₦airaland Forum

Caracta: Ohhhhh! This guy again? This is beautiful. You are a good writer. You have a way with words.
Thumbs up

Yes o! Its this guy again. Thanks for your encouragement.

I once saw a mad man in the bin,
Looking satisfied, worrying not for what to eat.
He treated himself to delicacies,
Leftovers and junk that littered the bin.

He worried not about clothes,
Shoes or chains of gold.
Not bothered about setting goals
Or storing up cash in treasure troves.

He pays no rent,
The sky is the roof over his head
The cold wind his blanket
Under the bridge, his apartment.

His feet take him where cars can,
So he bothers not, if fuel is scarce.
Not pressured by relatives
No expectations from society.

Contentment he finds in his squalor.
So he worries not about work.
Does not have to impress any boss
For the pay cheque every month.

So in awe I asked,
Oh mad man, how can you be this relaxed?
He turned to me and smiled
Saying, son, this is the secret of life

Worry not about the morrow,
It may bring fortune or sorrow
Discover you own road,
Even if it means standing alone

They call me a mad man,
But at least I'm not a rat,
Running a blind race,
Just to keep up the pace

For naked we came, so we leave
At 6ft, your treasures go to the wind
Alas! The world fails to see
The sanity in my insanity

CrazyMan: Excellent...its so sad that MOGs of our days have turned christianity into something else.

I wonder why they can't learn from the life christ lived when he was on earth.

But all the same, the poem was nice...I enjoyed it.

Yeah, so sad

mufex: you should have made it in stanzas.....

Do I? Poems can be written in any format. Depending on the discretion of the poet

Thanks guys

Bald,
Her glory walks naked
Black,
Her mourning is decorated
Bowl,
Can't hold her ocean of tears,
Silence,
She sleeps with the dead.

In Ashes,
Her face is covered
She stands
In the court of the dead
Judged by
tradition of fathers
The Jury,
A Herd of kinsmen

The corpse,
Circled by dog's blood.
The cat,
To see in the underworld,
The eagle,
Flies into the horizon,
The parrot,
The Mouthpiece of the dead.

Must she drink from this cup?
The concoction of his corpse?
Must she sleep with the dead?
To prove her innocence?

So here I was in the rig, doing menila jobs I thought I never would have. Cleaning, scrubbing, painting and whatever hard labour you could think of. My experience in the majestic rig had de-mystified whatever illusions I had about oil workers. Is this what it was all about? Humans used as tools. Machineries of hard labour.
"Wetin you dey think?" Asked urhobo. My collegue, who according to him had been in the industry for 10 years, as a roustabour, the lowest position in the cadre of rig workers.
"I just dey think as this work be. With all this kain hard labour, I no sure say I go fit work here for 5 years." He let out a loud roaring laugh, but caught himself on time before he attracted the attention of any of the white supervisors.
"You no fit wetin? Guy make you borrow brain o. How many people for town get job wey dey pay dis kaion money? Na only for here you be ordinary labourer, for town you be big boy." He said emphasizing the last two words.
"But are you satisfied? This is mordern day slavery you know.
"Guy forget that grammar. Na money we dey find. Na grammar your wife and pikin go chop?" Urhobo sneered. I could see the seriousness in his eyes.
"I'm not yet married."
"When you marry you go know. How about your parents, your family people wey dey depend on you. You no know say now dem go dey look up to you?"
He was right but he was unconvincing. I planned to further my career in writing and lecturing. An intellectual being bossed around by illiterates and working under the harshest of conditions did not correlate with my career aspirations. But how would those outside take this.
"Hey, where's the fresh fish?" A voice behind us asked. Fresh fish was the label given to someone that had not worked on the rig before. As you rightly guessed, I was the one. It was billy, the barge master. Our supervisor. A short white man with bald head and funny attitude. He wore a tattoo on his left arm, a dagger thrust through a heart. Perhaps he was rebelling against death. I heard he was unmarried despite approaching 70.

It would still be tweaked. This is just the ifrst draft. What line did you have issues with?

Bodyguards would have barricaded,
And the blood would still be an issue.
Offerings bowls would be passed around,
To feed the multitude.
To Jerusalem, a convoy of cars,
He would need- A grand entrance
For Pilate, an army of lawyers,
To mount defence.
The woman in Samaria would continually thirst,
Because he has ethnic preference.
The merchants in church would bring returns.
He would build universities his members can't afford.
In his 'holiness', he won't wash dirty feet,
For his reverence, he won't sleep in the streets.
Miracles would be public spectacles,
Lazarus would have paid a handful.
The blind man would lean on his staff,
Waiting for the angel to stir the water.
He would have sold his soul to the devil,
for the riches of the world.
He would send the 'holy ghost' fire,
To cremeate judas,
The cup of life would have passed over,
And he would be another jonah.
He would have used the courts,
To block the pains of the cross.
Asking not forgiveness,
for the mob that cursed.
he would never have died like a thief,
To bring humanity everlasting relief
Because jesus was not christian.

