is a regular on the Lagos roads.
The stories are endless, more of sad than good, but in all, never give up those dreams, in fact dream big, hope and be hopeful, rejoice in all situation, and give thanks daily for another sun rise and sun set. Most especially, contribute your own bit to this city and feel justified.
Lagos, land of dreams, dreams for many, young and old, rich and poor, the happy,
and depressed, the achiever, the jobless, the traders and street hawkers, the under bridge dwellers and men of the under world, we are all but passers by in this land, even in this world at large, no one wants to go back to were was once called home but feel so at ease in Lagos.
THE STORY TELLER
JD Ugwu
I slipped out of my wrapper into the bathroom with sweat dripping down my neck, I felt the coolness as the shower rained down my head, as i washed myself with soap..my mind drifted back to the night....
The heat was so much I couldn’t sleep, we hadn’t had light in almost eight weeks, I tried seeing with a candle while struggling with the charcoal prints on my shirt perfectly stamped from the locally made stove iron.
I laid on my bed and reflected back on how the journey through the day went, I felt stress and pain all over my bones. I laid, looking straight up the dark ceiling and drifted into sleep at about 12:35am.
Another slap of the water at my face, I jumped out of my reverie and dashed back into the room, the time was 4:25am, in another 20mins,I was back on the streets of Lagos.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Lagos, the land of dreams…We hope, pray, smile and cry.
The sky so clear, the sun so bright, from the suburb to the island,
Lagos, a land to all, people of tribes, tongue, and race with an estimated population of about 9million people.
The future seems so bleak for many who rise in hope at dawn only to drown in tears at dusk. Men and women, boys and girls, all going round but in circles, facing the harsh realities of life in a city, in this city called Lagos.
Iya Abeke, A woman from the down side Ajelogo in mile12, she lives with her six children in a cubicle built on top of water, a swampy mosquito infested area, where refuse is dumped, she lost her husband in an auto accident, life is so tough for her and has no option other than a shelter in d slum.
Waking up to the stench which is now a very familiar aroma, her children queue up to buy drinkable water, at least that can be afforded, and afterwards, stroll down the back of the house to fetch the swamp water for a bath. Life seems so hard, with the children falling sick and not been able to provide white medicine but herbs and other concussion.
Before 7am she sets her fire wood and frying pan out for her regular sale of Akara and Yam which is the only source of income for her bills to be paid. At sun down the children hawks pure water and come back at night to eat Yam and Akara which has been a usual menu since they can remember and probably till death.
With bright eyes shinning with hopes and a fighting spirit, Iya Abeke keeps hope alive.
Lamidi, is a graduate of Accounting, he’s been six years and counting on the streets of Lagos, he walks the length and breadth of Broad street, with a brown A4 envelope which contains his life most precious asset, his credentials. He dreams of been a chartered accountant someday, maybe working in one of this very tall buildings. He was brought up and has spent most of his life in Ibadan, heard news of greener pastures in Lagos, he squats with a friend who squats with a distant relation, all with the hope of a better life in the city of dreams.
Lamidi was born into a family of eight, his father, a farmer and mother a petty trader in Ibadan. Coming to Lagos for Lamidi's parent was like a son traveling to the New York City. The harsh realities of Lagos and the unfriendly environment turns Lamidie’s hopes into dreams. He cant go back to Ibadan with nothing, so he hopes upon nothing, the Future seems so bleak.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It was a regular Friday evening, I headed for the bus stop, the crowd was intimidating, no bus, I thought to myself, "not again", then a bus came speeding down the park, I was now at alert and as d bus came to a halt I rushed, squeezing myself through as others did the same, holding my bag so tight so I don’t become a victim to pick pockets, I secured a sit right behind the driver before I could catch my breath, the conductor started shouting ''wole kpelu change o" I had no change but I ignored him, a look at his face, I was annoyed at his arrogance, and then I thought ,he looked like one around 21/22 years, dark and painfully thin, with red eyes and black lips, he obviously has been drinking and smoking.
