₦airaland Forum

Pastor,
You mesmerized us with talks of greener pastures,
Gold paved streets and treasure-filled mansions,
In a place, beyond the skies above us,
But you own a lexus and a rolls royce phantom.
Your daughter just turned 18, so you bought her a rav4,
Yet 3 square meals most of your members can't afford.
It seems this gospel is not for the poor.

Father,
You heart is not as white as the cassock
It bears the cries of the young boys you defiled through the back door,
Now the holy communion tastes sour,
And the scent from the incense, is without a sweet-smelling savour.

You have become a LovePeddler to earth's vanity,
There is no difference between you and the celebrity,
Because you go about pimping for prosperity,
Television and radio coverages boost your popularity.
But you have yielded to demons to hide your insecurity,
You are antithetical to divine authority.

Imam
Just last friday after jumat,
You made statements to incite your members
Kill the infidels, you chant
Dipping the Koran into the Atlantic is all that matters

You say westernization corrupts,
Yet children are graduates of Havard and Oxford.
Your power comes not from your spiritual authority
But from your people's ignorance and mental poverty.
A demi-god leading demi-dogs,
On a cause that every one must accept by the sword.
Like you have a personal vendetta to redeem our 'lost' souls

n Nigeria, we have all been witnesses to what groups in whatever form (tribal, political, linguistic and religious) have done to the functionality of society. Is this the same fate that awaits Nigerian literature? Writers should complement rather than compete with each other.
http://josephomotayo..com/2012/10/of-literary-cabalism.html

200 naira for aeroplane
Na the new advert wey dey reign
Na the amount wey we go pay
200 naira for aeroplane

Dis one na proper using of brain
Dem wan open our mouths make we chop their plantain
Which kain rubbish dem dey say?
My 200 naira dor fit give me aeroplane

Una no dey even shame
To talk that kain thing to our face
Even carry am make radio play
Say 200 naira go fit win aeroplane

Abeg make una go away
Before I open my eye make una fade
Dis one no be project fame
Or who wants to be a millionaire game
Where all una maga dey pay
Becos 200 naira no fit aeroplane.

If I win am, where money to do maintain?
Which pilot go fly am go Britain?
When money no dey to sustain
And our pockets dey in pain
You come dey talk about aeroplane,
This your promo na work in vain

How about forming a group on BB? Just saying, I know not everyone has one

I would like to join. I currently write for baobab magazine and blog at nubianscripts..com. I have also wriTten for africa online magazine. I am also write fiction and poetry. My email is chikasco@gmail.com

Where cam I get copies of Dambisa Moyo's books and also Frantz Fanon's black skin, white mask. Debonnaire does not have these books in stock

Thanks. Point noted. If you noticed I did indicate that it is unedited, so mispellings would occur. I typed the story straight off my phone. As per the title, I would look into it. This is just a draft

Please your crticisms and comments are welcome.

"Chidera! Stop! I would beat you now. C'mon sit in one place!'
how was he supposed to maintain eye contact with the road and not get a heart attack from his wife's constant alarm.
"Honey, try and talk to the girl. Not shout, can't you I'm driving. If you shout I would think something serious has happened".
"With this girl? Chidera? You would never understand until you become a woman" his wife hissed back at him.
"And I don't intend becoming one, in this life or the next" he fired back.
"Then don't complain when I shout on her. Na me wey wear the shoe, na me know wey e dey pain."
"But you are running down yourself. Sometimes you just overlook her. She is just playing the pranks of kids he age." Chidera was now attempting to climb the passenger seat. She was too energetic for a 6-month old. Her mum held her with one hand and tried to fit her gele with the other. Felix was watching through the inner mirror, it was true, he would never understand because he was now a woman. He made a turn to his right, the street were the church was located. He could hear the perfect symphony of the band and singing voices of the choir this far up the street. He checked his watch, it was a few minutes past eight. Thank God he met praise and worship today, he silently prayed in his mind. As he approached the church, he saw the road corps, the arm of the church youth organization that takes care of traffic, doning their green reflective jackets over the church attires. They directed him to a parking space within the church premises. How life changes. There were not this much cars when he started attending the church. Even if he came an hour later, he could choose from so many empty spaces. There was also no corps arm, no loud speakers and now roofing sheets on the church building. He stepped on the break to allow his wife of over a year now step out with his daughter while he waited on cue to be ushered into a parking space. chidera had already stained her dress. He wondered what it would look like in the next 4 hours when the church service would have ended. Most times, they all looked like an artist's canvas. A plethora of unmatched colours . His eyes escorted his wife into the church. Memories of last night flashed in his head. He rubbed his chin and let out a thin smile. He honked the horn, in a desperate attempt to pressure the corps guy, who was having a hellish period arguing with stubborn motorists. He barely heard the loud bang, when he saw the car before him leap up in the air and land in the one before it on the cue. His glass, like that of the other cars shattered pieces in every direction. His reflex was caught between hitting his chest on the steering wheel and protect his eyes from the flying spindles. Too late. He could not stop the glass from hitting his neck, the suddenly his car fell with a loud bang. So he was up in the air since. His chest hit the steering wheel, the blow took out his breath. He was weak, and fast loosing blood. His fingers felt numb, and a soothing feeling came over him rising slowly from his toes. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone a burning body lifeless on the floor. The smell of ash and diesel hit his nose. Then it hit him, where was his wife, his lovely chidera? where they inside the church? Oh no, please God!! He shouted, his voice barely audible. But the chilling feeling was now getting to his head. He was feeling weaker. Soon the images before him began distorting. Soon, he could no longer hear the cries of others. Soon he began floating. Soon another explosion occurred.

