This is the night I’ve awaited,
Where the sky, a celestial seamstress,
Laces herself with a million beads of stars.
Her gown, spun from sparkling white foamy clouds,
Drapes across the expanse, billowing in cosmic winds.

Her eyes, oh, her eyes—
Lensed with the moon’s silver gaze,
Reflecting ancient secrets and lunar whispers.
I am woven into the fabric of time,
My beautiful night to bid farewell,
To embrace the void and never see another day.

✍️FOLORUNSHO MIKE IYANUOLUWA

Drink from the spring where horses quench their thirst

Rest your bones where the cat finds solace

Seek the fruit that bears the worm’s tender touch

Fear not the mushroom perched upon decay

Plant your roots where the mole tunnels deep

Build your abode where the sun-warmed serpent rests

Slumber and wake with the birds’ rhythmic refrain.

And as dawn’s chorus weaves through morning’s veins
You’ll harvest the golden nature’s grain buried on the other side.

✍️FOLORUNSHO MIKE IYANUOLUWA

In shadows I lingers
My heart torn and frail
I’ve seen pain knock upon my door,
Had I known, I'd bar her entrance more.

The weight of the grief is a heavy feather
And memories like fragile petals
scattered on the floor
An enemy, more closer than a friend,

My heart
her paint board
where sorrows blend
memories illuminating like the ancient chambers.

Creative art work
Etched by tears on my cheeks
As I watched love’s echoes disappeared
And my inkless feather dance on the scroll

Maybe not all pains are bruised to heal
some grips are greater than we've ever been bitten.
and since HE inscribed HIS farewell
on the marble of my hearts there it remains, unhealed by time or fate.

✍️FOLORUNSHO MIKE IYANUOLUWA

Threads of time
woven anew like knitting needles
I roar within the caverns of my pain
A once-glorious knight
now defeated in battle
Lost amidst the labyrinth of my tormented soul Thrown down the abyss of relentless dilemmas.

Death, a silent visitor
lingered at my door’s brim
Yet she refused to knock upon my hatch
I placed a weakened
fractured phone call upon the cold floor
But she neither attended nor crossed my path.

All I possessed was a mere teaspoon of acid
Yet death remained aloof
refusing to greet me
In the grip of severe hunger and fleeting consciousness
I wondered if this was the place where I, too, turned ghostly white.

COMBO: A journey through time

Episode 7
(Welcoming combat)

As Omiran loomed over the battered and bloodied Ajani, his massive fist closed around the warrior’s body, squeezing the life out of him with a relentless grip. Ajani’s vision blurred, and the world faded into darkness as the giant’s monstrous strength threatened to crush him completely.
But just as it seemed that Ajani’s fate was sealed, a sudden, deafening gunshot echoed through the desolate landscape.
The air was filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder as a bullet from a high-powered rifle tore through Omiran’s colossal hand, causing him to release his grip on Ajani.
The giant roared in agony, his wounded hand recoiling in pain. Blood gushed from the gunshot wound, staining the sand crimson. Ajani, gasping for breath and barely conscious, crawled away from the fallen giant, his body battered and broken.
As Ajani lay on the sand, battered and gasping for breath, he looked toward the source of the gunshot, his savior yet unknown. The battle had reached a momentary standstill, and the wounded giant staggered back, blood gushing from his wounded hand, his one Bloody eye glaring with fury and pain.
The scene was frozen in time, a tense tableau of conflict and uncertainty, as the aftermath of the gunshot rippled through the desolate landscape.
The cycling old man emerged on the scene, a figure from the distance gradually coming into focus, like a lone wanderer traversing the vast expanse of a desolate wasteland. His presence was a testament to the indomitable spirit that resided within him, defying the limitations of age and time.
With a determined resolve etched across his weathered face, the old man had made a gallant attempt to intervene in the battle between Ajani and the colossal Omiran. His shot, a symbol of defiance against the overwhelming odds, had struck true, changing the course of the conflict.
Hastily, he made his way to his fallen bicycle, its frame battered and its wheels caked with the unforgiving desert sands. With the agility that belied his years, he retrieved a cache of gunpowder, the very lifeblood of his firearm, from a hidden compartment. His hands moved with the practiced precision of a seasoned marksman, expertly reloading his weapon, preparing it for another decisive shot.
The metallic clink of bullets sliding into the chamber echoed through the silence of the desolate battlefield, a sound that carried both hope and determination. The old man’s wrinkled fingers, gnarled by a lifetime of experience, closed around the familiar grip of his gun, his aim unwavering, his heart resolute.
The night's eerie stillness was shattered by the relentless cadence of Omiran's approaching footsteps, each heavy footfall resonating like a doom-laden drumbeat. In that ominous moment, the old man's trembling hands and fearful determination were all that stood between them and impending catastrophe.
Desperation hung in the air as the old man attempted to reload his weapon, the metallic clicking of bullets against the chamber now a fragile symphony of hope. But fear, an unwelcome companion, had taken root within him, causing his hands to tremble with a fervor born of sheer terror.
The cruel hand of fate intervened once more. As he fumbled to reload, the bullets slipped from the clip, clattering to the unforgiving ground below. Panic welled up within him as he desperately tried to locate the fallen ammunition, his trembling hands failing him in his moment of dire need.
Omiran's colossal form closed in, an inexorable force of nature. With a single, massive sweep, he seized the old man from chest to head, his arm a vice-like grip that left no room for escape. In a cruel twist of fate, Omiran's second hand closed around the old man's frail form, from his stomach down to his toes, stretching him in opposite directions with ruthless force.
The old man's feeble cries for mercy were lost in the face of Omiran's overpowering strength. The unforgiving sands bore witness to this merciless tableau, as the giant and his victim became pawns in a brutal and unequal struggle.
In the harsh and unforgiving night, the old man's fate hung in the balance, a fragile thread that threatened to snap at any moment. The darkness seemed to close in around them, a silent witness to the unfolding tragedy, as the relentless Omiran held the old man's life in his colossal grasp.
As the nightmarish scene unfolded beneath the unforgiving sky, the ground bore witness to the gruesome aftermath. The once-barren soil now glistened with the sickening crimson of spilled blood, a stark testament to the old cyclist hunter's tragic demise.
Intestines, once hidden beneath layers of skin and muscle, now lay exposed, their grotesque presence a cruel reminder of the brutality that had transpired. The night's darkness seemed to cling to this macabre tableau, shrouding it in an eerie and haunting aura.
In that desolate and forsaken place, the old man's life had come to a horrific end, a sacrifice to the unrelenting power of Omiran. The very earth itself seemed to bear witness to the senseless violence, as if lamenting the loss of a soul whose courage had burned brightly in the face of overwhelming odds.
The night air, heavy with the weight of tragedy, carried the echoes of a battle that had raged beyond the realm of mortal comprehension. It was a haunting reminder that in the unforgiving wilderness, survival often hinged on a fragile thread, and the line between life and death was eternally thin.
Ajani, his voice silenced by the harrowing events that had unfolded, stood amidst the blood-soaked sands, a witness to the grim fate that had befallen the old cyclist hunter. Grief and sadness etched across his face, his spirit remained unbroken, and his determination unwavering.
With trembling hands, he retrieved the sharp iron rod, a symbol of his defiance in the face of Omiran's overwhelming power. It gleamed ominously in the moonlight, a weapon of retribution against the colossal terror that had wrought havoc upon their lives.
Summoning his courage, Ajani let out a piercing whistle, a haunting sound that echoed through the desolation, calling Omiran's attention. The giant, still drenched in the old man's blood, turned his one good eye toward the source of the sound, his curiosity piqued.
In that fateful moment, their gazes locked, and Omiran's malevolent eye met the gleaming tip of the iron rod. Time seemed to slow as the rod descended with a swift and deadly grace, its sharp edge seeking retribution for the fallen.
A roar of agony pierced the night, a symphony of pain and vengeance, as the iron rod struck Omiran's eye with merciless force. The giant's howl of torment echoed across the desolate expanse, a testament to the agony he now suffered.
In a gruesome and visceral display, Omiran's massive form trembled and convulsed, and with a sickening thud, his colossal frame crumbled to the ground.
The deafening silence that followed the brutal demise of Omiran was broken by a sound both miraculous and heartwarming—the cry of a newborn child. The infant's wails cut through the tension, filling the air with the promise of new life amidst the desolation.
Ajani, his heart racing with a mixture of relief and awe, turned to look in the direction from which the cries emanated. Could it be that his wife had given birth amidst the chaos and turmoil?
Summoning every ounce of strength, he attempted to stand and make his way to where his wife lay, her body weary from the ordeal. Hope and concern battled within him as he yearned to hold his newborn child and ensure his wife's well-being.
However, as he struggled to rise, a bone-chilling sound sent shivers down his spine. Omiran, the seemingly defeated giant, was not yet vanquished. With a grotesque and agonizing effort, Omiran, in a horrifying display of resilience, pulled the iron rod from his eye socket.
Ajani's heart sank as he watched Omiran rise, the giant's form towering once more. The relentless adversary, his one eye now blazing in crimson and with pain, was not yet ready to yield.
As Omiran rose, his monstrous resilience defying the odds, Ajani knew that the battle was far from over. The giant’s bellow of agony had transformed into a primal roar of rage and determination. Blood flowed freely from his ruined eye, but he seemed impervious to pain.
Ajani’s breath quickened, his heart pounding in his chest as he struggled to regain his footing.
With no time to retrieve the iron rod, Ajani cast it aside and scanned the gruesome battlefield. His gaze fell upon the lifeless body of the old cyclist hunter, the cutlass that had once been his weapon of choice now lying beside him.
With a sense of grim determination, Ajani picked up the blood-stained cutlass. Its weight felt reassuring in his hand, a tool of both defense and retribution. He knew that he needed to end this battle before Omiran could regain his senses.
Omiran, now blinded and disoriented, staggered to his feet. His monstrous form swayed, and he let out a guttural growl of frustration and pain. He swung his massive fists wildly, his strikes landing far from their mark, but the sheer force behind them made them a deadly threat.
Ajani circled the blinded giant, his every move calculated and precise. He had become a shadow in the moonlight, a master of stealth and strategy. With each swing of Omiran’s colossal fists, Ajani danced away, narrowly avoiding the devastating blows that could crush him in an instant.
The cutlass in Ajani’s hand became an extension of himself, a deadly dance partner in the macabre ballet of battle. He waited for the perfect moment, for that one opening when he could strike a decisive blow.
It came in a flash of inspiration. Omiran, disoriented and enraged, swung his massive head wildly from side to side, as if trying to sense his opponent through sound alone. In that vulnerable moment, Ajani lunged forward, his cutlass slicing through the air with deadly precision.
The blade found its mark, biting deep into the giant’s chest. Omiran let out a deafening roar of agony as he stumbled backward, blood pouring from the fresh wound. He reached out blindly, trying to grasp his elusive foe, but Ajani was already on the move.
With one final, desperate strike, Ajani summoned every ounce of strength left in his battered body. The moonlight seemed to dance upon the gleaming edge of his blood-streaked cutlass as it descended like the judgment of the heavens.
Omiran’s gurgling gasp was a grotesque symphony of despair as the blade found its mark. It plunged into the giant’s chest, cleaving through the thick muscle and sinew, unrelenting until it reached its ultimate destination - the heart that had fueled so much brutality.
Ajani stood over his fallen adversary, a solitary figure bathed in the eerie, spectral glow of the moonlight. His chest heaved with the exertion of his final, fateful blow, and his pulse thundered in his ears as if the very cosmos had borne witness to his triumph.
The once-terrifying giant’s form lay sprawled like a monument to hubris, the ground itself seeming to recoil from the grotesque spectacle. Omiran’s blood, dark and malevolent, pooled around him, mingling with the sands of the unforgiving soil, as if the earth itself thirsted for retribution.
Ajani’s grip on the cutlass slackened, and he staggered back, his body protesting the physical and emotional toll of the battle. The moon, an unblinking sentinel in the night sky, cast its indifferent gaze upon the scene, as if judging the deeds of men and monsters alike.
In that chilling moment, victory tasted both sweet and bitter. The battle had exacted a heavy toll, and the scars of this night would forever mark Ajani’s soul. Yet, the promise of a new beginning, symbolized by the cries of his newborn child, glimmered like a distant star on the horizon.
As the haunting echoes of the battle faded into the silence of the night, Ajani knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges. But with the giant now vanquished and his spirit unbroken, he turned away from the fallen behemoth
As Ajani staggered back from the fallen giant, his vision blurred and his strength waning, he turned his gaze toward his wife. She sat on the blood-soaked sand, cradling their crying newborn child in her arms. Her face was etched with both relief and concern as she watched her husband's every step.
With each faltering stride, he drew closer to them, determined to hold his child for the first time. The cries of the baby seemed to echo in his ears, a melody of hope in the midst of the desolation.
But as he reached them, his battered body finally gave in to exhaustion. With a soft, wordless gasp, Ajani's world went dark, and he crumpled to the ground, his consciousness slipping away like sand through his fingers.
His wife's desperate cry of his name was the last sound he heard before the unforgiving night claimed him.