Looking at him just reminded me of a young boy I interviewed some months back, he was lost in Lagos, those were his exact words, a boy with no future, he had chosen his own life path, he came from faraway Kwara state with no relatives in Lagos, he sleeps under bridges and buses and at dawn, jumps on the next bus as a conductor. So many other young boys of his age have the same life circle, they roam aimlessly on the streets, bus stops and under bridges, with little or no hope for tomorrow, they go into robbery which is the fastest way to earn money and shortest cut to hell and then again, I thought to myself, what’s the remedy out of this life? Can’t somebody be responsible? May be the government, the thought of that brought a sour taste to my mouth, well that’s a thought for another day, I said to my self.
It was a long ride down to Ikorodu, the traffic was heavy, and then I noticed a familiar street hawker, a little girl of not more than 12years of age, she sells candle stands in traffic, my heart wept for her.
she lives around my neighborhood with her blind father who makes the candle stands, how he makes them I still don’t understand despite his blindness, she hawks the stand from noon till sundown. Isn’t that what is referred to as child abuse? Then I took notice of more young and old, selling different things in traffic, this has become their profession, I wondered how long this will go on.
Life is hard in Lagos, how can we have adequate amenities? at least light and water? the new government promises a better life, by providing all the basics but that hasn’t really improved. Despite the BRT transport which you would need to queue for hours to get on the bus which people stand in between the rows, still not convenient. The promise of uninterrupted power is a far cry, In fact we virtually live without it and so used to it. Having a private generator set is now the remedy in Lagos, where the generator traders connive with Nepa to with hold the light so they can make more sale, isn’t that pathetic?
The rich stays rich and the poor, poorer. I took a ride down to the Lagos island sometime, though on a mission and not aimless, I saw life, beautiful houses and sleek cars, the gap between the rich and d poor is just so wide, I couldn’t comprehend, maybe Lagos is really meant for them. Better roads and electricity, which is readily given to choice areas.
and I wonder to my self ,do I belong? I am affected by this hard life and a victim of the hustle, but I wonder, if other states were well catered for like the posh areas in Lagos, if they had good roads and the basics, then we would all rather stay in our different states.
Some where far down east, is were I come from, were civilization hasn’t touched its borders, long untarred dusty roads, no basic amenities, not to talk about jobs. My Ibo brothers have no choice but to jump in to the next Ekenedilichukwu Transport to the city of dreams EKO.
EKO! The land were we struggle, hustle, fight to survive, keeping our head above the waters, we try living our dreams but watches as it fades, we cant go back without noting so we live and hope that some day we'll live our dreams in the land of dreams.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It was some time in April, some where in Ajegunle, stood a little settlement for the for people who couldn’t afford so much for a better accommodation. These houses were built with woods on swamp, even those built with blocks were on swampy grounds and like the tears of heaven, the rain came pouring with dark clouds, children playing in the streets ran for refuge, the woman gathered all they could in to the house, if only they knew what was to come. And the wind blew so hard, the roofs came tearing down and the rain started ,it seemed forever, it seemed endless as the water rose and rose, even to the roof level. They lost everything, all of the little they had, they were homeless, in the dark night, in the cold, the children, the dream, there was no hope, all chattered dreams, all they worked for, all drowned in one night.
Looking out my window as I rode in a bus, I watched the scene and I thought to myself, "waiting for help is like waiting for rain in the drought" after several weeks, help finally came, the government was able to make channels for the water to flow, but no channel for homes to be restored. That is the harsh reality of life in Lagos.