"This shot is live from Abuja," the newscaster said " where this morning, a bomb exploded inside the church building while service was going on. The level of casualty is yet to be ascertained as we keep getting conflicting figures and reports. So far the death toll has risen to over 70, with many more injured. Our man on......" He reduced the volume of the television set. The constant barrage of the morning's explosion was overloading his sences. It barely just past nine, it was like he had been through a week's worth of hell. He instructed his PA not to accept any calls except from the President or his Vice. He needed some moments to clear his head. If such moments existed in this line of duty.
"Who's claiming responsibility?" Asked Ishaku. He summoned the the assiatant director immediately from his vacation. Like himself, his face was diatraught but impassive to the message from the screen before him, a trait that came from over 30years in intelligence.
"That group, Boko something"
"Boko haram" Ishaku pointed out.
"Yeah. I guess they wanted to use this attack to make a statement. Killing innocent people, in a church? Is this what your religion preaches?" As usual, the director of intelligence did not know when to divest personal from professional opinions, especially in sensitive matters like this.
"Sir I would like you to take back that statement" his assistant said in a firm tone. "I have told you times without number that this group is a political one, not a religious one. Islam does not preach killing innocent women and children"
"I'm sorry Isa. But look at this, what would drive someone to plant a bomb in a church. What type of political statement are you trying to make by such carnage?" The media. Nothing sells like bad news to them. The camera man had purposely captured a scene of the burnt bodies of a woman and a baby. The woman held the baby close to her chest, as if trying to save him or her from the raging inferno. The mother's natural instinct to protect her offspring exemplified by this last desperate attempt to her baby's life. There were pieces of dismembered body parts lying around. Headless bodies, deformed bodies. It looked like an abbattoir of human flesh. He walked to the table and picked up the phone.
"Who are you calling?"
"AIT" Ishaku answered, jerking his head toward the television set. "They can't be broadcasting such offensive scenes for Allah's sake. We need some element of damage control."
"The only damage control we need is crushing this this boko haram touts" snapped the director. His assistant ignored him, dialled and after a little while, barked instructions into the receiver and slammed the phone. "Brainless journalists, quoting the Freedom of Information act to me"
"Who do we have there, at the sight of the blast?" Asked the director.
"The best. Bamidele, he and his team have been on ground for the past 2 hours. He reports directly to me."
"I would like to be updated on an hourly basis"
"No problem sir."
There was a knock on his door. This was certainly no time for visitors. His PA stepped in with his mobile phone in his arm
"What is it okonta?"
"Its the president sir"

So as I no even dedicate my poems to anybosy, una no send me. Ha cuddlemi, plz cuddle me na

I may call myself a writer
But using words to describe you is like going through fire.
I feel burning sensations,
Emotions and protestations wrapped in confusion
Being with ​​U̶̲̥̅̊ is gonna cause some trouble
I  the clouds are gathering momentum
But through all the rumble,
If i stay through, we won't stumble.

​​U̶̲̥̅̊ were like a peal lost in the sand
A rose waiting to be picked from the ash,
But we are all to blind, chasing thrash
I'm glad I got you instead of cash

My berry
The thought of you alone makes my heart go merry
Before now, falling in L♥√ was scary
Now my heart melts and my eyes are tinted like I drank reddy

The galaxy would be missing a star dis night
cos with your smiles and words, my life you alight
Your touches send shocks down my spine,
Losing you is my biggest fright

I long for your touches
Your kisses, hugs and moanings
As sure as tomorrow would still come
To you all my body and soul belongs

BB,
We clutch them like babies,
Yet they prod us like zombies,
Turning us into dummies.
Homosapiens walk while pinging,
Some others Chat while driving.

