Due rain

Fazed with the choice of following orders or doing what my gut tells me.
Everybody always has a choice right? Wrong. Not doing what the commander said, scared me.
We are soldiers, instilled with the knowledge of “obey before complain”
Yet even though I thought what I was doing was wrong, I still couldn’t come plane
And with each whip I whipped, watch me whip, watch me, nay, I prayed for forgiveness in Jesus name.
Cos this man I made to bleed, I had heard rumours, he was doing it for me
And someone told me some other person told them, even the sins I had not committed yet, his forgiveness was complete
So with all the strength I had in me, I flogged every breath I could out of him
As my eyes said sorry, my mouth spat on his face, as he was still quiet. Shocking.
I was the one that whipped the 39th stroke. With all the power in me, I skinned his flesh out as he finally gave out a loud cry.
My centurion seemed satisfied.
I was assured of a promotion and pay raise.
I thought of the evil I had done, yet blocked my mind with thoughts of the joy of pay day.
I am the sergeant that whipped the King of the Jews
I’m still unrepentant. My payday is as certain as my position in hell. My pay is due.

His name was Autumn

Her friend never really believed in magic. “It’s only because you’ve never held hands with him before”, she would tell her friend. “His hands are just magical, how they perfectly merge into yours and they warm yours up like you’ve been in winter all your life, and this here is summer”.
She never really believed you could die while still breathing, till the first day she saw her friend holding hands so warmly with him, without her. Her hands grew cold and she felt the blood drain from her veins as she felt spring come on and just her face was wet from the rain drops.

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How much does Naira really cost?

How much does a naira really cost?
Don’t tell me $0.04. It costs more.
This other day, a random boy I never seen in my life came and asked for 50 naira. “Man, should I say ‘no’ and be rude, or just lie and sound good?” Cos there was no way I was giving him my money.
I said no. He looked at me with the I-thought-you-are-a-Christian-and-go-to-church eye.
Kill yourself man! The Bible said to be wise too. I give my money to only those in need, or those that have earned it. Sorry, I’m not sorry.

ATM issues

I still think the sexiest sound on earth is the one the ATM makes when counting your money, after you’ve spent three weeks cashless, roaming the streets and cafeterias of your school, looking for POS to make use of. It makes moaning sound like noise.
Man! How do people pay this much amount of school fees, go through all this stress, and still tell their parents to send their siblings to this institution? Must be innate wickedness or just pure hatred!
I’ve never been in love, but I reckon it’s a feeling close to the one you get when the ATM finally gives you your money. That was me yesterday. I count the ATM giving me my money twice when counting my blessings.
Who wants me to lend them money? :):):)

Resurrected Love Tales

I wonder if Beatrice smiles in heaven when my name is mentioned
Or back away, changing the topic, like forever avoiding me is her intention
Our love used to be a blessing
We’d talk about everything, from love to slave oppressions
Yet we started out as mere friends
We always never talked. The most we’d go is ask ourselves questions.
Till the first kiss.
Blessed bliss.
We knew everything lasted only a while, but hoped the love would be endless
Then we had sex.
Unplanned. I first had the thought when I one day saw her get dressed.
And right there, our souls fused. Like we got the same heel, our soles fused.
I finally could see clearer. My voice sounded better. I felt so good.
She said she did too.
Till the day she texted me, “what did we get ourselves into?”
“We got in love” I replied, thinking it be one of those nights
As she went on to tell me she was late at that time of the month. Right.
This be my girl, sike!
This is someone I promised I like.
But everybody till they get in the same situation, claim to be pro life
So we did it. “Abortion ain’t even that bad if the foetus is a foetus” I insisted
“The foetus is still a foetus” she repeated
Fast forward a few months, the doctor’s report said she died of a uterine hemorrhage
Was I to cry or weep or decidedly take a stroll to meet her at heaven’s gate?
I still miss her sometimes when I see a petal and remember her smiles
And I wonder if she misses me, or at least thinks about me for a while
I still think back to that first kiss.
Blessed bliss.
Chance had a hand in this.
Can you resurrect for just an hour so I can say sorry?
Do you still love me?