* * * *
From month to month and year to year, the black smoke from her fire wood painted the twilight skies. Gentle old lady squats by the black big pot on the burning fire wood, stirring her fired fish, afterward she puts her fried yam on the hot frying oil, she feels the pain through her back spine as she squats her back down, her old palm has been severely bruised by hot pots and woods, her eye color is constantly now yellow as the smoke goes directly into it. In all she finds her joy in her three grown sons whom for them she does all this, training them with her profit. They stand proudly behind her, helping their old lady set the fire woods, cut the yam and also sell the cooked products to the long queue of buyers including me. This is yet another hard story of struggling to survive in Lagos to make ends meet to train her boys, all in this land of dreams.
The story seems endless as there is another collapsed building on Lagos island. Ifeanyi, of blessed memories who was married with a wife and two kids. He was able to secure a room and parlor in one of these very "slim" building on Lagos island "Isale Eko" a poor structure which he paid too much for, he grumbled as he observed the smelly gutter, he had no choice, but at least it was cleaner than the one room apartment he was moving from in Ikota – Etiosa, with small space, he could hardly even open his window for it would definitely hit another neighbors window, he was a trader, he had a weave on store in the heart of Balogun market, business was going fine with him, at least he could travel last Christmas to the east to show forth his hard work to his people. On that fateful Sunday morning, preparing for early morning mass, The children were all dressed and ready for church after a healthy meal or rice and beans…then it all happened suddenly, in a twinkling of an eye..
The rest is history, a part of what I write today, he is gone and so also his family. Life goes on like nothing happened, and a lot of "about to collapse buildings" still stands tall on the streets of Lagos with more lives to be lost.
It’s an ordeal been a victim of circumstance, life has been so cruel, it has left people sad and many dead. Seems like the grasses are greener under other skies and not this part of our world.
There are definitely no green grasses under Alima’s skies, she was a victim of this feelings, thinking a lot and most times finds her self in the cool of the evening roaming the streets aimlessly. She was born from two unstables who fought to become stable, a victim of broken home and child abuse. Her story begins on the streets of Ajose adeogun were she lines up amidst other young girls to be picked by the high and mighty men who are patriots to this profession. She thought the body trade business was not so profitable as she does so much for just a little Naira, she wishes for a better life, maybe to learn a trade or get an education but were on earth will help come from? These and more questions she asked with tears in her eyes as she narrates a bitter tale of her life’s story. Is there truly help from somewhere, anywhere? what Is the government doing about situations as this? What measures has been put in place to eradicate poverty, prostitution, robbery etc.
Our people needs help from all aspect of life but I know helps comes from no where else but God, for when all routes seems blocked, through obstacles and bridges over troubled waters, HE will surely cater for his own.
Through teary eyes and smiley ones, the sorrowful and the contempted, we lift up our eyes to the heaven with the believe that only there our hope lies.
On a quiet Tuesday evening, we were all set for dinner with our plate of hot rice and stew with the steam causing the ceiling to sweat, with just about three spoons of rice down my throat, we heard a knock at d door, it was a very unusual knock, I got up and headed for the door, who is that, I shouted and it was Miss. Ross, our neighbor from the back flat, a middle age lady who has had her fair share of life’s bitter taste and resolved to a life of solitude. She seldom goes into peoples houses so I thought for her to be at my front door, it must be important. So I opened up immediately as our eyes met, she gave a quick wink at me but it was too late. I had guns pointed at my fore head, the rubbers were two and the others were positioned around the compound. They raided the house and threatened to shoot if we dint cooperate. They looted to their satisfaction and left us locked up in the toilet. When we were sure they were gone, we screamed aloud for help..we got none cause the neighbours locked their doors instead and turned off their lights for they also feared for their lives. The robbers flew free.