The 'likes' and 'dislikes' on your DP,
Now a parameter for evaluating your personality.
We've all gone diabolic,
Breeding dual personalities
Our addiction to self-gratification is worse than cannabis,
We've become self-seeking and egoistic

BB,
You bring out the children in adults,
And our children you have made adults.
Checking updates like its our pulse
Distraction optimized, making us lose focus.

Rapper 'Ill Bliss,
With lyrical finesse
Was not far amiss
When he hissed
About how much our IQs are lower than our contact lists.
Mass programming at your fingertips.
Feeding relationships with people we don't know even exist.
Simple face to face conversations now extinct.

There is no more dinner talk,
Or long garden walks.
'Cos to our phones we have transferred the bulk,
Of making relationships work.

You say you are African,
But you bear the names of the British and Americans.
Your fake hair looks fetish and is brazilian,
Or probably gotten from a monk's temple in India.
Your face is like an artist's canvas,
A colourful fracas.
Yet you claim to be African.

You have no regards for your brothers
You are fed and stringed by the voices of aliens
Using ethnic and lainguistic differences to instigate pogroms, infanticides and murders.
How quick you forget when you were once trade partners
Exchanging commodities across the nile through barter
I doubt you are African

Because if you are, how come you glorify alien gods?
Whatever happened to Ifa, Sango and Horus?
Of course,
The new religions gave you an escape route for your vices,
That's why swearing by Ofo would never suffice.
They said your gods are evil,
Their shrines you have destroyed and levelled.
But in their museums, the artefacts you pay view.
Who is the greater devil?
I doubt you are African.

You say you are African,
But you bear the names of the British and Americans.
Your fake hair looks fetish and is Brazilian,
Or probably gotten from a monk's temple in India.
Your face is like an artist's canvas,
A colorful fracas.
Yet you claim to be African.

You have no regards for your brothers
You are fed and stringed by the voices of aliens
Using ethnic and linguistic differences to instigate pogroms, infanticides and murders.
How quick you forget when you were once trade partners
Exchanging commodities across the nile through barter
I doubt you are African

Because if you are, how come you glorify alien gods?
Whatever happened to Ifa, Sango and Horus?
Of course,
The new religions gave you an escape route for your vices,
That's why swearing by Ofo would never suffice.
They said your gods are evil,
Their shrines you have destroyed and levelled.
But in their museums, the artifacts you pay view.
Who is the greater devil?
I doubt you are African.

I would rather call it freestyle. Just wrote it straight off my phone and pasted it here, that's why its unedited

You come from a noble background

But you are ordered around by ex-cons.

Just because you are black and he is white

You take everything he says as right

Your brothers you treat like crap

Snitching just to kiss some ass.

The white insults you to your face,

But you smile cos the money has the final say.

Rig worker, rig worker

I may tell you this but you are not bothered

How would you when the money feeds your father, mother and brother.

You think you have won the rat race

But you are still a rat

Cos only rats win the rat race

I know. That's why I put 'unedited'. Am writing the story on my phone so I have not had time to edit on a laptop. I just want people to criticize and tell me what they think. Thanks for your comments.