"uncle, this is a dangerous venture. I have no training or knowledge of this kind of stuff. Look for someone among your people na. This is what you guys are trained to do. I could get killed." I said, trying to protest.
"Nobody is going to kill you. Besides I can't send any of my men. We have been compromised."
"Compro-gini? What's that?" I interrupted.
"Their identity may be known. I can't take the risk with my men.look at what happened to banjo."
"Who is Banjo?" I asked. It seemed Uncle amadi had a knack for answering the simplest of questions with the most complex forms of answers. Answers pregnant with more questions. He had aged since I last saw him, it was was gracious to him. His still wore his hair bald, his ttademark. His chin was clean shaven. Another trademark. Uncle amadi is a very clean and meticulous man. He pays attention to the minutest of details. An attribute that helped him rise fast in the navy. He started out as a recruit, but his ability to spot and decipher clues from layers of information debris made him an asset for the naval intelligence. At 52, he was already a Commodore.
"Look chimezie," he said in his deep set voice, "nobody is gonna shoot you. We just want to to open your eyes and report whatever is happening on the rig. We suspect that the owners are using the rig as a front for arms shipment to militants. We don't have proof yet. You are would be our eyes in there. I no say make you go there go do james bond, just look around, snoop around and report what you see. I promise you that you would be protected. Plus you get paid by us. Haba! Double salary sef. From the oil company and from us. Its a very good offer. Easy money." He smiled, knowing he had me where he wanted. I was jobless and needed money (who doesn't?), besides what he was offering me was far better than a bank would give me. I started fantasizing what I would use the money for. That LCD, cable, land, investments. Surely, I could not pass this opportunity

when I took charge of obalende brancj, a timy cubicle located in the police barracks, I was faced with low sales and patronage. Besides, the obalende area was infested with too many dealers like cockroaches in a kitchen cabinet. To boost sales, I came up with a credit policy, whereby I would supply customers 'stock' early in the morning and collect the cash in the evening. Sales trippled in 2 weeks, and Obalende branch was amongst the top-flight branches in Realtime comms. That was until Mr James came around, an ambitious accountant that would do anything including kissing asses (I literally mean that) to get to the top. One of his first duties was to reduce the losses incurred by the company. The company lost a lot of cash to staff who absonded with their money. I did not blame them. I still don't. It takes the grace to count millions everyday when being severly underpaid and not want to pilfer from the money. Besides, my boss changed cars for himself and his siblings (who occupied management positions in his company) on an annual basis. Those with stone hearts took the risk and bailed or faced a short time in prison, only to be released to collect their bounty. The lilly-livered principle ones like myself chose to stay and work hard. Hoping the good Lord would offer us a ray of hope like the pillar of fire that led the Isrealities at night during their 40-year soujourn in the wilderness.
Back to the story, Mr james lived with one mantra, 'please your boss at all costs'. Even if it meant stepping on toes and crushing heads. He could not care less. Soon I was in his bad books. He could not understand why I sold stock on credit. I do not blame him. He came from a banking background, and was not used to how we 'run' things in this industry. Soon, he started reporting my customers' debts as shortages. Then the quantity of my stocks reduced because he felt that I was given more than my capacity, that was why I sold stock on credit. Soon, sales dropped and I could barely scrape some thousands. When I confronted him for an explanation, he snubbed me. This resulted into a shouting match between us. I was given a suspension letter, but I knew I was not going back. To hell with Realtime and their slave labour. So began my 7 months of joblessness until 3 weeks ago, when my uncle made me an offer.

You see, the recharge cards market is a vicious and competitive one. So many dealers jostling for few customers. One of the startegies which Realtime comm, my ex-company put in place to beat competitors was to open branches all over Lagos state. I was posted to Obalende branch, having worked,more like served with them for almost 7 years. It was a vacation job I did during holidays to raise money for my schooling. My boss felt that he should promote me to a branch manager since I had finished school and was posted to serve in lagos.