RIP To Me

I sit in class, fans turned off, mosquitoes turned on, my mind drowsy yet my will alert. I am determined to not be deterred from studying. It is 9 pm. Virtually every other boy is either in hostel chilling, or outside with their girls. I have chosen to not meet mine today. “Young man, you are going to study today” I tell myself.
In a bid to cure myself of the creeping in sleep I can feel under the plates of my eyelid, I decide to take a walk round the class. I turn off my lantern. Even if there is no nepa light, no cool air blowing me, all the insects around my lantern dabbing to the inexistent music trying to distract me, I will still study.
The outside of my class is filled with couples. They must be having fun to their fill. I smile. I go pale. “No it cannot be”
Haha, you taste awesome!” The voice is hers. I blink again, as I realise I really am not dreaming. That is my girl kissing the do-not-worry-about-him-he-is-just-a-friend boy. I laugh. Not because it is funny. But because right there, at that moment would be the happiest I would be ever again. The rest of my life flashes before me as they smile to themselves. That is when I died. Death really is not that bad.
RIP to me. I will not be missed.

Do Not Forgive Me

I will still lie to you
After we love each other for forever, after we forget about what anybody thinks about us as we make the world jealous with our romance
I will still lie to you
I will look you in the eyes, with the most believable face that has ever been mustered, as I teary-eyed-I-love-you-smile lie to you and leave you never doubting my honesty.
After holding hands in the park as we make pinky promises to always be truthful to ourselves, my next sentence would still be a lie.
I’m not sorry. Lying is a part of my person.
I want to lie with you. It’s all part of the plan.
Do not forgive me when you find out, when you notice how much bed rest my words have been on, how much they have been lies.
I’m not sorry, but I will still lie to you!

Forgive me

Will you forgive me?
Will you forgive me if I told you how much I’m like you?
How much I’m not as perfect as I try to portray?
Will you forgive me if I told you I have a bad memory too?
If I said I too am inexperienced, I really never got laid?
Please, tell me if you would have mercy on the truth that I’ve been withholding
How I 4-days-without-food starve myself, yet when I find out you didn’t have lunch, you’d be up for scolding.
Would you forgive my being more everyday than the everyday guy?
For being inconsistent, and constantly being ruled by hormones?
Will you be forgiving if I showed you a picture of my mind?
And you saw how messed up I was. You saw I too am addicted to my phone.
Would you forgive me for wanting to feel your pain?
Because I really really want to please you, becoming seemingly overbearing.
Would you forgive my manners? Pardon my making you laugh.
Would you forgive me for lying that I am unhappy, just so I would seem caring?
Have mercy on this poor confused soul, I’ve done my best to not be like this.
Yet every night I go back. I get a worse relapse than the previous time.
Will you be forgiving if I ever said I’m sorry?
Would you forgive me for breaking your heart? For lying?
Please forgive me for not being the awesome guy I promised I am.
I really have all my life tried to make you happy, but…
I never really did the one thing that essentially would give you joy.
Please forgive me for never talking about Jesus.
Will you forgive me?

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Dear Friend

What part would make you feel better? The story of how strong I am, or of all the nights I cried myself to insomnia?
Do you really thrive on hearing my sad stories? On hearing how bad my day went; how much I seek to kill myself?
You enjoy the sympathy you have for me each time I tell you how much I want to break down.
You love the look on my face when I get close to tearing up.
Don’t you just love hearing me weep? Hearing me not be able to catch breaths as I choke on my own tears.
You claim to wish me well, but love to watch me drown in sadness
The only kind of friendship you know is the one where you keep saying sorry.
Thanks for being there all this while. You won’t be needed any more.
I am now strong. You would never see me shed a tear again.
I am now strong.

#

I searched my contact list for someone to say hi to. After reaching the last name on the list,  I decided to play candy crush instead.
It’s far better doing nothing with my life, than starting another conversation that would hurt me.

Procedures of pain

In the black of the night, as the wind made the window clatter against itself, cheerfully and absent mindedly like everything was fine at that point
The darkness was filled with her cries from all the pain.
She wished death upon herself at that point
She tried to focus her thoughts on good memories.
That should lessen the pain, at least
She thought about her first crush
God, he was handsome.
His face was a mix of…
No, she shouldn’t be thinking of a boy now, not with what was happening.
She thought about the day she started secondary school.
The thrill, the anxiety, the joy, the tears of mixed happiness and fear.
That day was an important one.
Not surprisingly, she couldn’t find so many good memories to think of.
She tried not to think of the bad things.
Like how she was forced out of school a week later, never to return back because she got an arranged marriage to one of her dad’s friends
The one she was in labour to give birth to his child now.
Was she, a thirteen year old, supposed to be here in a labour because of a man 50 years older than her?
God! She hated men!
She hated life!
She cried out in pain one last time as she heard a shriek of something sounding like a grown wasp
She finally had her first child
It’s a boy!”, the local house wives announced in their local dialect.
She made a silent prayer not to hate him, as they started cleaning her up.

