Re: To the Guys That Want To Take Down LIB | Love Letter from Ayo Sogunro

Ayo Sogunro

Dearest Linda Ikeji,

Re: To the Guys That Want To Take Down LIB

Permit me the indulgence of a few lines to your eminent personality. I have been a constant fan of your work, although from afar. To be honest, I rarely open your blog volitionally, never scrolled through the news items on a slow day, never typed out the address on my browser to open it; yet, like hundreds of thousands of other Nigerians—I find myself falling into your domain through the intricacies of internet sharing and their damn hyperlinks. Despite this non-conscious increment of your page views, I dare say that I have had no cause to complain about the content of LIB—I expected to find gossip and entertainment not Shakespeare, and you have never disappointed me.

So, again, I am a huge admirer of your intrepid work.

But this is not to say I have not had some…

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Mayday; Episode 4

HAPPY NEW MONTH!! Ushered in with torrents, it appears this will be a happy month indeed. Good morning earthling, a mass invasion is currently occurring. Oladimeji Ojo premiers his mini series today “MAYDAY”, you all are invited to follow the thread of the six part series all in one day.

Posted here is episode four, episode one begins HERE

Jump right in, enjoy the ride —

Unbelief is a tragedy. Not for the mortals whose faith has gone the way of the dung beetle, rolling excreta along barren wastelands, but for the deity. The immortal with memories of the eons when their praise willingly fell from mortal lips and sacrifices wet their waiting beaks. To them, unbelief is a drought, one they must endure, finding succor only in the occasional paltry offering often grudgingly offered with muttered supplication. Unbelief is death, but immortals cannot die.

For Yemoja, the story was different, the people knew better than to doubt her existence, to fish in her sacred waters. Too often she had showed them that she lived. When an Oba got too comfortable in his own skin and approved the building of a bridge across her back without supplication or offering at her altar, she took her sacrifice in human form, its meat was just as good as chicken, the life force more valuable.

All she missed was the reverence, the respect, when the faith was strong, the people did not venture into the water en masse, soiling it with their urine except where permitted. They did not sit at her bank and fornicate, they did not dare murder themselves with her rivers, the people of old knew better, they hung themselves.

Her presence still hung around its old haunting grounds, hovering, never settling, sometimes a dark cloud, a large fish or even an old woman, it was the only human form she truly possessed, youth she could have only through a human host.

Now, she was sitting beneath the 3rd Mainland Bridge off the coast of Lagos, wrinkled face pointed upwards towards the moon, she knew Osu was watching her, he always did. She didn’t like what she knew he would see but she wouldn’t change her appearance for his benefit, it was beneath her. Her bones were obvious through the skin, stretched over it like aged parchment, her hair was done up in the traditional shuku, interlaced with cowries, in her hand was a short staff, the length of her forearm, she kept turning it over as though absentmindedly as she lounged beneath the bridge.

She recalled the lives she had taken for the building of this monstrosity that snaked across her back. The longest in Africa they had said, the highest death toll in the world was her reply, and she intended to keep to her word, until she was appeased, the Oba of Lagos offering his virgin daughter to her. She had possessed the young lady, wreaked havoc upon the city in the adolescent’s body until the bridge was complete, then she drowned her and returned to the waters to rest.

That was 1990, almost a quarter of a decade ago, the last time she had walked in the world of man.
Now she was watching the University of Lagos, calling to memory her time in that world, in that school, there were many of her daughters in that institution now, sometimes they came to the lagoon front to show their respect often with small offerings, no more white fowls and cowries, instead it was money they had gotten from lovers, shoes, bags and sometimes semen, freshly obtained from their marks. How the times had changed.

When the young lady hit the water, Yemoja spat in disgust, another suicide. The moment the human tasted the salt, Yemoja knew her story as sure as she knew that there were 12 vessels heading across the Atlantic towards various ports in Africa and that only 10 of them would make it all the way (a goddess had to eat). It was a complete knowledge, the way you know the length of your arm or the position of your mouth even blindfolded, everything that touched the water became part of her and she knew it more intimately than it knew itself. She knew that the young woman trying to murder herself in the lagoon pined after a man, a man who had just died. For the man and for the children she gave up for him. Three of them, snuffed out like a candle’s flame by the breeze of abortion pills.

The goddess would have granted the human her wish and let her drown, but in her heart she felt a kindred sorrow, the sorrow borne of the deepest love there was, the sorrow of a mother. She knew that sorrow intimately, was she not the mother of all living things in the waters? Was she not hurt when mankind tossed spears, hooks, trawlers into her being and pulled up her children for food and for sport? If they would only take that which they needed to survive she would understand, it was the way of nature, but they were a wasteful race, fat greedy children suckling at the breast of Eledumare.