To be continued…

COMBO: A journey through time

Episode 6
(The Messiah)

As the distance closed between Ajani and the old woman, and the lioness closed in on her, the fate of two souls hung in the balance, a dramatic showdown between courage and ferocity in the heart of Aiyetele.
With every determined stride, Ajani advanced across the barren, ashen landscape. His footprints left ephemeral trails in the loose, dusty earth, like echoes of his resolve in this desolate realm. His heart thundered within his chest, a relentless drumbeat that reverberated through the lifeless expanse.
His unwavering focus remained locked on the fallen woman, her frail form already weakened and unable to flee. She lay there, a fragile wisp in a world stripped of vitality, her eyes wide with fear, mirroring the vast emptiness around them.
In the distance, the approaching lioness embodied the very essence of death incarnate. Her sinewy muscles rippled beneath her dusty coat, and her predatory eyes blazed with an unwavering hunger, a creature born of relentless survival in this unforgiving terrain.
As the lioness sprang forth with an eerie elegance, the old woman, her strength depleted, remained frozen in a tableau of desperation, a delicate flower amidst the harsh, unforgiving terrain.
In that fateful moment, Ajani became the embodiment of heroism, a solitary figure in a desolate saga. He surged forward with a leap into the abyss of danger, a fleeting shadow against the backdrop of an unforgiving world. Time itself stretched thin as he defied gravity's grasp, his body soaring like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
The log he clutched became his Excalibur, a weapon forged not in the fires of myth but in the crucible of necessity. He swung it with a fervor born of desperation, and as it met the lioness's head, the universe erupted into chaos. The impact reverberated through Ajani's very being, and he tumbled to the ground, a fallen hero in this desolate theater.
The lioness, no less impacted, unleashed a primal roar of pain, her lithe frame twisting in mid-air. She crashed to the ground on the far side of her intended victim, a fallen comet cast aside by the hand of destiny.
Without hesitation, Ajani pushed himself up from the ashen ground, a cloud of dust swirling around his head, and a gritty handful of sand lingering at the corner of his mouth. He extended a trembling arm toward his trusty log, his sole weapon in this desolate battleground. However, as his fingers brushed against it, he winced in pain, realizing that his elbow bore the brunt of his recent clash with the lioness. It now protested, weakened and less willing to grasp the log.
As Ajani strained to reach for his lifeline, the lioness, undeterred by her previous fall, emerged from the dust with a ferocious determination. She shook her head in an almost disdainful manner, her eyes aflame with anger, and a hint of her carnivorous teeth glistening menacingly in the harsh light. Her predatory gaze locked onto Ajani, marking him as her prey this time.
Amidst the chaos, Ajani's thoughts raced like the wind through the arid wasteland. "This is not the time to falter," he whispered to himself inwardly, his voice a calming echo within the tumult of his mind. Despite the pain in his bruised elbow and the looming threat before him, his resolve remained unbroken, a flicker of unwavering determination in the face of impending danger.
Ajani clenched the log tightly, his gaze briefly flickering to the woman who lay motionless, overcome by fear. Her fate remained uncertain, but in this perilous moment, her life depended on his ability to confront the looming threat.
With adrenaline surging through her veins, the lioness surged forward, a relentless force of nature. Time seemed to slow as Ajani, undaunted, bent slightly and raised the log above his head. In an act of sheer desperation, he slammed the heavy piece of wood into the unforgiving, sandy ground with all the strength he could muster.
A thunderous crack echoed through the desolation as the log shattered, its broken edges now transformed into jagged, menacing spears of wood. Ajani held the makeshift weapon out before him, its splintered tips gleaming ominously, as if they were eager to pierce the lioness's flesh, awaiting her like a grim host welcoming an unwelcome guest.
The lioness, now mere meters away, locked eyes with Ajani.
In a blinding flash of primal instinct, the lioness sprang forward, a coiled fury of muscle and intent. Her leap was a breathtaking display of power and grace as she soared through the air, her eyes locked onto Ajani with a fiery determination.
her furious charge halted by the barrier of jagged wood. In that tense moment, the world held its breath, nature itself poised to witness the outcome of this brutal standoff between man and beast. Despite Ajani's makeshift defense of jagged wood, the lioness closed the gap between them in an instant. Her descent was a blur, and she pounced upon him with a breathtaking ferocity. The world seemed to shudder as the two forces of nature collided in a savage embrace.
Ajani's world exploded into chaos as he was engulfed by the lioness's weight and strength. The sheer force of her attack drove him into the unforgiving earth, and a guttural cry of pain escaped his lips. In that harrowing moment, the dusty ground bore witness to the brutal clash between humanity and the untamed landscape.
A tense hush descended upon the scene as onlookers who had initially fled in fear cautiously approached. The aftermath of the brutal confrontation was marked by a haunting minute of stillness, where time seemed to stand still, and the air hung heavy with uncertainty.
Ajani lay beneath the lioness, his once defiant posture now reduced to a tableau of stark vulnerability. His arm, exposed and bloodied, is a testament to the lioness’ victory.
victorious but equally battered, covered various parts of Ajani's form, from his face to his belly, with her tawny fur, as if in a protective gesture towards her fallen foe. One of Ajani's legs, limp and unconscious, lay trapped beneath the lioness's weight, while the other jutted out at an awkward angle, resembling an overturned letter V, unmoved and defiant amidst the chaos.
In the midst of this tableau, the silent witnesses stood as living testaments to the unpredictable dance of life and death in the unforgiving battle, their faces reflecting a mixture of awe, fear, and, perhaps, a glimmer of respect for the battle-scarred combatants who had faced the very heart of darkness and lived to tell the tale.
Amidst the stunned onlookers, a collective gasp swept through the crowd as a sudden tremor shook the scene. But this time, it wasn't the lioness that had stirred; it was Ajani, summoning his last reserves of strength to extricate himself from beneath the motionless predator. With unwavering determination, he strained against the lioness's weight, his muscles aching, and his body battered.
A jubilant uproar erupted among the onlookers, their fear and tension giving way to unbridled joy.
Ajani penetrated the log straight into the lioness’s heart.
They surged forward, a wave of exuberance carrying Ajani on their shoulders. Together, they formed a jubilant procession, their voices raised in triumphant song as they bore their hero back to the safety of their town.
"Ajani Akoni! Ajani Akoni!" they chanted, the name of their fearless champion echoing through the dusty expanse, an ode to courage, resilience, and the enduring human spirit that could conquer even the most formidable of foes.
In the midst of turmoil and danger, the woman, weary and in the throes of labor, summoned her last reserves of strength to make a desperate plea. With every ounce of determination, she implored Ajani, her voice quivering yet resolute, "Please do this for me and for your unborn child." Her words hung in the air like a solemn vow, a testament to the enduring bond between mother and child.
As she struggled to rise, still partially kneeling on the unforgiving ground, she continued, her voice a whisper of urgency, "Run for your life, Omiran is not an easy Ebora to deal with." Her warning bore the weight of bitter experience, a cautionary tale of the relentless chaos that this formidable foe could unleash.
Ajani, his heart heavy but his resolve unyielding, responded with unwavering determination, "Aduke... yes, I am doing this for you and for our child! Today, I I must confront Omiran and bring an end to its reign of chaos." With those words, he moved resolutely towards the very danger from which others had fled, his steps echoing his commitment to protect his family and bring an end to the relentless turmoil that had plagued their lives.
Ajani, with each determined step, approached the scene of impending confrontation. His heart resonated with the verses of the one-time poem he recited to himself, a testament to his unyielding spirit in the face of adversity.
"Upon yonder mount of anguish," he mused, his voice a low murmur amidst the tension of the moment. "Life's true nature was revealed." The words carried the weight of introspection, a reflection on the hardships that had shaped him.
As his eyes scanned the surroundings for any available weapon, he continued, "Like a man with foes at his back, I faced my challenges head on." His resolve remained unwavering, his gaze unwaveringly focused on the task ahead.
The verses echoed through his mind as he pressed forward. "Why turn coward now, after victory won?" He questioned himself, drawing strength from his past triumphs. "Why tread cautiously, tiptoe with care, Only to reach death, safe but unaware?".
With the verses etched in his heart, Ajani ventured forth, ready to confront Omiran and bring an end to the chaos that had plagued their lives. His path was illuminated by the wisdom of his own words, a beacon of courage that would guide him through the impending battle.

“Upon yonder mount of anguish,
Life's true nature was revealed.
Like a man with foes at his back, I faced my challenges head on.

Perched where birds tell ancient tales,
From lofty branches, they regale,
I delved into my thoughts so deep,
Wandering my past, a desert to reap.

Days of want, of nothing to eat,
Fasting on hunger, a bitter feat.
I've wandered far, survived life's slings,
Countless arrows, each one stings.