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I’m (not) fine

If I ever told you “I’m fine”, do not believe me.
Those words, only like white wine, just spilled out from my mouth because I reasoned.
I reasoned, “nah, it’s not worth it. You can’t even handle the truth.
Like if I bared my heart and told you how I really was, you’d forever stay mute.
And wonder. You’d wonder how I manage to be such a “jovial” fellow
“This guy is the funniest person I know. He always is social. He always says hello”
Haha! How deceptive those two words could be.
And how gullible the world is.
My mind is small, but it works on overload. You can’t handle it.
“I’m fine” is not my favourite lie, it’s the only one I tell.
I could Angelina-Jolie-smile you into believing I’m really not going through hell!
Duh! That’s my home residence. I live there. And it lives in me.
Deep within, you’d have to really search to see –
That this Im-the-happiest-person-on-earth smile is the fakest you’d ever fathom.
I’m not fine. Not one bit.
And you wonder why I don’t believe in love.
Don’t believe me. Don’t listen to me, I’m delusional.

Words on skin

These stripes on my skin are my babies now.
I’m in love with them.
How they widen when stretched, it seems they’re smiling back at me.
The contours they make on my flesh are not just superficial, they’re deep in my soul.
I can touch the marks on my heart.
These numerous heart surgeries I’ve had, are not just surgeries to me, they’re an influence. They’re my story.
They explain the conundrum called me.
These stripe marks, they’re words on my skin.
My scars are not just those, they video-stream you my life.
This is my own tube.
Scar-tube.
It’s just, only I am the viewer.
You cannot see them.
My face looks spotless, but my wrist carry war stories.
Tales of my battles with my demons.
They tell of how many times I’ve made sequential lines just to release serotonin from my brain centres.
They mention how many nights I’ve gone not able to cry because I’m a man, men are not supposed to cry.
These tally marks on my chest. You call them stretch marks, I call them my evolution.
They carbon-date-show you my growth from the old me I used to love, to this new small mind.
I miss the days when my skin was thicker than my bones.
When words did not pierce through.
My stretch marks, my scars, they’re more significant than your tattoos.
Because I did not choose the shape of these cuts.
I didn’t, like you, determine that my marks would look like a butterfly, or a heart, or something meaning more than just something to you.
These marks were chosen by life.
They might not be beautiful to you, but I am to me.
I love my skin.
This is who I am now.

Delirium

I’m delirious.
If I had 140 naira and had not eaten all day, I’d rather buy one bottle of nutrimilk and two sachets of water, than buy a 100 naira drink with bread.
I’m delirious. I told you 😂
I think I watched too many detective movies and too little cartoons as a child.
My bed is my thought fortress.
I overthink everything.
I overthink on why a paint colour was picked for a building.
I overthink on why I have to go to church.
I overthink on why rumours start.
I’m delirious.
I overthink why people overreact to situations. There’s no volcano without some lava. You’re overreacting because you must really like…
Why does this girl insist on disrespecting my being?
I overthink on why I insist on bringing myself hurt each time.
People really eventually turn out to not be as awesome as they seemed the first time you met them.
I’m delirious.
I think about why people date.
I reason, “why am I even thinking about these?
I overthink about thought process.
How does information travel to the frontal lobe of the brain?
I don’t believe in love, but I think I’m feeling it.
How can you perfectly love and hate one person equally and at once?
I overthink on why the naira keeps falling against the dollar. Isn’t there a simple way out?
I think about stupid stuff.
I hate overthinking, but this is me.
I’m delirious.
My bed feels warmer now.
My roommate is watching a movie.
This other one just stepped out, disturbing the whole block.
How do people know babies look like their parents? All babies look like potato to me.
I talk too much sometimes.
I think I can feel the sleep comibthsvsgsbfhzbsndhdbzbznsbshsbsnshalaidbdnznNnmmkkkkknnbbgggyfdffxfdxcccccfcf zzz

My favourite piece

Quietly moving, unaware of the rules.
Aren’t the rules supposed to apply to her also?
She basks in her own intentions as she rides her favourite cart
She must love that ice cream flavour a lot.
We were all meant to think within a box, at a time.
It’s amazing how she doesn’t seem to notice that there’s a box.
Alone on my board, yet still the greatest threat
The other chess pieces call her queen.
One by one, she sends other pieces to their doom.
The other chess pieces call her storm.
I just call her my favourite fish.
This pawn is now queen.