The goddess slipped into the water and was no more, in that instant, the body that was once the exclusive preserve of Abisola Williams became home to something else, something ancient. When that body exited the water, it was completely dry and though Abisola could see and hear and think, her thoughts did not control her limbs, she had no voice, she could not turn her own head. She knew she shared her body with something strange, something stronger.

Standing in the dirt, that thing took off her shoes and patted her clothing, her dowdy clothes rippled, her body along with it, like the surface of a lake in the wake of pebble tossed from the banks. When she was still, the only thing recognizable was her face.

Abisola Williams had become taller, her previously chocolate skin paled out to a supple cream, soft to the eyes and the touch, glowing beneath the surface in a way that caught the eye, the kind of glow only the newly pregnant are familiar with, her breasts had become heavier, rounded, they sat high on her chest, flanked by a sloping body that settled in a small waist, the pause was temporary, that slope travelled outwards again to form wide hips, narrow enough that they did not appear contrived, wide enough that they set off her waist. Coral beads had appeared on them, resting on the outside of the aquamarine gown she now wore. The gown was simple, it would have been a wrapper but for the absence of any visible folds, a mere slip, fashioned out of sequins shaped like cowries. It hung above her knees and shimmied with every step. When Abisola Williams walked away from the water, she was Yemoja.

Finding a man to offer her a lift wasn’t a task, she was afterall the most beatiful deity there was no matter what Aphrodite and Osun chose to believe. The young man who screeched to a halt as she walked towards the University’s gate was planning to either seduce her or to rape her, he didn’t care which, he intended to have her, she intended to find her way to a nightclub, she missed those. She made the suggestion, the thought of her defenses weakened by inebriation was agreeable to him, he didn’t notice that she wore no shoes, not even when she got in, not even parked outside Club Quilox when he reached out to stroke her thigh, seeking simply a taste of what the night had to offer and not until he was bent double in his car, drowning in seawater, poisoned by a kiss, watching the mother of fish walk away.

Inside the club, she sat at the bar, waiting to be approached. Humans, some knew instinctively to fear her and they avoided her gaze and stayed as far away as possible even though they didn’t know why. Others, numb to the things of the spirit writhed around her, occasionally gossiping about her, ‘who wears waist beads on the outside of a gown? Ara oko’, the goddess had whispered her response ‘Yemoja’.

The young lady had instantly developed a migraine that would eventually end in dementia. They were ignorant, unaware that the lady at the bar, the one that glowed in the darkness of the club, could kill them all with a thought.

She could see some of her daughters in the club, they recognized her but they knew to keep away when she was human. She swept the club again with her human eyes, pleased to have returned, disgusted at the weakling she had to share this body with.

Once Abisola had come to terms with the idea of her possession, she resigned herself to it. Curling up as it were and accepting her fate, she did not even bother to look, to enjoy the death of the pervert earlier, to take satisfaction from the execution of a man, one who was just like the man who had driven her to suicide. She was not worthy but the goddess had chosen her. She would endure the weakling and take pleasure in drowning her when she tired of this plane.
She first noticed the thing when one of her daughters went unconscious. She felt the hurt she had become accustomed to, less severe than the pain of loss, but a mother’s pain is real when her child is injured. It was close by, she searched with her consciousness till she found that child, slumped in the arms of what appeared to be a man. She knew once she laid eyes on him that he wasn’t, no man was that perfect, unblemished, but he was not a deity, he did not exude divinity. She did not care, she would seek vengeance, perhaps he could offer some excitement before she killed him.

She waited for him to notice her, they always did in the end, the water sits where it is and only ventures beyond its banks in wrath, all things come to it of their own accord. Eventually he did, after feeding off 3 more scantily clad girls and leaving them unconscious. She had watched him. They were drawn to him, by his money and his perfection, they would clamber onto his laps after a few minutes of conversation, he would whisper something to them and they would fall unconscious only to wake up minutes later and stagger away.

He didn’t come to her, he beckoned, she briefly debated whether to oblige him but she was intent on this hunt and he was the game. She walked to his alcove, the people between them moved out of the way, her coral beads hopped silently about as her bare feet thumped against the floor. He watched her approach, making eye contact until she sat opposite him. When he spoke, she knew he was old. The conversation was fluid, he had traces of the white man’s accent and decades of knowledge, more than was natural for any man. She waited, she could tell he desired her, but she could not read the nature of his desire as she would have had he been human.