Why turn coward now, after victory won,
In battles fought, under the sun?
Why sail life's ocean in fear and dread,
With wishes as oars, a weak thread?

Life's an adventure, a journey grand,
Memories left when I depart this land.
Why tread cautiously, tiptoe with care,
Only to reach death, safe but unaware?

Why count the stars, a distraction bright,
From harsh reality's looming sight?
Why shed more tears, blurring the view,
Of what lies ahead, a future anew?

These questions I ask my doubts with might,
As I wander the desert of my past's night.
In dilemma, men learn that devils bleed,
In battles fought, where hope's the seed.

Why sit on life's fence, in comfort's sway,
Drinking from self-pity's cup each day?
When battles seem dire, I'll don courage's cloak,
Keep moving forward, even at dead end's stroke.”

With resolve burning in his eyes, Ajani spotted an iron rod nearby, a remnant from the festivities that had unfolded before chaos descended upon their lives. It had been used to roast yams, but now it held the promise of becoming a weapon of defense against Omiran.
Bending down, he retrieved the iron rod, its weight and solidness in his grip reassuring. The image of Omiran loomed large in the distance, a formidable adversary that had sown chaos and terror.
As Ajani took each deliberate step forward, the very earth beneath him seemed to tremble in anticipation, as if recognizing the gravity of the impending clash. He knew that this confrontation would define not only his own fate but the fate of his wife and the unborn child. With the iron rod in hand and his heart steeled against fear, Ajani moved steadily towards the looming presence of Omiran, ready to face the ultimate challenge.
Omiran, a colossal and nightmarish figure, stood before Ajani, casting a looming shadow that seemed to stretch across the horizon. At ten times the size of an ordinary human being, his towering form was a grotesque monument to power and dread.
Naked and exposed, his colossal body was a canvas of scars, and grotesque deformities, each marking a testament to the countless battles he had waged and the horrors he had inflicted. His skin, dark as the abyss, bore the stains of ancient wars, and the very texture seemed to ripple with malevolent energy.
At the center of his massive forehead, a single, unblinking eye stared out like a malevolent beacon. It was an eye that had seen eons pass, a witness to the rise and fall of civilizations, and a harbinger of death and destruction. Its gaze held an eerie intelligence, cold and calculating, as if it could pierce the very soul of any who dared to meet it.
Omiran's limbs, thick and corded with muscle, moved with an unsettling grace for a creature of his immense size. His hands, each a meaty appendage with gnarled fingers like talons, hung at his sides, capable of crushing boulders or ending lives with a single squeeze. His feet, enormous and calloused, left deep impressions in the earth as he walked.
His hair, a wild tangle of dark tendrils, cascaded down his massive shoulders like a veil of darkness. It swayed with each ominous step, a living curtain that framed his monstrous visage.
The air seemed to grow heavy in his presence, laden with the oppressive weight of malevolence. A palpable aura of dread radiated from him, enveloping Ajani like a suffocating shroud.
In this desolate landscape, Omiran stood as a living embodiment of terror and power. He was a force of nature, an ancient evil that had endured through time, and now, he awaited Ajani with a gaze that bore the weight of centuries and a malevolence that promised only suffering and despair.
The battle between Ajani and Omiran unfolded with a ferocity that shook the very ground beneath them. Omiran's massive form, a towering behemoth, seemed almost impervious to harm, while Ajani, determined and resourceful, fought with every ounce of his strength.
Ajani, wielding the iron rod like a warrior of old, lunged at Omiran with a lightning-fast strike. But the giant adversary's reflexes were astonishingly swift for his size. With a casual swat of his gargantuan hand, he deflected the attack, sending Ajani tumbling across the sand, his weapon flying from his grasp.
The sharp gritty surface bit into Ajani's skin as he rolled, but he wasted no time. Springing back to his feet with the agility of a panther, he scanned his surroundings for anything that could be used as a weapon.
Omiran, his lone eye fixed on Ajani, advanced steadily, each step causing the earth to tremble. He seemed almost amused by the human's resilience, his massive frame casting an ominous shadow over his adversary.
As Ajani's fingers closed around a jagged rock, he hurled it with precision at Omiran's eye. It was a calculated move, aimed at blinding the giant, but Omiran's reflexes were uncanny. With a quick shift of his head, he dodged the projectile, and it sailed harmlessly past him.
Ajani knew that direct confrontation was futile. He needed a strategic advantage. Darting to the side, he sprinted toward a nearby rocky outcrop. Omiran, in pursuit, lunged with an earth-shaking stomp, attempting to crush Ajani beneath his colossal foot.
But Ajani had anticipated this move. He slid beneath the rocky overhang just in time, narrowly avoiding Omiran's devastating attack. He had lured the giant into a trap.
From the safety of the rocky shelter, Ajani pelted Omiran with smaller rocks, a relentless barrage aimed at disorienting his opponent. Each impact, while not causing significant harm, served to distract and frustrate the giant.
Seizing the opportunity, Ajani sprinted to his iron rod and retrieved it, a sharp-edged piece of metal discarded amidst the desolation. With newfound determination, he launched himself at Omiran once more, aiming for the giant's exposed eye.
Omiran, momentarily blinded by the earlier assault of rocks, was unable to react in time. The iron rod found its mark, plunging into Omiran's forehead, precisely over his only eyeball with a sickening squelch. A roar of agony erupted from the giant, shaking the very mountains.
Ajani, drenched in sweat and dust, stumbled back, his heart pounding with a mix of triumph and exhaustion. He had wounded the seemingly invincible Omiran, but the battle was far from over.
With his eye now sealed shut as blood pouring down his massive face, Omiran was consumed by a raging fury. He swung his colossal fists in a wild frenzy, attempting to crush Ajani with a relentless onslaught.
Despite his determination, Ajani was outmatched by the sheer brute force of the giant. Blow after blow rained down upon him, sending him tumbling across the desolate battlefield, battered and bruised.
Ajani, defeated and incapacitated, lying battered and bloodied on the unforgiving sands. Omiran, though wounded and enraged, loomed over him, Opening his vengeful eye fixed on the fallen warrior.
As Omiran loomed over the battered and bloodied Ajani, his massive fist closed around the warrior’s body, squeezing the life out of him with a relentless grip. Ajani’s vision blurred, and the world faded into darkness as the giant’s monstrous strength threatened to crush him completely.
But just as it seemed that Ajani’s fate was sealed, a sudden, deafening gunshot echoed through the desolate landscape.

To be continued…

COMBO: A journey through time

Episode 5
(The chase 2)