Precisely 6:15am on a Monday morning, on my way out early to beat traffic, right under the Ojota bridge laid a man rolling on the floor, he was an albino and probable could not see clearly cos it was still very dark at that time, he had just been hit by a hit and run vehicle, passers by as usual placed their hands on their heads, screaming but no one went for the rescue, he suddenly laid looking dead at some point and moved his legs weakly intermittently for people to know he is still alive, he laid there waiting for help as he passed on slowly. I was right on the opposite side of the road screaming ‘somebody help him…he is still alive’’ just like the other lagosians, I couldn’t do much but scream as my bus rolled away, I felt depressed that whole day as I wasn’t sure if he survived. This albino was with a traveling bag, probably one of the night travelers who just got back from a journey. He sure would have come into Lagos with dreams, but Jan 12th 6:20 am, he might have just died with those dreams. This sad scene is a regular on the Lagos roads.
The stories are endless, more of sad than good, but in all, never give up those dreams, in fact dream big, hope and be hopeful, rejoice in all situation, and give thanks daily for another sun rise and sun set. Most especially, contribute your own bit to this city and feel justified.
Lagos, land of dreams, dreams for many, young and old, rich and poor, the happy,
and depressed, the achiever, the jobless, the traders and street hawkers, the under bridge dwellers and men of the under world, we are all but passers by in this land, even in this world at large, no one wants to go back to were was once called home but feel so at ease in Lagos.
THE STORY TELLER
JD Ugwu
Thursday 22 September 2011
THE FIGHTING CHANCE..complete memo
You feel the wetness on your pillow and you wonder if it’s the water from your leaking roof or the hot tears crawling down your cheek cause they both flow simultaneously, one is cold and the other hot. The rumbling in your stomach, the bags under your mother’s eyes and the increasing grey on your father’s hair makes you crave for a chance to win no matter the struggle.
Just one chance is all you ask, to fight for what you think is yours. You want to fight to live, to eat, to breathe, what more can you wish for, what more can you fight for? You’ve never known luxury as a way of life so you ask for only very little.
The only one thing you dint wish for was to be born, it was freely given. You came from two unstable people who fought for a chance to be stable, you never got the best of anything, you had just enough to live another day and have grown to this life of hard knocks.
You want to take your destiny in your own hands, but how can you when you can’t even define destiny? how can you fight when your bones are weak, how can you blow trumpets of war when you fear to die? how can you dream big when all you dream of is the emptiness that the hunger brings to your stomach.
All you wish is fighting chance to dream and see it come to reality, a chance to work, any kind just to have a decent take home pay, a chance to have an education, to study, to become great teacher and lawyer and pilot and doctor and even a president, a chance to be able to express yourself without fear or intimidation, a chance to chase history, to make history and to write history, a chance to be great and be creative, to be in music, in fashion, in dance, to make a name for yourself no matter how high or low a thing you do as far its legit'.
You fight for a chance to be rich even when poverty is all you've known, to believe that poverty is not a crime but that if only you had better opportunities as the rich you wouldn’t be this screwed.
You want to create wealth, to give, to help, to be a blessing, to create success, to make a name for yourself, you want to fight hunger and poverty and corruption and war and terrorism and disasters, you want to bring hope to the eyes of the Nigerian child, a chance, for you are African and most of your countries are in conflict, there is drought in your horn, your north, up in arms, west up in terrorism and south in flood.
All you want is a fighting chance to live in a world when every 18 minutes, a young person’s life is taken, when your future looks so bleak, when you just want to be something and anything but a nobody, all you crave is a chance to fight.
Though you got history filled with dirt and you want to glory in your glories, you don’t just want to read history but write your own history in gold letters.
Just one chance is all you ask, to fight for what you think is yours. You want to fight to live, to eat, to breathe, what more can you wish for, what more can you fight for? You’ve never known luxury as a way of life so you ask for only very little.
The only one thing you dint wish for was to be born, it was freely given. You came from two unstable people who fought for a chance to be stable, you never got the best of anything, you had just enough to live another day and have grown to this life of hard knocks.
You want to take your destiny in your own hands, but how can you when you can’t even define destiny? how can you fight when your bones are weak, how can you blow trumpets of war when you fear to die? how can you dream big when all you dream of is the emptiness that the hunger brings to your stomach.