When the invitation came, she did not hesitate. She sat in his lap, one hand around his neck, his skin was hard, unnatural, she wondered briefly if he could tell she was not human as well, then the whisper came except it wasn’t a whisper, he leaned in, his lips parted, she leaned towards him, eager to hear the secret he was to impart, then he sunk his teeth into her neck and started to drink.

Yemoja was startled at the sensation, then she started to laugh, as her chest heaved with the reverberation of the laughter making its way out of her chest and past her lips, Abisola’s blood, tainted by the salt of Yemoja’s essence flowed into the vampire’s mouth, lighting a trail of fire down his throat, to every part of his being, when the goddess pulled away, it was he who was weak and gasping.

She knew what he was, but he was a far cry from his African counterparts, they were little more than animals, hunting people and killing them, no subtlety, no discretion, certainly no culture.
“Blood drinker? Taa! Emi yeye omi. Kosi bi adiye se ma soriburuku to ki o yeyin dudu. Kosi bo se le baje fun inoki to ko pe obo loga. Omo ade kii foribale fomo eru. Emi Iya Olokun. Yemoja.”

The vampire fell to his knees, forced in that position by the words she spoke. He knew who she was now but it didn’t make sense to him how he could have drank of the mother of the ocean. Recovering from the damage her essence had done to him he knew with a certainty that if he had continued drinking he would not have survived and with that realization came a new thirst, a new desire, one that dwarfed his thirst for blood, that quenched it completely, extinguished it, a thirst for death.

He went on his knees before the Queen of the Coast in the crowded club, ignoring the stares and begged for death. Begged to drink of her again, to drink till he could drink no more. Yemoja hesitated, shocked by his request and afraid of the consequences, he hadn’t drunk enough to weaken her but she knew the loss of her essence had affected her. This was a first for her. What he was asking could weaken her till she was nothing more than a consciousness sharing a skull with the weakling whose body she inhabited.
She went with him, in part because she was curious, in part because she admired him, mostly because she was bored. He led her on foot, both of them running faster than human eyes were accustomed to seeing, to a close somewhere in Ikoyi, she remembered this place from her last sojourn, she had murdered a number of rich old playboys in one of the colonial style mansions of what had then been new money.

They jumped over the gate with the ease of a mountain goat leaping along a trail, simply pausing to leap, going in she smelled three humans lurking outside the gate, she knew he sensed them too but he was too eager for his death, too thirsty for it to care. Within the compound he slowed till they walked at a normal pace, up to the front door he pushed it open with a flourish and a mock bow, the goddess played along and curtsied. As soon as she stepped over the threshold she sensed the other being. She looked to the one who brought her, he was confused at first, then relieved. “Wait” he said and walked into the living room.

The oceans wait but they are not told to wait. Man, dead or alive cannot command the waters. Yemoja ignored the vampire and strode past him into the living room. When her eyes fell upon the other young human, frozen in his prime, the rough edges of his physique smoothened out by immortality, she felt a deep conflict. Abisola had seen the one thing her heart truly desired and for it she would battle the goddess for control.

The would be suicide struggled to move her own hands, her own lips, to hold her beloved, to speak his name. The vampire watched the goddess, frozen mid stride staring at the youngling he had recently created, then she begun to ripple, her skin like the surface of a river, coming to a slow bubble. He could almost hear the sound of rushing water, he wanted to touch her, but he knew better, the youngling looked on, still covered in the dirt from his grave, comically afraid.

When the rippling stopped, she crumpled to the floor, the goddess was gone, waist beads and all, the only remnant of her was the whiff of ocean breeze that hit him full in the face as the body fell. The young woman stood up, looked at the youngling, there was recognition in her eyes and in his.
She sprinted the short distance into his arms. The vampire wanted to warn her but it was too quick, the youngling wrapped his hands around her and sunk his teeth into her neck.



After several threats from one of my readers *side eye* (imagine, by a female), I had no alternative but to release one of my poems (part of my compilation *in progress*). To be threatened by a woman… Frightening.

Much love, Lara. Thanks for the motivation, we all need some bullying atimes.

I hope this speaks to someone, as it spoke volumes to me.