Under the sprawling canvas of the ink-black night sky, a palpable sense of weight hung in the air, as if the very darkness itself had descended upon the world. The moon, shrouded in an impenetrable veil of thick, clouded obscurity, remained hidden, casting no hopeful beams to dispel the gloom. It was a night when the universe seemed to hold its breath, as though nature itself were in a profound state of anticipation.
Amidst this nocturnal symphony, the leaves of the ancient trees swayed to a slow and languid rhythm, their motion reminiscent of a mesmerising dance. Each rustling leaf was a whispered secret shared among the foliage, a secret that only the night itself was privy to. The trees, towering sentinels of the forest, stood unmoving and stoic, their massive trunks rooted deep into the earth. The night was too weighty for even the mightiest of winds to stir them from their silent vigil.
Yet, amidst this serene stillness, there were sparks of life that defied the gravity of the night. Fireflies, those ethereal creatures of the dark, boldly scattered glimmers of luminescence through the air. Their bioluminescent ballet painted intricate patterns of light against the vast, inky canvas of the night. Each tiny, glowing insect was a star in its own right, carving its path through the obscurity with grace and beauty.
In the midst of this enchanting spectacle, a lone cricket raised its voice in defiance of the overwhelming silence. Its rhythmic chirping, like a lone musician in a grand orchestra, filled the night with a haunting melody. Each note seemed to pierce the stillness, vibrating through the air with a haunting resonance that was both eerie and enchanting.
Above, perched high on the boughs of a majestic Iroko tree, a wise old owl asserted its dominion over the night. Its hoots were a solemn proclamation, a declaration of sovereignty in the realm of darkness. With each hoot, the owl's presence was acknowledged, its authority unquestioned.
And so, beneath the heavy shroud of the night, this tapestry of sights and sounds unfolded, a delicate balance of stillness and movement, of silence and song. It was a night where nature itself seemed to be both a participant and a spectator, holding its breath in the presence of its own mysterious beauty.
In the heart of this paradoxical silence, where the night itself seemed to hold its breath, the disconcerting dissonance grew like an ominous storm on the horizon. It began as a mere whisper, a faint metallic sigh in the distance, only to evolve into relentless crescendo with each passing moment.
The origins of this haunting symphony remained veiled in the obscurity of the night, its source a mystery shrouded in darkness. The feet that bore the weight of this eerie cacophony were a testament to time's unrelenting passage. They were feet seasoned by the trials of countless miles, marked by cracks and creases reminiscent of ancient maps etched into the soles. These were the feet of a journeyman, a wanderer of unknown destinations, whose footsteps had become a silent testimony to his relentless pursuit.
As these weathered feet continued their rhythmic dance upon the pedals, one could not help but wonder about the burden they bore. Perhaps it was a a hump of deers, four, heavy and fat, destined for some distant market. The bicycle itself, battered and bruised, seemed to groan under the weight of this enigmatic cargo, its rusted frame echoing the passage of time.
The metallic rattle of chains, an intricate dance of links and links, mirrored the rust that clung to the vehicle's timeworn frame. It was a sound that spoke of history, of countless revolutions and journeys embarked upon. Yet, in its decrepitude, it refused to surrender to the corrosion of time, its persistence a testament to the indomitable spirit of both man and machine.
In the midst of this surreal symphony, a solitary figure emerged as the conductor of chaos. His lips parted, releasing a haunting whistle that transcended the boundaries of the ordinary. It was a tune both haunting and melodic, a siren call that cut through the night's thick tapestry. His whistle, like a steady tunic melody, defied the prevailing silence, a challenge thrown down to the very essence of the night itself.
With each determined push of the pedals, the man etched a testament to his unwavering endurance. Fatigue may have settled upon his shoulders, but it could not shackle his spirit. He propelled his battered vehicle forward with relentless determination, each rotation of the wheels a step closer to an unknown destination. His breath synchronised with the rhythmic creaking of the chains, a cadence of human resilience that reverberated through the stillness of the night.
In the feeble glow of his lantern oil-powered headlamp, the future of his journey remained veiled in uncertainty. The light emitted by the lamp was but a faint glimmer, casting feeble tendrils of illumination into the surrounding darkness. It struggled valiantly against the enveloping blackness, like a small flame flickering in a vast, cavernous void.
Yet, despite the inadequacy of his meagre light source, the determined traveler pressed onward. His eyes strained against the inky obscurity, seeking out the narrow, bald track that stretched before him. It was a path worn smooth by the countless footsteps of those who had come before him, a lifeline through the wilderness that beckoned him forth.
Behind him, the old, weathered wooden metallic gun hung suspended, its presence felt rather than seen in the dim light. It was a relic of another era, a faithful companion that had stood by his side through countless trials and tribulations. A dusty, multicolored linen belt, once vibrant but now faded by time and wear, cradled the gun like an old friend. The belt's buckle clung to its duty by a thread, as if poised to release its burden at any moment, a silent testament to the weight of history that this firearm carried with it.
Suddenly, from the dense undergrowth beside the road, a massive figure burst forth like a spectre emerging from the shadows. This imposing presence collided with the frail, moving bicycle, and in an instant, both man and machine were sent sprawling helplessly onto the side of the road. It was a chaotic ballet of limbs and metal, a collision that seemed almost inevitable in the inky darkness of the night.
As they tumbled, the roadside bush served as an impromptu airbag, cushioning their fall and absorbing the shock of the collision. It was as though nature itself had conspired to protect them, offering a thicket of foliage as a refuge from the unforgiving road. Leaves rustled and branches bent, cradling the fallen with a whispered sigh of relief.
Desperation clung to the words like a shroud as the man who had stumbled upon the cyclist gasped out his urgent warning, his voice trembling with fear and urgency. His breath was ragged, punctuated by the palpable terror that coursed through him.
"Help us, help us," he implored, his words carrying the weight of a community's distress. "Omiran is back in town and has killed the Olori Awo. Don't go to the town, it's too dangerous, please," he pleaded, his voice quivering with the gravity of his message.
The cyclist, disoriented and shaken from the unexpected collision, strained to make sense of the dire warning. Omiran's name sent shivers down his spine, for he knew of the ominous reputation that preceded it. The forest seemed to close in around them, the darkness becoming more oppressive with each passing moment.
Without waiting for a response, the man who had delivered the warning staggered deeper into the forest, disappearing into the heavy, darkened night like a ghostly figure fleeing from an unspeakable terror.
Left in the wake of the stumbler's message, the cyclist cast a wary glance back in the direction from which he had come, his heart pounding like a drum in the oppressive silence of the forest. The name "Omiran" hung in the air like a foreboding spectre, a name laden with dread and ominous tales.
As he whispered to himself, his voice barely more than a breath against the weight of the night, the word "Omiran" left his lips in a hushed, almost reverent tone. It was a name he had heard in hushed conversations around campfires and in the shadowy corners of village gatherings, a name that carried stories of darkness and malevolence, a name that inspired both fear and fascination.
In that moment of uncertainty, with the forest encroaching around him and the memory of the stumbler's desperate warning echoing in his mind, the cyclist faced a pivotal choice. Should he continue his journey into the unknown, risking the dangers that lay ahead, or heed the ominous reputation of Omiran, the colossal giant that had devoured kings and warriors, villages and cities? The decision hung in the balance, as did the fate of his journey through the heavy, darkened night.
As the cyclist grappled with the weight of his decision, a sudden cacophony of noises disrupted his thoughts. It was as though chaos itself had been unleashed, shattering the eerie silence of the forest. Startled, he turned his attention towards the source of the commotion.
Through the narrow, winding road, he could see a procession of people approaching him. Their figures were illuminated intermittently by faint moonlight filtering through the dense canopy above. Each person in the group shouted urgently, their voices carrying a plea for help as they drew nearer.
"E gba wa o!" they cried out, their voices echoing through the forest. The words, a desperate entreaty for assistance, reached the cyclist's ears with a sense of urgency that was impossible to ignore. It was a chorus of voices, a collective cry for aid that resonated with a deep sense of distress.
In that moment, the cyclist knew that he could not turn away from their plea. The choice had been made for him by the forest, by the stumbler's warning, and now by the voices that echoed through the night. With a newfound sense of purpose, he readied himself to confront the unknown path that lay ahead, where the fate of these desperate people and the looming presence of Omiran, the city-devouring giant, awaited.
Determination etched into every line of his face, the cyclist wasted no time. He reached for his old wooden metallic gun, its familiarity a comforting weight in his hands. With practiced ease, he cocked it, readying it for the potential clash that lay ahead. The weapon, a relic of his travels, was now a symbol of his resolve.
Next, he grasped his trusty cutlass, its blade glinting faintly in the muted moonlight. It was a tool that had seen its share of challenges and obstacles, and now it would serve as a guardian against the looming threat of Omiran.
Having left the deers he carried behind, their fate momentarily forgotten in the face of the urgent call for help, the cyclist mounted his battered bicycle. The old contraption creaked and groaned under his weight, but it was a loyal companion that had weathered many storms.
With a firm grip on the handlebars and his heart steeled for the journey ahead, he began to pedal. The wheels of the bicycle turned, propelling him forward into the heart of the forest, toward the distant village where the cries of "E gba mi o!" still echoed in the night. Each rotation of the pedals was a testament to his determination, a commitment to face the unknown with unwavering resolve. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and the shadow of the giant Omiran, but the cyclist pressed on, ready to confront whatever lay in wait.
*****************************************
The woman's swollen belly hung heavily, like a weighty burden that nature had entrusted to her. It was as if the universe itself conspired to test her endurance, to see if she could bear the weight of her impending motherhood. The contours of her stomach were uneven, a topography of life forming beneath her skin, as if the cosmos were sculpting the future within her.
Exhaustion draped her like a suffocating shroud, a relentless fatigue that shackled her to the ground. Her legs, once nimble and strong, now felt like lead, refusing to obey her commands. Every step was an ordeal, every movement an agonizing struggle against the gravity of her own body.
Desperation etched itself into her voice, a plea that danced on the precipice of despair. "Ajani, please leave me," she implored, her words quivering with the fragility of her situation. Her voice, usually so vibrant, had now withered to a mere whisper. "Run for your life, don't let this Omiran consume you. I am so weak now, and I think it's my labor hours."

Her words hung in the air like a haunting melody, a requiem for the life they had known. But Ajani, her steadfast husband, stood resolute, his determination etched upon his face. He couldn't bear to abandon his beloved, even as the spectre of Omiran loomed closer.

"It's either that Omiran killed me today," Ajani declared, his voice a thunderous proclamation of his unwavering love, "or I kill it to save my wife and unborn child." His resolve was unyielding, a reflection of the depths of his commitment. With a heavy heart, he turned away from her, his path set toward the chaos unfolding in the distance.
As he retraced his steps, returning to where people fled in terror, he called out his name to the world. "I am Ajani" he declared, not as a boast but as a testament to his identity, to his duty, and to the unbreakable bond he shared with his wife and the new life that rested within her. In the face of adversity, he would be the protector, the guardian, the unwavering force that would stand against the looming darkness.
Ajani had never been a man known for weakness; his life had been a tapestry of strength woven with the threads of determination and resilience. He carried himself with a sense of purpose, especially when it came to protecting his loved ones.
In the heart of Aiyetele, nestled amidst the rustic charm of the village, lay a place known as "Ajeyo." It was not just a restaurant but a testament to the resourcefulness and boundless hospitality of its owner. Here, food flowed in abundance, and prices were kept low, as if the very spirit of the village's generosity had found a home within its walls.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the village, a gathering of youthful spirits will converged upon Ajeyo. Laughter and chatter had filled the air as they savoured the sumptuous offerings of the restaurant. The aroma of freshly cooked meals wafted through the evening breeze, drawing villagers from all corners to partake in the communal feast.
However, beneath the veneer of merriment and camaraderie, a tension simmered. Aiyetele had been rife with arguments and debates over the impending selection of a new king, a matter of great importance to the village's future. But for now, all thoughts of succession were put aside in favor of the simple joys of food and companionship.
Just as the joviality reached its peak, the restaurant was jolted from its reverie by an eerie and unsettling sound. A croaky, low growl, echoed from the nearby wilderness. It was a sound that sent shivers down the spines of the villagers, a reminder that even in moments of joy, nature's wild and unpredictable forces lurked nearby, ready to disrupt the peace they held dear.
Panic rippled through the crowd like wildfire as the lioness emerged from the shadows, her fierce presence sending villagers scattering in all directions. The once lively gathering dissolved into a chaotic scramble for safety, as people abandoned their plates of food and dashed away from the impending danger.
But amidst the chaos, there was an old woman who had been the heart and soul of Ajeyo, the source of merriment and the culinary wizard behind its recipes. Her frail legs, weathered by time, could no longer carry her to safety, and she found herself stranded in the midst of the pandemonium.
Ajani, now separated from the crowd by a considerable distance, was jarred to a halt by a voice that reached him through the bedlam. It was the old woman, her call for help a poignant plea that pierced through the tumult of fear and confusion. He pivoted on his heels, his eyes scanning the scene for the source of that desperate cry.
With a heart full of courage and a determination that defied logic, Ajani seized hold of an old log, a makeshift weapon that would serve as his only defense. With each stride, he sprinted back towards the danger, a lone figure charging headlong into the fray.
Gasps of astonishment erupted from the onlookers who had not yet made their escape. They watched in awe and disbelief as Ajani's resolute form blurred past them, retracing his steps toward the vulnerable old woman.
But the lioness, driven by hunger and instinct, was not far behind. With a savage grace, she bounded forward, her powerful muscles propelling her towards her helpless prey. In those tense moments, the villagers held their breath, praying for a miracle, while Ajani raced against time, the old log clutched tightly in his determined grip.
As the distance closed between Ajani and the old woman, and the lioness closed in on her, the fate of two souls hung in the balance, a dramatic showdown between courage and ferocity in the heart of Aiyetele.
To be continued…

COMBO: A journey through time

Episode 4
(The chase)