He had never been at sea. Infact, prior to his present experience, he dreaded sailing or anything that had to do with water. He remembered the times he swore that rather than sail on a ship, he would die. He chuckled. How times changed one's perception and attitude. Afterall na condition make crayfish bend. Cargo ships, navy vessels and even ferries came and went from onne port. It was a busy day. He noticed that the speed of the rig was much slower than the ships. Someone pointed out that the rig was being pulled by tug boats, which made their movement much slower. The rig movement was a convoy of some sorts, the rig, 5 barges containing diesel, water, chemicals, pipes and equipment. There were 4 tug boats moving the barges and two military gun boats, one in ahead of the convoy and another behind. Soon the lively green waters gave way to quiet brown rivers. The only noise were from the humming of the tug boat engines and birds that flew. Everyone-almost everyone was out of their beds, each person wanting to have a feel of the movement and feed their eyes. People took pictures with their phones, those on shift looked for any available opportuinity to enjoy the flow. As the voyage went further, the colour of river gradually turned brownish, with rainbow patterns. Pockets of Crude oil popping up to the surface of the water. Chimezie had always heard of the dangers of enviromental pollution in the Niger Delta. How the activites of the oil companies had robbed the people of their favourite past time-fishing. Now he was seeing it first hand. The pollution was beserk, the roots the trees on the river banks had turned dark brownish and dried off. Some had already fallen. He also noticed that there was no form of aild life. Not the fishes, no birds flew overhead or animals hooting in the bushes in the banks. Rather, he saw speed boats stacked with jerrycans and drums of adulterated fuel and diesel flying past.
"Bunkery" said jairus the safety officer as if he read his thoughts. Chimezie could not muster a word, just shaking his head.
"Very dangerous and highly inflammable. In some communities,people die as a result of this." He was referring to the condition of the river and its propensity to catch fire." They would cut the pipes supplying crude, and from there it spills into the river. This is the result" jairus continued, pointing to the river for emphasis.
"Then why do they cry wolf?" Asked chimezie
"What?" Asked jairus, unable to decipher the navigation of the question thrown at him
"I mean, they shout about marginalisation, and poverty in the region, but yet they are the ones killing themselves. Just look at what they are doing, the money they are getting from bunkery is nothong compared to the disaster they are creating. They blame the oil companies but they are also adding to their improvished condition." He hardly finished the last sentence when two other speed boats, one stacked with drums, the other transporting commuters sped past with all occupants raising both hands as the rig.
"Why do they do that?" Chimezie asked.
"To show that they are not militants or attacking us"
"Oh"
"Yes"
"How do people here survive?"
"This is their place. They survive how ever they can". The surroundings before him was a huge contrast to his familar surroundings of lagos, the city of hustlers and electrifying energy where everyone was in a rush. Here looked like a scene from the northpole, except that there was no snow. Very dry, empty and isolated. The 'no network' icon displaying hinted out of touch with civilization. He silently said a prayer for hos patents and thanked them for the life they gave him. Education, exposure and all. Though he had felt dissatisfied with their status, wishing they were more opulent, the scene before him humbled him. Here, the people were not bothered about the vain things and material desires. Just to survive, to eat, clothe and make a decent living from fishing. But still the evils of multinationals and capitalism had robbed them of that. Now achieve those basic needs, no matter how simple seemed futile. He saw some mud houses with 2 canoes ahead lopsided on the river bank. The female paddlers desperately using sticks to poke the holes in the ground, desperately searching for crabs. The horn of the tug boats alarmed them for a moment, but it seemed to bring them a certain respite. They paddled towards them, begging for food and water. One of the canoes had a little girl, about 3 years old. Their clothes were stained with mud from a day's long hunt for crabs which Chimezie doubted if any would be alive in the polluted water. Their hairs had formed into locks, due to lack of washing and maintenance. They paddled harder, the anguish in their shouts for help increased. Someone threw biscuits, can drinks and bottled water. That would probably last a meal or 2, depending how many dependants were in the small village. Then it would be back to the same shit, same reality for these people. This is the story of Niger delta where the oil is gold, but the people are crap. And yet, someone, a foreigner for that matter was supplying arms to the youths to butcher themselves, while they had easy access to their oil. Some folks in Abuja sat in their offices and used pens to loot the proceeds. There was no injustice greater than this. This injustice had to be dealt with. Chimezie swore to find those weapons, even if it cost him his life. From what he had seen, he had lived a far better one so far.

What do you guys think? Drop your comments

When God created man in his own image, he had writers in mind. Writing is not just an art, its an expression of divinity. Through words, we call forth the abstract thoughts that orbit the shakesparian planes into life. We breathe life into our characters and give them a world to live in. The characters we create bear a semblance of our image or those around us. Even though they may be different, but each is important, playing a small part in the big picture. The action of each person causes a ripple effect on the course of events, but most times like our characters, we are blind to  this, oblivious of the subtle signs that have been placed. Like the characters in our books, we are appear on earth at a specific time, place and for a specific reason, with precision lest you disrupt the equilibrium.
Like God, the writer has to give the character the free will, the ability to chose his path, and part in the scheme of events. But he alone would determine how the script ends. We may become so attached to the character, sometimes helping him cheat death, but we have to remain detached for the fulfillment of the expected end.
Perhaps the true measure of the our divinity comes from our immortality. Writers never die, but live in other forms. We live through our books, our words, our works. Like God, we are omnipresent. we may not be physically present when that faithful fan picks up your book, but through the scenes, the suspense, the dexterity at which we deliver our ideas, the reader feels our touch, our power, our awesomeness. We remain fresh in their minds like wine dripping from the palm tree. When God created man, he had writers in mind, because God is a writer.