Maybe I am drunk on imagination
Or this cup of coffee has me stuck in a daydream ~ delirium
It could be….. I’m stuffed on dreams and yearning
Filled to the brim, bursting right to the surface
I wonder where these words spew from
Even courage had stemed from deep within
A part of me I had sheltered and named “him”
The one who came to be, because he had loved a girl
He was here now, with me in this very room
We exchanged kind words like old friends do, when met anew ~ Cheers!
We had spoken words.. Or maybe it was just him.. Or just me
But those words fell, never again to be taken back
Unlike rain drops given a second chance
To be caressed by the nova’s heat, to be reunited with the cloudy fleet
Sweaty palms! damn you to hades and back
Stuttering lips! Darn you to the four corners of earth
But.. Could this be a variant of sorcery?
She pulled him right out of me with no scalpels ~ surgery
The better side of me, the colours in the black part of me
That cheery part forced into silence ~ muted by dread
The room quivered and took new shape
Earth and its constellations danced, yodelling a new tune
Two were left in the room to become one, one heart inhabiting Earth in its whole
Thinking alike, breathing anew
A time of second chances, the second Adam the second Eve
The magic raged and reached with flaming wings
Untamed, unnamed, majestic in beauty and flight
Passion at its purest, fire existing on self sustenance
Right into the heavens it reached, playing with the sky and its children
Toying with vain ideas, making the first errors of those past before them
Looking behind it, passion began to understand what really was at reality’s foundation
And fire without a firm source dies quickly to embers
Forbidden thoughts and acts were again indulged
And the sins of the father became us
Passion fell back towards earth ~ accursed – hurt
Shattering right on its surface, it resurfaced anew
As something else, something I had once seen
An old tune, an old “friend” come back to roost
Time had strutted around with its sword of truth, shattering all illusions
The truth had come, and lies were at an end
One heart became two, and two hearts stood
Staring into each other’s souls in a futile attempt to find that one spark once more
It was late still, the deed had been done
For the Temple had been perverted ~ desecration
The music stopped, two hearts became two of many
The connection is broken ~ Curses…
Dying embers and beautiful ruins, the magic is done
Voices spring up around us, we were back in that room
With the connection severed, and love dying a premature death
She walked away taking a bit of my sorrow, leaving a bit of her pain
All through this that other part of, quiet he stayed
He had been burnt again ~ Darn!
This time he stays permanently hidden, slayed or caged ~ no matter
I watch her walk away, while I felt him moan sadly beside me
The one that came to be… Because he had loved a girl
Our music stopped, the duet replaced by a “forever solo”
An early end after all
The deed is done, its time to leave old chum.




No matter what profession I delve into, literature will remain a resolutely important part of me. Its that caged bird that Chirps soulful filling melodies, the light at the tunnel’s end.

I’ve been away for a bit (no excuses there) and away still I’d remain for a little while longer. I’ve totally missed you guys *great lovely readers from the four parts of the planet*, my thoughts will be left here now and then, irregular but it will flow still. Pray! Do leave whatever thoughts you may have.

Till next time *huge hugs*


Melancholia 2



This story is one of those that literally apparate into ones mind after experiencing the effect(s) of prevailing situations that make up our reality in the socio-political and economic context we find ourselves, and as they say, the writer is a product of his time(s), an accumulation of everything and anything that makes up his reality.

A few weeks ago, cruising through the very busy strips of Agege  in a luxurious Keke Napep (that means tricycle, Lekki inhabitants and my non Nigerian readers 🙂 ), a peculiar sight caught my eye (well, mayhaps not so peculiar). A motorcycle with five passengers; a man, woman and three kids all stuffed into one scrawny motorcycle, with these Children laughing heartily ignorant to the potential peril their current situation posed to them. A terrifying sight, I do love kids so. Anyways, thus melancholia was born. I will fascinate you with details of what dialectic or deduction used to squeeze this out soon… (yh, like that’s going to happen)…….

I hope you enjoy reading this, as much as I savored putting down every word, every line, every paragraph…..


Ah yes, follow the blog for instant updates.



The wind whipped at his face, slashing savagely, it stung like a throng of furious wasps attacking an aggressive intruder. Street corners rushed rapidly by, naked children screeched and twirled playfully in the pouring rain and incredulous faces of young and old folks gaped at him from hiding spots, avoiding the rain in stalls and shops. He flew by almost indiscernible in his flight. Muscles rippled with exertion and speed, heart rate tripled mixed with strain and fright, the hairs on his skin stood furiously releasing sweat from pores but hidden by the rain’s offspring.