Taking a tentative step forward, I was met with a sudden, agonising scream that pierced through the night. The cry was not the eerie, demonic scream that had previously unsettled the celebration; instead, it was the sound of a human in excruciating pain. I was certain that it was the voice of the Olori Awo, and my heart sank with dread at the realisation that something malevolent lurked in the shadows, a threat that had now revealed its terrifying presence.
Amidst the enveloping shroud of impenetrable darkness, Olu Awo's harrowing scream pierced the stillness like a dagger through the heart. The scant, feeble light that dared to trickle from the heavens above merely teased the scene, casting an ethereal pallor upon the eerie tableau that unfolded.
In this stygian abyss, where even the bravest souls would tremble, Olu Awo met a gruesome fate. Shadows danced wickedly, as if the very night conspired against him. The world became a macabre canvas painted in shades of obsidian, where details emerged in flickering, sinister vignettes.
The once-vibrant celebration, now perverted by the malevolent embrace of the night, descended into madness. The cacophony of terrified cries rose and fell, like the agonized howling of lost souls in the abyss. Panic spread like wildfire, and the fleeing figures seemed like specters, their desperate flight etched in stark relief against the ominous canvas of darkness.
In this vivid nightmare, the world had become a symphony of dread, each note played in chilling detail, each shadow conspiring to amplify the terror that had consumed the once-joyous gathering.
A shiver, like icy tendrils of fear, coursed through the very core of my being as the voice registered in my ears; an unmistakable resonance that sent a chill down my spine. It was the voice of the Olori Awo, the highest priest, his intonations carrying an aura of sacred authority that had always commanded reverence.
In that moment, a wave of dread, heavy and suffocating, washed over me. The realization pierced through my consciousness like a dagger, for it carried a grim and ominous weight. The malevolent force that had descended upon us, its tendrils of darkness and horror weaving a wicked tapestry, had now claimed the most significant victim.
The Olori Awo, with all his wisdom and spiritual power, had succumbed to the nightmarish onslaught. His voice, once a source of guidance and solace, had become an eerie harbinger of our impending doom.
It was a somber recognition that whatever ancient, sinister presence had taken hold of this world I am in was relentless and relentless in its malevolence, sparing none, not even the most revered among us.
The approaching figure loomed larger and more menacing with every relentless step, its presence growing like a sinister specter gaining strength in the moonless night. Each footfall sent seismic shockwaves rippling through the very ground beneath me, as if the earth itself trembled in dread.
My heart raced with a frantic rhythm, pounding in my chest like a desperate caged bird. Paralyzed by fear, I felt as though my limbs were bound by invisible chains, rendering me immobile. The fact that I had soiled my pants was but a distant, inconsequential concern in the face of the encroaching terror.
The thud of the figure's footsteps reverberated through the once-familiar environment, creating a terrifying crescendo that harmonized with the abject horror that had befallen us all. Each resounding impact felt like a death knell, a relentless reminder of the relentless darkness that had descended upon our world, leaving us helpless in its merciless grip.
The approaching figure continued to advance, its menacing silhouette etched in grotesque detail against the backdrop of unrelenting chaos. With a surge of primal survival instincts, I snapped back to reality, the pulse of adrenaline acting as a forceful reminder of my precarious situation.
In that heart-pounding moment, I knew I had to escape the looming terror. My feet stumbled, but my resolve surged. With every ounce of strength, I pushed my limbs into action. The nightmarishly distorted environment, though unfamiliar and disorienting, became my ally in that desperate dash for salvation.
Blindly, I navigated the shadowy terrain, my breaths coming in frantic gasps as I sprinted away from the encroaching nightmare. Each lungful of air felt like a lifeline, and every step I took was a race against the malevolent forces that pursued me. In the darkness, my frantic flight was a chaotic dance, a desperate attempt to outrun the horrors that had descended upon us all.
I found myself engulfed in a cacophony of terror, an unholy symphony of dread that assaulted my senses from all directions. The relentless pounding of my heart echoed like a tribal drum, a rhythmic reminder of the primal fear coursing through my veins.

Amidst the chaotic soundtrack, the shrill cries of others who, like me, desperately sought to escape this nightmare filled the air. Their voices, laden with terror, formed a dissonant chorus of anguish, harmonizing with the approaching menace that haunted our darkest nightmares.
With each ponderous footstep of that colossal figure, shockwaves reverberated through the very ground beneath us, as if the earth itself trembled in fear. It was as though nature itself acknowledged the malevolence of this presence, responding with ominous rumbles reminiscent of a cataclysmic earthquake. In that horrifying moment, the world had become a realm of pure terror, where the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurred into a relentless symphony of horror.
With a primal determination fueled by fear, I continued to run through the disorienting surroundings, my breaths ragged and desperate. The world around me twisted and contorted, becoming a surreal and nightmarish landscape. Yet, my survival instinct was an unrelenting force, urging me onward through this distorted nightmare.
In this surreal sprint for life, the air became my only companion, each lungful a reminder of my struggle against the encroaching terror. But then, in a cruel twist of fate, just as abruptly as the horror had begun, I stumbled. My feet found no solid ground beneath them, and I plummeted into a void, feeling weightless and disoriented.
In an instant, the chaotic nightmare dissolved, replaced by the stark reality of a cold, sterile exam hall. The transition was jarring, like a sudden awakening from a terrifying dream. The surreal horrors of the night had given way to the mundane surroundings of a place that should have been familiar, yet felt strangely alien in that disorienting moment.
As I slowly regained my vision, transitioning from the surreal nightmare back to reality, a stark message on the desktop screen greeted me, casting a shadow over my senses. The words "Time up" hung in the air like a heavy verdict, their implications sinking in with a sense of foreboding.
Confusion and disorientation clung to me as I muttered to myself, the words escaping in a hushed tone, "Have I been sleeping?" It was a disconcerting question, as if the boundaries between dreams and reality had blurred, leaving me to question the very nature of my existence in that surreal moment.
A wave of disheartenment washed over me as I realized the cruel truth. Another disheartening chapter in the story of failure had lured me in once more. I had managed to tackle just one subject out of the daunting five, and to make matters worse, I wasn’t even close to finishing it.
Panic clawed at the edges of my consciousness, its relentless grip tightening as I contemplated the daunting task of explaining this dire situation. The weight of others' expectations and the crushing disappointment of my own shortcomings pressed down upon me like a leaden storm cloud, casting a long, foreboding shadow over my aspirations and dreams.
It felt as though I stood at the precipice of an abyss, faced with the monumental challenge of finding the words to convey the depth of my predicament. The fear of judgment and the specter of failure hung heavy in the air, making this moment one of profound vulnerability and uncertainty.
With a heavy heart and a profound sense of self-loathing, I mustered the strength to stand up. The weight of my own disappointment bore down on me, making each blink of my eyes feel like an arduous journey through the abyss of failure.
I grabbed my examination slip, its crisp edges a stark reminder of the opportunities I had squandered. Dragging myself out of the exam hall, I felt like a defeated warrior, wounded by external forces. The world outside seemed to blur as I walked away from the battlefield of my ambitions, leaving behind a trail of regrets and unfulfilled promises.
As I trudged along, my gaze fixed on the ground, my worn-out shoes came into sharp focus. These shoes held a special place in my heart, weathered and aged by time, yet still full of sentimental value.
They were a simple pair, made of rich brown leather that had deepened in hue over the years. The leather bore the faint cracks and creases that came with age, each mark a testament to the journeys we had shared. The laces, once pristine white, had dulled to a creamy off-white, their edges frayed from countless adventures.
Embossed on the heel of each shoe was a subtle, elegant pattern, a hallmark of craftsmanship. These shoes had been a gift from my dear grandmother on my graduation day, a symbol of her love and support. They had seen me through both joyous and challenging times, a silent witness to my journey through life.
As I continued to walk, my steps felt somehow lighter, as if these shoes, despite their worn appearance, were imbued with the enduring spirit of my grandmother's love and encouragement.
Grandma had been my unwavering source of joy for as long as I could remember. She possessed a unique gift for offering encouragement, even in the face of my failures and setbacks. My love for her knew no bounds, and her presence in my life was a steady anchor of support and affection.
Through thick and thin, she stood by my side, a wellspring of positivity that helped me weather life's storms. Her words of wisdom and comfort were a soothing balm for my wounded spirit, and her unwavering belief in my potential fueled my determination to persevere.
Yet, despite the countless happy memories we had created together, her passing was a disheartening and profoundly painful event that left a void in my heart. The loss of her boundless love and guidance felt like a heavy burden to bear, casting a shadow of sorrow over my life that I knew would never truly fade. Her absence was a reminder of the irreplaceable role she had played in my journey, and the world felt dimmer without her radiant presence.
She’d often start our conversations by looking deep into my eyes, her wrinkled face bathed in the gentle glow of twilight. “You know, you remind me so much of your grandpa,” she’d say, her voice carrying the weight of years of memories. Her eyes sparkled with a distant nostalgia, and for a moment, I could see the young love that had once blossomed between them.
But then, like a veil descending upon her thoughts, confusion would sweep over her. She’d begin to talk to me as if I were him, her late husband, and the lines between past and present blurred. Her words became a bridge across time, carrying us back to a world long gone, where she and Grandpa shared secrets, dreams, and laughter.
As twilight deepened into night, Grandma’s dementia revealed its relentless grip on her mind. Her once-vibrant stories became tangled webs of fiction and reality, and her eyes, once filled with clarity, now held a hint of fear and disorientation. She’d reach out to objects that weren’t there, lost in a dimension only she could perceive. The porch light, once a beacon of familiarity, now cast eerie shadows that danced with her fragmented memories.
Sometimes, the words that tumbled from her lips formed a collage of nonsensical phrases, like the broken pieces of a once-beautiful mosaic. It was as though the threads of her mind had unraveled, leaving behind a tapestry of chaos and uncertainty.
Yet, even as her world crumbled around her, Grandma’s spirit remained resilient. She faced each day with grace and courage, navigating the labyrinth of her mind with a strength that left me in awe. Her battle with dementia was a painful journey, but it also revealed the enduring power of love and the beauty of holding onto memories, even as they slipped through her grasp like grains of sand.
The deafening blare of a horn shattered the tranquil stillness that had enveloped my mind. My senses snapped to attention, and in that instant, time seemed to slow. I turned my head, my eyes widening as I saw the headlights of an oncoming car, a colossal metal behemoth hurtling towards me.
The screech of its tires on the unforgiving asphalt was like a banshee’s wail, a desperate plea for a reprieve from the impending disaster. The acrid scent of burning rubber filled the air, and the vehicle’s tires left dark streaks on the road as the driver fought desperately to regain control.
In those harrowing seconds, my heart raced, and adrenaline surged through my veins. My mind raced as I instinctively flinched, my body tensing in anticipation of the inevitable collision.