It all started with a buzzing sound signalling that My Nokia X2-01 had a text message for me. I reluctantly picked up the phone to see who -or what- it was. The sender was Depthwize. It could be one of those bulk messages I thought. I clicked on the text icon, not because I wanted to read it, but to extinguish the message notification from my screen, so that I would not be decived into thinking I had a 'genuine' text. The content held my attention for a few moments. It read:"you are hereby invited for an interview on Wednesday 26 March. Please report at No 1 yola street, trans-amadi flats, PH by 10am."
I read the text message twice, no thrice to ascertain I was not dreaming. Those words were like an oasis in a desert. Yes, my desert of joblessness in which I have been soujourning for the past 7 months to no avail since I lost my job with a telecomms company. Don't be deceived, it is not MTN, Glo or those other big names that scam us with unrealistic promos and talent hunt shows. My former comapny was a recharge card dealer with the big telecomms corporations. I lost the job for trying to use my ingenuity.

Ishi we are waiting o. Abi ur case don turn dat of MTN network?

Strip me of my cloak,
Of dust,
Commit me down to,
earth's crust,
Tomorrow dies,
Across the bridge,
But tarry your feet,
Till I kiss my dreams.

Time is nothing but prey,
To the fangs of death.
Hurry while you may,
For the sun surely, would sleep.
Like glass cast,
Into a valley of stones,
So are dreams and goals,
Like Debris on waves.

I speak, no echo
I call, no answer
The silence of the dead,
Speaks to the living,
Earth is just a stop,
On the journey of life,
Only death knows
What lays on the other side.

Before my hour cometh,
As the withering of a rose,
Before I sacrifice mortality,
On the altar of death.
Bind them, the hands of time
Till my dreams fall through,
Like a comet,
Through the night sky.

My heart is heavy,
With plans.
Spun like cobwebs,
To trap opportunities.
But time dances,
Like a masquerade.
Gyrating in the square,
To the drumbeats of death.

Ishi,I have been following this thread from the outset. Your talent is rare. I see another generation of Soyinka's and Achebe's rising, and you, Ishi, will be one of them. Keep it up girl, the sky is your limit .
Much love,Pretty Woman

Dem don ban okada,
Now bus conductors go dey smile
Dem go carry passengers dey shine,
Even gala sellers don hammer

As dem don ban okada
Make sure say your phone get earphone,
And your shoe no be high heel,
E better make you sabi apian way

Carry small umbrella,
Carry small rag,
No forget to buy brown hanky,
And those palasa yaba glasses.

Now wey dem don ban okada,
If you be agbero, go find work.
Becos dem go soon ban bus,
To make chance for BRT.

If your bobo be car owner,
Make you go beg Fashola,
Becos chicks go plenty pass water
Any shout? Na red card

As dem ban okada,
Na Igbobi doctors happy pass
But if ​​U̶̲̥̅̊ dey sell crutches,
Soory o, na bad market.

Since wey dem don ban okada,
We go do am PH style,
5 people for one cab,
Nobody get money for chater.

Aboki go turn shoemaker,
Rider go go back to villa,
Then we go leave lagos for the lawyer
As him don ban okada.

But as dem don ban okada,
I hope say dem don settle police,
Cos na poor man go still suffer,
When boys come for night.

Yeah olulu, I have heard about you. Perhaps you would allow me perform my pidgin poetry.

The highest jonesing wey I do na to search my name for google,
I no know say e go bring too much kasala, I think say my moves go impress am,
But I no know say she hate poets.

I chase this babe for 2 months,
Her beauty dey open doors and pockets,
Now wey everything come click like a duet,
E come delete, cos she hate poets.

Her reason be say she no wan be second best,
Becos we no dey get time for our girls,
And she no wan drag time with my books and pen,
She come hate poets, cos of experience wey she get.

How I go do, poetry na my first L♥√.
You say make I chose? Me I no go even form.
Becos dis pen, na him I give my virginity to,
So I no care, if you hate poets

We formed a circle under the Ube tree
The moon's blue rays glistening on our black skins,
Listening to tales of our fathers,
Of wars and bloodshed in Biafra

Tales of bombs and starvation;
Of little ones infected by kwashiokor;
How Sounds of ogbunigwe became musical tones;
And laughter was an expensive commodity

As my hair turned grey,
And I witnessed many days,
I recollect my father's tales,
But I witness a different scene
Far from my father's reality

Each story is a coin,
Each side has its own voice
But we judge like the press
That sentences without a jury or defense

Now my children are filled with anger
And Hate for other tribes
The country is filled with so much strife
Because of the tales of fathers,

Seriously, when would Nigerians out-grow this ethnic bias?

I write for the truth not the pro-religious ones