Hot on his pursuit were men of different shapes and sizes, hooting like freshly-minted lunatics, their numbers growing ever so slightly but large enough to convince him of certain pain and annihilation should they catch up to him. They shrieked, jeered and chanted a “keyword” in rapid succession, a word that is capable of sending Lagosians into a mad frenzy of bloodlust. Hoodlums, spare part dealers, pharmacists and other assortments of individuals pursued him, he could feel the fiery presence of their rage bearing down on his back egging him forward and at the same time draining the strength out of him.

OLE! OLE!! OLE!!! (Translation; Thief)

That word, it bound them all into a terrifying-single killing unit made for one purpose and one purpose alone “red murder”, at that point their minds had become re-coded, the basic human restraints shut down and the low level animal-type ratiocination taken over. These were mindless bi-pedals wielding an assortment of weapons, screaming manically via vocal cords. There will be no mercy but that of excruciating death from them, neither will they feel an iota of shame in putting him down as they would a rabid dog.

Only one path was left to him, he had no choice. If he could make it into 3rd mainland bridge, there’d be a significant increase in his chances of survival, although it remained a slim one. But he would take his chances. The prospect of drowning far outweighed that of being stripped, mercilessly clubbed half to death then burnt. Aiku pushed further, ignoring the strain on his thighs and how heavy his body felt; he pushed on for his family – his wife and his children that stare despendently expecting death, or that little shove to take them off the precipice of existence into deathly nothingness. Even if he did not survive, he had to move the crowd further away from his son.

Fear, tears, resolution; Aiku pushed further. Almost there now, just a few more metres and you are home free, a few more metres and you may survive. Exhilaration filled him, and his lungs struggled to harvest more air. His mind geared him on as he ran past the intersection that led to Bariga on the right and Oworo to the left, down to the pedestrian that is right on the edge of the 3rd mainland bridge. Closing in with blood coursing through his ears and fatigue just a breath away, Aiku avoided a static bus on his path, totally focused on reaching the bridge, and the escape it offered.

The plank materialized from thin air. Aiku’s mind registered with misery what it meant, but his body was petrified at what came next and deaf to the course of action plotted by his mind, he was still slow to react. The plank arched down and struck him square on the chest with such force his teeth clattered, throwing him feet off the ground. The Sun and rain touched his face in elevation, the world froze then crawled to continuity in nano frames with his apperception clouded by fear-and a heightened awareness of his mortality. Aiku knew then that he had made a grievous error.


He crawled out of his hiding spot, shirtless and filthy to the knees, exposing a makeshift sac made of two shirts tired together. Papa had given him the sac, telling him how he will beat “keregbe” out of him if he did not listen to all he said well. Papa wanted him to pack foodstuffs from the shop they just left.

“Bami, I will enter that shop now and then run out, that boy you saw inside will chase me, don’t run after us o, just hide and wait for like 10 minutes then look well well before you enter the shop. Pack sardine, indomie, and any other thing you can carry, you hear me so?”

“But daddy…”

“Shut up, I no wan hear anything, do as I say or Keregbe ma gbe e ti owo mi ba ba e (translation; a threat of merciless beating)

“Yes sir”

Papa had smiled then. Seems like a long time he and that boy have been playing police and thief now.

“I better go and carry what I need to carry before he comes back, keregbe must not gbe mi” he shuddered slightly, then skulked back into the shop….

A willingness took over, initially felt by the heart then accepted as surety by the mind. It was not cowardice, but unwilling acceptance of what the situation purpoted. Escape was futile, death was certain. A deterministic approach to thought, his end had been pre-ordained before that point his body was so broken and immersed in pain it had became numb, or the point he had screamed for mercy as he was mercilessly smacked, planked and punched left right and center. No, his death was pre-determined as far back as the point before his decision to steal from his brother’s shop, right from the time he opened his eyes to behold a new day. If he had woken up earlier, he may have met his brother before he left. Or if his brother has left a wallet which will have necessitated his return to the shop, albeit it reached even further back to a time unknown shrouded by mist.

But, what ifs and more what ifs will not prove as salvation at this time. The gods have won, the stream of existence will flow on, undisrupted by the extinguishing of his low level being. A mere spark in the consuming furnace of life, a speck in the spectrum of nano-time, much lower than a microscopic being, more like a microscopic being 10 levels lower than the tiniest microscopic being, less than a dot in the grand scheme of things.

The line of causality flowed back further, the long thread of causes and the elements embedded therein. The government, poverty, his unwillingness to study whilst younger; drawing dependence on pure brawn rather than mental grit, his wife and so many kids.. The list was endless.