To be continued…

COMBO: A journey through time

Episode 3
(Festivity)

To my astonishment, the sterile exam hall transformed into a rural village from a bygone era. Before me, a crowd of people had gathered, and they were all prostrating, saying, "kaabiesi o." Confusion coursed through me as I looked around, trying to make sense of this surreal change in scenery.
I realised that not only had the environment transformed, I was now seated on an old piece of furniture covered in what appeared to be tiger skin, and heavy red beads adorned my wrist. In my hand, I held a horse's tail, a symbol of authority used by kings. I was no longer in the exam hall; I had been transported to a different time and place, a world steeped in history and tradition.
As I sat there, bewildered by this inexplicable transformation, I couldn’t help but marvel at the vibrant scene unfolding before me. The village was bustling with activity, and it was evident that a great festival was underway. The air was thick with the tantalising aroma of roasted yams, and the sound of traditional drums and rhythmic chants filled the air.
The scene I found myself in was nothing short of mesmerising. The village, once a tranquil place, had burst into vibrant life, as if awakened by some mystical force. A sea of people, dressed in colorful traditional attire, moved with purpose through the dusty streets. Women in elaborate gele head wraps balanced baskets of yams on their heads, their laughter and animated conversations adding to the festive atmosphere.
In the center of it all, a massive bonfire roared to life, casting flickering shadows that danced like mischievous spirits. The tantalizing aroma of roasted yams wafted through the air, making my stomach growl in hunger. I watched as skilled cooks tended to the yams, their hands expertly turning them over open flames, causing the skin to crackle and blacken.
The beating of traditional drums echoed in my ears, their rhythmic pulse drawing me further into the heart of the celebration. Dancers adorned in colorful beads and flowing garments moved with grace, their movements telling stories of ancient legends and traditions. The chants of the Yoruba people filled the air, blending with the drumbeats to create a symphony of sound that resonated deep within my soul.
As I sat there, bewitched by this vivid spectacle, I couldn't help but feel like I had been transported to another world, one where time had no meaning, and the rich tapestry of Yoruba culture unfolded before me in all its splendour.
Seated upon what could only be described as a regal tiger skinned throne, I was entranced by the commanding presence of the Olori Awo, the high priest of the village. With an air of majestic authority, he embarked on the ancient rituals that were the heart of this festival, beseeching the blessings of the gods and the honored ancestors to ensure a harvest of abundance. His every movement, every solemn gesture, carried an almost tangible weight of importance.
In the flickering glow of torches, the Olori Awo and the revered elders of the village poured libations with a gravity that surpassed description. Their voices resonated with a power that transcended time, reciting prayers in a language that echoed with centuries of tradition and devotion. It was as if the very essence of the god of Harvest, the deity they worshipped, had descended upon them.
Each gesture was meticulously executed, each word spoken with unwavering certainty. Their hands reached toward the heavens, then down to the earth, connecting the realms of the divine and the mortal. With profound reverence and a deep connection to their heritage, they ensured that the spirit of the harvest would smile upon their village.
As I bore witness to this sacred ritual, the seriousness and gravity of the moment enveloped me, reminding me that I was in the presence of something far greater than myself.
Amidst my initial bewilderment, a deep sense of belonging and wonder washed over me like a warm embrace. Unbeknownst to me, the villagers had embraced me as one of their own, drawing me into the sacred tapestry of their ancient traditions and jubilations. Their humble act of bowing at my feet, accompanied by the resounding chorus of "Kabiesi o," left me humbled and awestruck.
As the day slowly surrendered to the tranquil embrace of night, the festivities continued beneath the shimmering canvas of a starlit sky.
In that moment of unexpected inclusion, I couldn't help but ponder whether this unforeseen journey held a deeper purpose or a lesson meant solely for me.
As the day gradually surrendered to the embrace of night, a palpable tension hung in the air like an impending storm. The once-vibrant celebration began to fade into a hushed serenity. That's when I noticed it, a strange, otherworldly scream emanating from a distance. It cut through the festive atmosphere like a blade, sending shivers down everyone's spines.
The scream, eerie and unsettling, seemed to defy the very essence of the joyous occasion. In an instant, the entire village fell into a stunned silence, frozen in confusion and fear. Every eye darted in search of the source of this unearthly sound, their faces etched with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
It was as if the very spirit of the celebration had been momentarily usurped by this haunting cry, leaving us all suspended in an eerie uncertainty, unsure of what would come next.
Amidst the unnerving hush that had descended upon the village, the figure of an elderly village elder emerged from the shadows, like a guiding light in the darkness. His face, etched with the wisdom of ages, bore a solemn expression tinged with unwavering determination. He was a commanding presence, dressed in flowing white robes adorned with enigmatic symbols and cowrie shells, a testament to his revered status as a spiritual leader.
As I gazed upon him, a flicker of recognition crossed my mind. This was the very same man I had witnessed earlier, presiding over the sacred ring ceremony in honor of the gods. He was indeed the Olori Awo, the high priest of the village, whose profound connection to the spiritual realm now became unmistakably clear.
In the midst of this eerie stillness, it was apparent that the Olori Awo was not one to be swayed by fear. His presence radiated an aura of unwavering faith and a deep understanding of the mystical forces at play. With measured steps, he advanced toward the source of the unsettling scream, ready to confront whatever unseen challenge lay ahead and restore harmony to the sacred festivities.
In the midst of this ominous uncertainty, it became abundantly clear that the villagers looked to him as their beacon of strength in times of distress. With an air of profound authority, he raised his hands in a solemn gesture, invoking the protection of the ancestors and the vigilant spirits that safeguarded the village.
As if in response to this invocation, the eerie sound echoed once more, this time ominously closer. It sent ripples of fear coursing through the assembled crowd, but the elder's unwavering presence seemed to provide a much-needed measure of reassurance. He began to chant ancient incantations, his voice rising and falling in a mesmerising rhythm, as though he were conducting a mystical symphony.
In the midst of this eerie darkness, it seemed as though the gods themselves had chosen to answer the call of the Olori Awo in a most unexpected manner. A powerful wind swept through the village, extinguishing every local torchlight, plunging us into a not-so-dark darkness. Amidst the obscurity, I stood in awe, my eyes fixed on the faintly illuminated figure of the Olori Awo, his flowing white garment seeming to emit an ethereal glow in the distance as he continued his incantations.
As I strained my eyes to discern the unfolding scene, I couldn't help but feel an unsettling presence nearby. A shadowy figure, as tall as an Iroko tree yet unmistakably human in form, loomed in the darkness. The unease it provoked was palpable, and I couldn't shake the feeling that this figure was far from friendly.
Taking a tentative step forward, I was met with a sudden, agonising scream that pierced through the night. The cry was not the eerie, demonic scream that had previously unsettled the celebration; instead, it was the sound of a human in excruciating pain. I was certain that it was the voice of the Olori Awo, and my heart sank with dread at the realisation that something malevolent lurked in the shadows, a threat that had now revealed its terrifying presence.

To be continued…

COMBO: A journey through time

Episode 2
(Time travel)

The relentless knocking, now a deafening roar, echoed through the room, its cadence matching the thunderous beat of my terrified heart. It was as though the room itself had taken on a malevolent life, orchestrating this sinister symphony of dread.
The door, once a barrier between safety and the unknown, had become a conduit for an unfathomable horror that threatened to consume me whole. Trapped in the room's grasp, I could only bear witness to the nightmare that had come knocking at the door.
The relentless banging on the door was like a jarring transition from the eerie nightmare to the mundane world of reality. My mother's voice, full of energy and wrath, calling out my Yoruba name, shattered the lingering sense of dread.
“Adisa! Adisa!!” She screamed at the top of her voice as she continued the banging on my door as I groggily responded with a mumble from beneath my duvet, I couldn't help but cringe at the use of my Yoruba name. In public, I preferred to go by Edward, a name my mother seldom used. Nevertheless, I knew it was her way of affectionately reminding me of my heritage, or maybe not, Maybe it’s her way of waking the furious beast in me again.
"Ma," I replied weakly, my voice still carrying the remnants of the unsettling dream. The room, once a chamber of terror, now felt safe and familiar, bathed in the soft morning light that filtered through the curtains. The nightmare had dissolved into the past, replaced by the comforting embrace of my mother's presence and the promise of a new day.
"Ko si school loni Abi?" my mother's voice echoed, dripping with Yoruba sarcasm as she continued to bang on the door. Her demeanor, when it came to waking me up late, was far from friendly. In fact, it was nothing short of a morning ritual, and she had mastered the art of rousing me from my slumber with a mix of irritation and persistence.
I mustered the strength to lift my head slightly, squinting in the direction of my phone, which I knew was somewhere on the bed. My eyes remained tightly shut, resisting the intrusion of morning light. My fingers moved tentatively across the covers, searching for the device that held the key to silencing my mother's scolding.
Luckily, my alarm had a mind of its own, springing to life with an obnoxious blare just as I managed to locate it, all without opening my eyes. The familiar sound was my lifeline, a signal to my mother that I was indeed preparing to face the day, albeit with a hint of reluctance.
"Ko si school loni" I muttered, finally acknowledging her question as I silenced the alarm. Her question is a sacarstic way of asking me to get myself ready for school.
With each passing moment, the remnants of the nightmare faded further into the recesses of my mind, replaced by the urgency of getting ready for another day of responsibilities.
I fumbled to locate my phone's power button in the dimly lit room, my fingers clumsily searching for the source of the annoying alarm. With a groggy mind, I managed to press the button, causing the screen to burst to life with a blinding intensity that made me squint.
For a few seconds, the harsh brightness left me momentarily blinded, the world reduced to a chaotic blur of light and colour. I shielded and rubbed my eyes with one hand, waiting for the screen to dim. Gradually, the illumination subsided, transitioning from an overwhelming radiance to a softer glow that allowed me to regain some semblance of sight.
As my vision slowly cleared, I could make out the numbers on the screen: 6:30am. The realization hit me like a jolt of electricity. I had overslept, and the morning had slipped away faster than I had anticipated.
The sinking feeling of dread settled in my stomach as I recalled the original plan. I had meticulously set my alarm for 4:00 am, a deliberate effort to ensure I had ample time to complete my chores and make the journey to the neighboring town where I was scheduled to write the JAMB examination at 9:00 am. That town was just a quarter-hour drive from Adeshida, the city where my parents and I currently lived.
the pressure mounted, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I would make it in time for the JAMB examination, a pivotal moment that could determine my future. My mother’s earlier sarcasm and scolding now seemed like distant echoes, drowned out by the urgency of the present.
My mother's voice, now laced with a mixture of frustration and genuine concern, pierced through my hurried preparations. Her words were a sharp reminder of the gravity of the situation.
"Are you deaf or something?! All your mates are in the exam center already, Jonah! You better get off that bed before the whale of failure swallows you again" she shouted, her voice carrying the weight of years of motherly advice and expectations.
The rhythmic banging on the door, like the relentless pounding of fate itself, served as a relentless reminder of the time slipping away. With a newfound determination, I gathered my belongings, resolving not to let the "whale of failure" consume my chances at success. The clock was ticking, and I had no choice but to make a mad dash for the JAMB examination center, hoping that I could still salvage the day and my future.
With a sense of urgency, I rushed to the door and quickly unlocked it from behind, knowing that every moment counted. As I swung the door open, I was met with a stern yet concerned look on my mother's face. Her silence spoke volumes, her expression a mix of worry and frustration.
"E kaaro ma," I mumbled, bowing to her at about a 45-degree angle. In that moment, words weren't necessary; my actions conveyed my understanding of the gravity of the situation and my commitment to making amends.
Time was of the essence, and I couldn't afford any delays. I hurriedly made my way to the bathroom, turning on the tap to start filling the sink. Despite the urgent need to attend to other bodily functions, I knew there was no time for that now. Every minute counted, and I had a long list of tasks to complete before reaching the exam hall.
As I splashed water on my face, I couldn't help but feel a pang of regret for not waking up earlier. The pressure to finish my chores, get dressed, and make it to the exam on time weighed heavily on me. The JAMB examination was a crucial step toward my future, and I couldn't let anything, even my own oversleeping, stand in my way.
As I sat there in the exam hall, the weight of the moment sinking in, I couldn't help but mumble to myself, "Literature in English." This was the subject I had prepared for meticulously, and the anticipation of finally taking the exam was both nerve-wracking and exhilarating. It was my fourth attempt at the JAMB exam, and I couldn't afford to fail again. This was my chance to prove myself.
The first question appeared on the screen, and I read it carefully: "In Literature generally, a stock character is a character, A. who plays the role of a stock, B. broker or merchant, C. whose actions, speech, style, and role are predictable, D. whose manner is as stiff as a dry stockfish, E. Hypocrite." I quickly assessed the options and confidently selected "C," as it best described a stock character in literature.
Click after click, I progressed through the exam, my focus squarely on the monitor as I read the questions to myself and answered them one by one. Time seemed to both fly by and stand still as I navigated questions. Confidence surged through me as I tackled each question with determination.
However, my momentum was abruptly halted when I encountered a particularly confusing question. I leaned back in my chair, taking a moment to rest and collect my thoughts. But as I did, the scene before me began to shift and transform.
To my astonishment, the sterile exam hall transformed into a rural village from a bygone era. Before me, a crowd of people had gathered, and they were all prostrating, saying, "kaabiesi o." Confusion coursed through me as I looked around, trying to make sense of this surreal change in scenery.
I realised that not only had the environment transformed, I was now seated on an old piece of furniture covered in what appeared to be tiger skin, and heavy red beads adorned my wrist. In my hand, I held a horse's tail, a symbol of authority used by kings. I was no longer in the exam hall; I had been transported to a different time and place, a world steeped in history and tradition.