All you wish is fighting chance to dream and see it come to reality, a chance to work, any kind just to have a decent take home pay, a chance to have an education, to study, to become great teacher and lawyer and pilot and doctor and even a president, a chance to be able to express yourself without fear or intimidation, a chance to chase history, to make history and to write history, a chance to be great and be creative, to be in music, in fashion, in dance, to make a name for yourself no matter how high or low a thing you do as far its legit'.
You fight for a chance to be rich even when poverty is all you've known, to believe that poverty is not a crime but that if only you had better opportunities as the rich you wouldn’t be this screwed.
You want to create wealth, to give, to help, to be a blessing, to create success, to make a name for yourself, you want to fight hunger and poverty and corruption and war and terrorism and disasters, you want to bring hope to the eyes of the Nigerian child, a chance, for you are African and most of your countries are in conflict, there is drought in your horn, your north, up in arms, west up in terrorism and south in flood.
All you want is a fighting chance to live in a world when every 18 minutes, a young person’s life is taken, when your future looks so bleak, when you just want to be something and anything but a nobody, all you crave is a chance to fight.
Though you got history filled with dirt and you want to glory in your glories, you don’t just want to read history but write your own history in gold letters.
MISS JUDY
I love life and very positive about it
I'm very ambitious and there's so much I would love to do, see and experience
I like to read, I love to write, I like to think, I love to fantasize
I talk very less but I'm such a good listener,
I love to wake up and watch the sunrise in the morning and notice the sleepy ocean at night and wonder what goes on under that tranquil.
I love the smell of the sea, I love to sink my legs into the moist beach sand and just sit and stare as far as my eyes can reach
I love nature, I love the rain and the dryness the harmattan brings, I wish it snows in this part of my world
I like to be alone, I like to be surrounded by people sometimes, I love to laugh and just feel like crying sometimes.
Might I be in love again? sometimes I feel butterflies, sometimes I feel fear.
My ever first words were in Pidgin, it was my first language before I learnt to speak English.
I love the sanity in the villages and the noise in the city,
I love the tipsy feel of alcohol but I dare not..
I love high heeled shoes but just might never wear them again just cos
I'm very ambitious and there's so much I would love to do, see and experience
I like to read, I love to write, I like to think, I love to fantasize
I talk very less but I'm such a good listener,
I love to wake up and watch the sunrise in the morning and notice the sleepy ocean at night and wonder what goes on under that tranquil.
I love the smell of the sea, I love to sink my legs into the moist beach sand and just sit and stare as far as my eyes can reach
I love nature, I love the rain and the dryness the harmattan brings, I wish it snows in this part of my world
I like to be alone, I like to be surrounded by people sometimes, I love to laugh and just feel like crying sometimes.
Might I be in love again? sometimes I feel butterflies, sometimes I feel fear.
My ever first words were in Pidgin, it was my first language before I learnt to speak English.
I love the sanity in the villages and the noise in the city,
I love the tipsy feel of alcohol but I dare not..