They were screaming still, chanting their barbaric eulogy to the latest victim of their wrath, borne of poverty, misplaced anger, violent yearning, lust for blood and mental retardation

“ole.. Burn am.. Kill am.. Where tyre?… Epo da?.. Esun .. Thief.. Your papa.. You go die”

A strong smelling liquid trickled down his back, and even with his nose broken three ways to hell, his eyes remodeled to various shades of purple, Aiku knew it was fuel. Suddenly, pain was rekindled, a different kind, born of flame and fire. Spits of the yellow beast crept up various points reproducing rapidly, spreading through all parts of his body like a billion ants released from extended confinement eating all in their path.

Aiku screamed…

Not a vocal scream, he was too weak for that and his throat had been crushed by several blows. He screamed with his eyes, he screamed in his mind, his soul wailed, struggling impatiently to be set free from this vessel, writhing feebly, his arms flaying weakly, bearing such excruciating pain, dragging him from the edge of the tunnel of life he so much held on to. Slowly the light of his being receded, making room for darkness to take root, to spread. Making room for darkness to “be” and the ceasation of life.

His last words were never heard… “Damn the gods…..” Even his name “Aiku” had not saved him this time.


P.c – Google images

Asylum – My nation, My fears






This is not about love or its consequences

Or how much hurt can exist as one with happiness

And in happiness rot takes root

This is not about hope and its invincible strings

Latched to the back, deception bred, deception led

This is not about the disappearance of my humanity

Or my seeming static existence

Sharing spatio-temporal oneness with lunacy

Or lunatic-me, or static-me? Here I go again

My train of thought in constant flux

A concortment of discomfitures, senses in constant turmoil

Drawing into “self”, dying many deaths

The genesis of phobia, neurosis or stark asininity

It lies there, right behind the veil of memory

Buried deep, avoiding remembrance

The sun rises and it sets, one day never again to rise

My main concerns are no concerns of this lines

Or the unfortunate circumstances the world or my home in is

I play with words, words play with my imagination

The joker to cards the poet to words

Oh I forget, this is not about me or this “mind” gun with mirages for wounds

Or how inhuman our humanity is to humans

Summary; we are assholes to assholes and assholes to those good

Inhumanity; murdering children in their sleep

In the name of some “god”

Lil caps, your “god” has to be the devil

With all due respect, all respect to you is undue

This is not about my interests or the interest of the other man

As we have been told with words muddled with spit, piss and drops of our blood

By the powers that be, the unmasked rogues wielding might

Political zoologists controlling lower level animals

Forgetting animals have hidden claws, and other defensive mechanisms

If they remember to use them

This is not about the power we utilize and those we forget

The mind and the fist, two separate existences one less powerful than the other

We have forgotten the other

This is not about the unfortunate existence of my people

Ignorant to see, everyone is a victim

In the near future and all its actualities

Or potentialities, or possibilities

Everyone is a victim

The generation and the next in semi-stark resemblance

Except the next is a degeneration of this generation

Of woe and endings, of throes and rendings

There will be no hope, not till those who are dead are risen

The zombies, dead but living… Or mayhaps living but dead?

No matter, that’s all semantics…..


To continue on this path 

There is one end to this tunnel

Not light but dawnless day

An assurance of doom regardless of statistical distractions ceaselessly pawned by a certain minister

In orb shaped glasses

The devil in glasses, like her political father

The devil in a hat, in his physical manifestation


My imagination is surely this day riddled with aggravation

Mayhaps I’m just a dreamer merely, and this generation is in elevation or elated in degeneration

Mayhaps my generation is convival, soaked in denial

Volunteers to blindness – blind to the reaction of the actions of those placed above us

Unassertive to the murderous rhythm

I wonder if we ever rediscover hope, my brother

The lives damaged by the system, bereft of true leaders

Cursed with recycled failures in every sphere of state craft

Our minds are a threat, so they destroy our education

Our wealth is a threat, they stay destroying every sector

To fill the purses of society’s little sections

Billing us by the hour, stealing from us by the dollar 


My main concern is those that come after us

Their mothers are reapers and hustlers shamelessly grinding on videos for a little cheddah

Their fathers are without culture or sense, lacking reservation in reserve

The generation before failed to mention how to be women, and how to me men

Lacking the idea behind being a Son, a friend, a father

We living with the sole agenda to copulate, ejaculate.

Sex and the city, sex and the money

Fighting for the wrong rights, working less depending on tithes….


Everyone is a victim.. Its a murderous rhythm.


I’m exhausted.


I think I’d fade now.


But then again; this poem is not about me.




P.c – Google images