To be continued…

COMBO: A journey through time

Episode 1
(The unwelcome arrival)

It was In the hush of the night, I found myself in the room again and this time, it is like the one that seemed to defy the passage of time. The walls, aged with centuries, were covered in layers of mud and thatch, bearing the weight of countless tales whispered through the ages. Moonlight filtered through the uneven thatch, casting eerie, elongated shadows that danced across the room like spectral spirits.
Dancing shadows of trees outside create an eerie spectacle. Their elongated forms, cast upon the room's walls, flicker and writhe like sinister phantoms in the night, their movements seemingly synchronized with an otherworldly rhythm. These shadows seem to have a life of their own, defying the logic of the world outside.
The whistle of the rushing wind, like a mournful ghostly choir, pierces through the room. It echoes through the leaves of those ancient trees, carrying with it a haunting melody that resonates with the very essence of the room's malevolence. Each gust seems to whisper secrets of the past, tales of sorrow and despair that have long been forgotten by the world.
Together, the dancing shadows and the mournful wind's whistle create a symphony of dread, enveloping the room in an atmosphere that chills to the bone. It's as if the outside world conspires with the forsaken room, amplifying its eerie presence and weaving a narrative of terror that defies explanation.
The air was heavy with the scent of ancient wood, and the floor creaked with each tentative step, as if the very ground held secrets it longed to keep. In one corner, an ornate, rusted iron lantern hung from a frayed rope, its dim flicker revealing cryptic symbols etched into the walls. Cobwebs hung like drapes, and the silence was punctuated only by the faint rustling of unseen creatures my head had been drawing from the start.
Within the room's shadowy confines, the old lantern stood as the solitary guardian against the enveloping darkness. Its feeble glow cast eerie, elongated shadows that danced in macabre waltz with the faint, otherworldly illumination of the moon. Together, they unveiled the room's chilling secrets.
The lantern, its fragile flame vulnerable to the encroaching winds, quivered and faltered as if in the throes of a sinister battle. Its light flickered, its very existence hanging by a thread, threatening to plunge the room into pitch-black oblivion. The room seemed poised on the precipice of total darkness, where the horrors hidden in the shadows could thrive unchecked.
Yet, as if guided by some uncanny twist of fate, the lantern clung to life. It stubbornly persisted, its wavering flame casting eerie, flickering patterns upon the walls, a desperate defiance against the encroaching abyss. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see if the forces of darkness would claim their prize or if the fragile light would endure, preserving a fragile sanctuary in the face of encroaching terror.
At the center of the room, an unsettling presence lingered; a wooden crib, weathered and worn, stood with its timeworn bars. Within it lay a darkened figure, shrouded in tattered rags. The figure's breathing was laboured, an eerie rasp that echoed through the room, a macabre lullaby to the restless spirits that seemed to haunt this forsaken place.
Every detail in the room seemed to whisper secrets of a forgotten past, and the dread in the air was palpable, as if the very room held the weight of centuries of anguish and despair.
As I remained fixated on the decrepit crib, time seemed to warp and stretch around me, a sinister lull in the room's macabre symphony. The wooden bars of the crib loomed like skeletal fingers, reaching out from a forgotten abyss.
I was brought out of oblivion by an approaching footstep. It was a sound that transcended mere auditory sensation, reverberating through my very bones. The weight of a footfall pressed down on the ancient floorboards with a grotesque creak, akin to the snap of brittle bones. Goosebumps prickled across my flesh as I became acutely aware of my vulnerability.
Slowly, I raised my head, my gaze drawn inexorably toward the source of the disturbance. It was then that a soft, icy wind slithered through the room, as though the very air itself had grown malevolent. The old lantern, its feeble light my only solace, flickered and faltered in the face of this chilling presence. With a hiss of its wick, it succumbed to the darkness, leaving me in a cold void and complete darkness.
And then, as if the room's malevolence had taken a final, terrifying form, there came a knock, a deliberate, measured knock on the door. The sound seemed to echo through the depths of my soul, each rap of knuckles an unholy invitation to a realm beyond comprehension. Fear hung in the air like a suffocating fog, and the room itself seemed to pulse with a dreadful anticipation, as if it had eagerly awaited this moment to reveal the horrors it concealed.
My gaze remained locked on the doorknob, an ominous presence that seemed to beckon an unseen visitor from the other side. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, and my heart pounded in unison with the relentless, bone-chilling knocks. Each rap on the door sent shivers down my spine, and the vibrations echoed through the room, a malevolent symphony that threatened to rupture the very fabric of my sanity.
My gaze remained fixed on the doorknob, a silent plea for the unknown visitor to reveal themselves. But instead of the knob turning, the knocking persisted, growing louder and more relentless with each passing moment. The vibrations of each thud seemed to pierce my ears like jagged knives, a painful cacophony that resonated with the frantic rhythm of my own heart.
The relentless knocking, now a deafening roar, echoed through the room, its cadence matching the thunderous beat of my terrified heart. It was as though the room itself had taken on a malevolent life, orchestrating this sinister symphony of dread. The door, once a barrier between safety and the unknown, had become a conduit for an unfathomable horror that threatened to consume me whole. Trapped in the room's grasp, I could only bear witness to the nightmare that had come knocking at the door.

To be continued…

Good pieces my boss, Your poem captures the essence of indulgence and celebration through food.

Consider adding more sensory details to engage the reader’s senses.
Incorporate poetic devices such as metaphors or similes to create stronger imagery. For instance, you could compare the finest silk worn by the maid to the delicate petals of a flower, or the flavors in the cake to a symphony of tastes dancing on the tongue.

Pay attention to the overall structure and flow of the poem. Ensure that the lines and stanzas have a consistent rhythm and meter. Experiment with varying line lengths and punctuation to create a sense of musicality or pause where appropriate.

However, it’s a masterpiece ✅

Awakening to the wall clock’s fading chime, Each tick of the second hand, a stolen breath of time.
The room swirled, a waltz of smoky tendrils, And I, an asthmatic captive, gasped for miracles.

The burnt plantain’s incense, a forbidden potion, Lured me beyond the veil, into whispered emotion.
I floated, weightless, through veils of sepia haze,
Oh, how I wished to inhale, to quench my desire.

Yet, alas, the elusive air eluded my plea, A wish unfulfilled, trapped in yearning’s decree.
But the air, a phantom lover, danced just out of reach
for in that body-less world, breath slipped away, Leaving me longing, craving life’s sweet bouquet.

Oh, elusive breath, you slipped through my grasp, A wisp of forgotten dreams, a fragile, fleeting gasp.
For even in breath’s absence I yearned for the sun’s ray, and wish to sip from life’s lucky cup once again.

✍️FOLORUNSHO MIKE IYANUOLUWA

O, the fear that grips us as we near our earthly end,
When we face the unknown and our mortal frame must bend,
For what lies beyond the sleeps we cannot fully comprehend,
And the shadow of uncertainty looms, our souls to rend.

Some say we'll meet our Maker in a realm of light and grace,
Where every tear is wiped away and we'll see Him face to face,
While others speak of endless sleep, a void without a trace,
Or reincarnation, karma's cycle, from life to life to race.

But science offers other thoughts, and reason, its own voice,
That all that is shall perish, that we've no eternal choice,
That death is but the end, the closing of our worldly poise,
And all that we have loved and done shall fade, without a noise.

Yet still the faithful keep the faith, and hope within them springs,
That there's more than meets the eye, that death's not all it brings,
That a higher power reigns above, and love, not fear, now sings,
And that truth shall overcome, the doubts that science flings.

✍️ FOLORUNSHO MIKE IYANUOLUWA

Of death, the dreaded foe, I oft bemoan,
For what lies past its veil, remains unknown.
A fearful shroud enshrouds its darkened face,
And hides from mortal sight its hidden grace.

What lies beyond, a mystery profound,
A realm unseen, a truth yet to be found.
My heart doth quiver, my soul doth fret,
As thoughts of afterlife my mind beset.

For if it be a realm of bliss and light,
Where angels sing and dwell in pure delight,
Then death, though fearsome, might be friend indeed,
A gateway to a realm of endless creed.

But if, perchance, a void of nothingness,
A void devoid of joy and blessedness,
Then terror grips my soul with icy hand,
As I approach the unknown, uncharted land.

Like Hamlet pondering life's great question,
To be or not to be, in this reflection,
I wrestle with the fear of the unknown,
And yearn to know what lies beyond death's throne.

Yet, like Macbeth, who sought to know his fate,
And sought the witches, though it sealed his late,
I wonder if the answer be too great,
To bear the weight of knowledge, sealed by fate.
#Iyanuoluwa_Mike_Folorunsho

Upon yonder mount of anguish,
Life's true nature was revealed.
Like a man with foes at his back,
I faced my challenges head on.

Perched where birds tell ancient tales,
From lofty branches, they regale,
I delved into my thoughts so deep,
Wandering my past, a desert to reap.

Days of want, of nothing to eat,
Fasting on hunger, a bitter feat.
I've wandered far, survived life's slings,
Countless arrows, each one stings.

Why turn coward now, after victory won,
In battles fought, under the sun?
Why sail life's ocean in fear and dread,
With wishes as oars, a weak thread?

Life's an adventure, a journey grand,
Memories left when I depart this land.
Why tread cautiously, tiptoe with care,
Only to reach death, safe but unaware?

Why count the stars, a distraction bright,
From harsh reality's looming sight?
Why shed more tears, blurring the view,
Of what lies ahead, a future anew?

These questions I ask my doubts with might,
As I wander the desert of my past's night.
In dilemma, men learn that devils bleed,
In battles fought, where hope's the seed.

Why sit on life's fence, in comfort's sway,
Drinking from self-pity's cup each day?
When battles seem dire, I'll don courage's cloak,
Keep moving forward, even at dead end's stroke.