I love high heeled shoes but just might never wear them again just cos
Wednesday 21 September 2011
THE GIRL WITH THE BLUE FLIP FLOPS..under the NIGER DELTA sky
Tombra, a girl,
12,13 slim wrists long neck,
she walks wearing peach, blue flip flops
stepping with familiarity
over the slippery backs of 8 pipelines
she is at 5
holding an umbrella with a bright yellow shell on it
she seeks protection from a gentle rain falling from an African sky
behind her, between giant palm leaves
dragons roar, bellowing black billows, seething
belligerent belches of acridity in the sky
when I put my ear close to the glossy paper I can hear
her asthmatic breath
each clap of her plastic flip flop against her heel
makes a poem, applaud the poem in her step
it is the sound of everyday people who live between the pipelines, tapeworms
vampiring the placenta, excreting toxic
into the bloodstream of a nation
the rivers are graveyards, the wetlands thirsty for clean breath
the land is haemorraghing
miscarrying cocoyam and vegetable seed
Boys who have given up waiting for jobs to come
Idly eye her as she walks by
A generation numbed by the futility of existence
It is ironic that their most valuable asset is their Achilles heel
As the stagnancy of fervent youth
Dumps them in the hands of AK47 robber gangs
who howl in the night to the tune
Of their masters – myopic madmen in business
Grappling for a fist of flaccid dollars
Greed at the price of a village
But then again, everything has its price in this world
Like this girls poetry in her step, her lungs
A fair currency, fat with poisonous air
Her mothers sludge garden, her fathers chest
Face and shoulder, burned in the last accident
The truth is a jealous but patient thing
It brook no hazes of the facts or credibility gaps
There is only one fragrance it will lie with
Time, the scent of time moves from fresh to death, rot to humus fertilisation of new days
It is between the pages of a day in court
That a mystery will be solved
Why it takes twelve long years to walk the twisted violent gauntlet to justice
Why nine lives were thrown into a wound cut with knives of lies
How the spirits of the tortured and the murdered
Can be redeemed from the dispassionate mouth of brutal
greed
And how with the wondrous alchemy of Nature, instead of bitter bile
Rising into the mouths of fishermen and farmers
work songs will rise over the trees
Will dance with the fish along the creeks
Will paint across a sky uninterrupted by fire and towers of black smoke
And how the poem of the girl with the blue flip flops can be fetched
From under the fattened rump of human disregard
And raised to re-imagine the world
Why she close the umbrella with the yellow shell
And walk in the unpolluted gentle rain falling from an African sky
12,13 slim wrists long neck,
she walks wearing peach, blue flip flops
stepping with familiarity
over the slippery backs of 8 pipelines
she is at 5
holding an umbrella with a bright yellow shell on it
she seeks protection from a gentle rain falling from an African sky
behind her, between giant palm leaves
dragons roar, bellowing black billows, seething
belligerent belches of acridity in the sky
when I put my ear close to the glossy paper I can hear
her asthmatic breath
each clap of her plastic flip flop against her heel
makes a poem, applaud the poem in her step
it is the sound of everyday people who live between the pipelines, tapeworms
vampiring the placenta, excreting toxic
into the bloodstream of a nation
the rivers are graveyards, the wetlands thirsty for clean breath
the land is haemorraghing
miscarrying cocoyam and vegetable seed
Boys who have given up waiting for jobs to come
Idly eye her as she walks by
A generation numbed by the futility of existence
It is ironic that their most valuable asset is their Achilles heel
As the stagnancy of fervent youth
Dumps them in the hands of AK47 robber gangs
who howl in the night to the tune
Of their masters – myopic madmen in business
Grappling for a fist of flaccid dollars
Greed at the price of a village
But then again, everything has its price in this world
Like this girls poetry in her step, her lungs
A fair currency, fat with poisonous air
Her mothers sludge garden, her fathers chest
Face and shoulder, burned in the last accident
The truth is a jealous but patient thing
It brook no hazes of the facts or credibility gaps
There is only one fragrance it will lie with
Time, the scent of time moves from fresh to death, rot to humus fertilisation of new days
It is between the pages of a day in court
That a mystery will be solved
Why it takes twelve long years to walk the twisted violent gauntlet to justice
Why nine lives were thrown into a wound cut with knives of lies
How the spirits of the tortured and the murdered
Can be redeemed from the dispassionate mouth of brutal
greed
And how with the wondrous alchemy of Nature, instead of bitter bile
Rising into the mouths of fishermen and farmers
work songs will rise over the trees
Will dance with the fish along the creeks
Will paint across a sky uninterrupted by fire and towers of black smoke
And how the poem of the girl with the blue flip flops can be fetched
From under the fattened rump of human disregard
And raised to re-imagine the world
Why she close the umbrella with the yellow shell
And walk in the unpolluted gentle rain falling from an African sky
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