For experience has taught me true,
Where there's a will, a way shines through.

#Folorunsho_Iyanuoluwa

Through sin's dark bus, a virgin body passed,
Loaded with faith and truth, a mission unsurpassed.
Bowing low to save Mother Earth from her plight,
Mocked and beaten, in darkness he sought light.

Arrested for his purity, a savior in disgrace,
Walking the path to Golgotha, an eerie place.
Two heavy planks upon him, burdened to the core,
Cries of intercession, echoed evermore.

Nailed to the cross, agony pierced his flesh,
Nature weeping for her son, her soul afresh.
But help was withheld, part of a mysterious plan,
For the young God to descend to death's own span.

Experiencing mortality, seizing death's might,
Breaking open graves, dispelling darkness with light.
No longer in the tomb, on the third day's dawn,
He rose triumphant, life's enigma redrawn.

A journey complete, a suspenseful tale,
As Nature's son conquered death's darkest veil.
#Folorunsho_Iyanuoluwa

Upon yonder mount of anguish,
Life's true nature was revealed.
Like a man with foes at his back,
I faced my challenges head on.

Perched where birds tell ancient tales,
From lofty branches, they regale,
I delved into my thoughts so deep,
Wandering my past, a desert to reap.

Days of want, of nothing to eat,
Fasting on hunger, a bitter feat.
I've wandered far, survived life's slings,
Countless arrows, each one stings.

Why turn coward now, after victory won,
In battles fought, under the sun?
Why sail life's ocean in fear and dread,
With wishes as oars, a weak thread?

Life's an adventure, a journey grand,
Memories left when I depart this land.
Why tread cautiously, tiptoe with care,
Only to reach death, safe but unaware?

Why count the stars, a distraction bright,
From harsh reality's looming sight?
Why shed more tears, blurring the view,
Of what lies ahead, a future anew?

These questions I ask my doubts with might,
As I wander the desert of my past's night.
In dilemma, men learn that devils bleed,
In battles fought, where hope's the seed.

Why sit on life's fence, in comfort's sway,
Drinking from self-pity's cup each day?
When battles seem dire, I'll don courage's cloak,
Keep moving forward, even at dead end's stroke.

For experience has taught me true,
Where there's a will, a way shines through.

#Folorunsho_Iyanuoluwa

_POISONED HEART_

In woe-stricken despair, my heart doth weep,
For love's sweet promise turned to bitter leap.
A lady fair, who claimed my heart as hers,
Yet treachery lurked beneath her gentle words.

She vowed her love was true, her heart was mine,
But fate's cruel hand revealed a vile design.
She left for varsity, a world unknown,
And in her absence, my heart was overthrown.

With tears and anguish, I cried out in pain,
As poison coursed through veins, a lethal bane.
A broken soul, betrayed by love's deceit,
As life ebbed away, my heart's final beat.

Oh, treacherous dame, with falsehood in her eyes,
Her lies and betrayal, a cruel surprise.
Like Shakespeare's tales of love and tragic fate,
My demise, a suspenseful, sorrowful state.

#IYANUOLUWA_MIKE_FOLORUNSHO
#REX_POET

I sense my depression knocking again,
A visitor unwelcome, causing pain.
A familiar foe, with a haunting presence,
Creeping in, without any pretense.

I can't help but feel worse than before,
As it settles in, seeping to my core.
A heavy weight upon my chest,
Robbing me of peace, leaving me distressed.

Like a shadow, it follows me around,
Darkening my days, without a sound.
Draining colors from my world so bright,
Leaving me trapped in endless night.

It whispers lies in my ear,
Filling my mind with doubt and fear.
I try to fight, to push it away,
But it clings to me, day by day.

It tells me I'm not good enough,
That I'm unworthy, weak and tough.
It steals my joy and steals my hope,
Leaving me drowning in a sea of mope.

I try to shake it off, to break free,
But it's a battle that's hard to see.
It lingers on, a persistent guest,
Testing my strength, putting me to the test.

✍️IYANUOLUWA MIKE FOLORUNSHO

The cold night air is biting and sharp,
A freezing wind that pierces the heart,
A man stands outside, shivering and alone,
No shelter in sight, no place to call home.

The darkness creeps in, a silent thief,
The man grows weary, his hope in brief,
He cries out, but his voice is lost,
In the vast emptiness, where all is frost.

His mind races, with thoughts of despair,
Of loved ones gone, of a life unfair,
Of dreams unfulfilled, of a future bleak,
As he struggles to stand, his knees grow weak.

The night grows longer, the man weaker still,
As he feels his body begin to chill,
He whispers a prayer, to a God unknown,
As he accepts his fate, and his fate alone.

The morning light reveals a lifeless form,
A tragic end to a story forlorn,
The man frozen, with a heart that stopped,
His wait for help, forever untopped.

✍️IYANUOLUWA MIKE FOLORUNSHO

And with my final gasp
I lay my pen down at last
My mission is complete

For though my life may be gone
My words will forever live on
A testament to the brave

The paper stained with blood
A symbol of the soldier's love
For country, honor, and duty

And though I may have died
My sacrifice will not be denied
As long as these words survive.

✍️IYANUOLUWA MIKE FOLORUNSHO

Cherry blossoms bloom
April's gentle touch awakes
Nature's beauty thrives

Amidst the chaos
Nigeria's economy wanes
Hope still flickers bright

The people endure
As inflation and debt soar
But still, they press on

With resilience strong
And a fighting spirit bold
They won't be silenced

We fought for our land
Proud soldiers standing so grand
But now we lie dead

Our sacrifice made
For a nation that seems to fade
And forget its own

We gave it our all
Our blood, sweat, and tears did fall
But was it in vain?

As we draw our last breath
We wonder with fear and dread
Will we be remembered?

Our families back home
Will they mourn and grieve alone?
Or will our nation care?

The future is unclear
A suspense that grips us all
Will hope prevail yet?

Our last words we leave
A suspense that will forever grieve
Will our sacrifice matter?

For in the hands of fate
Lies the destiny of our state
Will we rise or fall?

But we hold on to hope
Like the cherry blossom's scope
That blooms in April's touch

For amidst the chaos and pain
Hope still flickers bright again
A flame that will not die.

[color=#990000][/color]✍️IYANUOLUWA MIKE FOLORUNSHO

Oh, how I love to write poems,
It's my favorite thing to do
Even though my words might stumble
And my rhymes may not ring true

With pen in hand, I pour my heart
Onto the page with great affection
Though critics say I'm not that smart
And my work deserves no attention

But still, I write with all my might
And try to craft a masterpiece
Even though it may not be quite right
And my verses may seem like a disease

For poetry is more than just words
It's a window into the soul
A way to express our deepest hurts
And make the broken pieces whole

Alas, I lived a poet's life
And penned my verses with great care
But in my time, no one took strife
To read my words or even share

My poems lay forgotten, lost
In boxes and in dusty shelves
No eyes to see, no minds to host
My words and stories to themselves

But then one day, after I'd gone
A curious soul came upon
My long-forgotten written tales
And read them through with eager wails

With tears in eyes and heart ablaze
They saw the beauty in my phrase
And recognized the love I'd poured
Into each line and every chord

My poems now, they're cherished dear
And read aloud for all to hear
A legacy of words I've left
That now, to many hearts, have wept

So though I died without acclaim
My poetry still plays the game
Of touching souls and moving hearts
A gift of love that never departs.
✍️IYANUOLUWA MIKE FOLORUNSHO

The clattering of keys on my typewriter
A symphony of sound, a joyful fighter
Against the odds, I work with all my might
To make my dreams a reality tonight

The click-clack of letters as they dance
Across the page, a merry little prance
A rhythm that fills me with pure delight
As I work hard into the dead of night

For though it seems an oxymoron, true
Hard work can bring enjoyment, a happy brew
Of effort and reward, a sweetened potion
That gives me strength to face each new emotion

And in the end, it's not just success I seek
But the joy of work, the pleasure that we keep
In knowing we've done our best, with heart and soul
And made our mark, a legacy that's whole

So let the clatter of my keys be heard
A testament to hard work, a joyful word
Of onomatopoeia, a symphony of sound
That echoes through the ages, forever bound.

✍️IYANUOLUWA MIKE FOLORUNSHO

In the misty moors of olden days,
A tale of terror oft was told,
Of spirits lost in winding ways,
Their agony, forever unfold.

The afterlife, a lie it seems,
For those who wander in despair,
In endless search of shattered dreams,
Their souls trapped in eternal snare.

They haunt the earth with mournful cries,
Their eyes ablaze with ghostly fire,
In deathly silence, they agonize,
Their pain, a never-ending pyre.

The hooting owl, the rustling leaves,
The sound of footsteps in the night,
All strike fear into those who grieve,
For they may be the lost one's plight.

Beware the shadows in the dark,
For they may hold a spirit's form,
And if you hear a distant bark,
It may be the hound of the storm.

The afterlife, a fearful fate,
For those who wander in the gloom,
Their pain, a burden far too great,
Their souls forever trapped in doom.

So heed this warning, brave and bold,
And stay away from haunted ground,
For those who enter, we are told,
May never again be found.

In fair Verona where we lay our scene,
Amidst the shame and hatred that did reign,
Two star-crossed lovers, both alike in pain,
In death united, but still in love remain.

Their tragedy speaks of passion's fire,
Of love so true it could not expire,
Of families' feuds and bitter ire,
Of fate's cruel hand and death's desire.

And in the afterlife, they suffer still,
Their love a flame that cannot be stilled,
For though their bodies lie cold and still,
Their souls are locked in eternal thrill.

Their pain and sorrow forever endure,
For death cannot quench love's fervor,
And in the afterlife, they must endure
The agony of love that will not cure.

Oh, what cruel fate to love so true,
And suffer for it, in life and death anew,
But such is the price of passion's hue,
To love so deeply, and to suffer too.

Oh love, sweet poison, that doth feed on pain,
A bitter sweet, that doth both soothe and stain,
Thou art a flame, that doth both warm and burn,
A tempest wild, that doth both calm and churn.

Thou art a flower, that doth bloom and fade,
A fickle mistress, that doth both give and raid,
Thou art a joy, that doth both lift and crush,
A precious gift, that doth both heal and blush.

Oh love, thou art a game, that doth both win and lose,
A cruel joke, that doth both laugh and bruise,
Thou art a treasure, that doth both shine and rust,
A lofty dream, that doth both soar and bust.

Thou art a bliss, that doth both bless and curse,
A fleeting hope, that doth both rise and disperse,
Thou art a wonder, that doth both amaze and tire,
A potent elixir, that doth both heal and sire.

Oh love, thou art a paradox, that doth both live and die,
A poignant tale, that doth both whisper and cry,
Thou art a mystery, that doth both lure and fright,
A sacred bond, that doth both unite and fight.

So let us dance, in this oxymoronic romance,
A sacarstic love, that doth both charm and entrance,
For in the end, we shall both win and lose,
And in our hearts, this love shall both heal and bruise.