₦airaland Forum

LouisVanGaal:
Great job! Following till the end...

I'm updating now. Reading continues...

adeh39:
Nice update....still following.

I'm updating now. Thanks for following......

ItsAaliyah:
I love this!


Keep updating frequently.

I'm updating now. Thanks for following....

Darkrebel:
one of their old student..he did it as his final project... I have met him before but I can't remember his name now.... I like this particular one. .. a slave behind bars with no hope .. I even drew it and shaded too ...

its a very good art work ... let's see what the poets here will write about it

You should know many more then. Do you know the recent one, a big globe made of plastic bottles?

Darkrebel:
funny enough.... I know who did that art work.... in yabatech right?

Confirm! I have always had an inkling that someone will know this.

Who did it?

Krysstie:
Not tried delving into poetry. Guess if I try writing more of it, I'll get better. OMA4U laykorn

Here's something I wrote, first attempt. Rate me please:

I have seen enough!
From these 10year olds,
From these teens who think they’re cool,
And from these Adults who won’t act their age.

You see, I respect myself,
So, I’ll remain a stalker,
I’ll wait for your blunders,
And I’ll just write!

Dear Instagram girls,
We’ve seen enough!
Spotless selfies that tell a story,
Background that says another.

Dear Facebook boys,
Who cares about your six packs?
Stop stressing it,
We know you’re cute.

Dear Marketers,
Go down on you marketing,
We probably don’t need your product,
Stop forcing it down our throats.

Dear 10year olds,
It’s past your bed time.
Don’t try sending me a request,
We are not mates!

Yes indeed!
I’ve seen enough!
Your spellings are bad,
Stop updating your status!

Would you stop serving more than necessary?
Just 5 likes?
I’ll remove some more clothes,
50 likes is my aim.

Parents, don’t share in what’s for the 21st century.
If you must, do it on your lane.
Please, don’t spy on me,
I’ll just unfriend you.

Dear lovers,
We really don’t need the pictures.
No, we are not jealous,
We’re just not interested.

Dear Instagrammers,
Keep using the filters.
One day, we’ll meet you in person,
Then, you’ll tell us where you kept the cute face.

I can go on and on,
But I’ll respect myself,
I’ll keep stalking,
I’ll keep waiting for your blunders.

Christie Uzebu
Twitter/Instagram ---@xtyzeb

It's hilarious. Write more, please. We are all learning to better our crafts.

Nihilist:
I guessed that this would happen.
Unstructured behaviour is already threatening to kill the poetry club before it starts.
The poem analysis has been derailed midway, and now everyone is just posting their own poems.
I had hoped for better, but knowing Nairaland, I am far from surprised.

This is a chat room, not the main thread. We also have a whatsapp group where we discuss.

Jennimma:
lolz...thank you. I'm more of a reader-reading and lauding writers. I'll search my brain again,but not today.

Okay. Tag me when you post new ones.

Jennimma:
9 MONTHS.

Oh sing,freedom song
for mother,child and 'dada'
the heave as placenta
strings are detached
at the right time.

Sing the song of nine
of safe delivery in time.


Oh dance,the toddler's dance,
the shaky legs quivering
to the tune of mama's voice
dance to the solos of nne's lullaby
rocking to slumber,
papa and nwa.

Sing the song of nine
of safe delivery in time.

Oh,cry with wide open mouth
yell for a gulp of milk
off mama's pouch
gnaw at those brea.sts
and claw to your satisfaction,child.

Dance the dance of time,
chant for the fruit of nine.

Christening,drinks and loud chatter
tell,what name would junior bear?
Nkem? Ola? Sanusi?
What beyond the clouds,do you see?

Shout,out in prime,
fruitful wails of time.




*covers my face*

cc:laykorn OMA4U

Wow! This is brilliant! Sing the song of nine. More, please?

Stepsse:
sorry i left the grp...i will be back .....i hope i can contribute from here ba?

Your contribution is highly effective.

Jennimma:
Read all the poems and i'm wowed. Tempted to write one,tho i'm not much of a writer.
Would drop one soon...am coming,lemme search my brain

Brainstorm till inspiration troops in like battalions.

I'm waiting.....

Lightmark:
Poetic Highness

Burning and shinning with magical wisdom
mind dances in the midst of wild thoughts
imaginations; my dearest friend
Erotically; aroma of destiny
it's no new news that my muse amuses their
muses.

Sounds of great victory
still my source of inspiration
seeking seeds of wisdom
my scrolls contains secrets to future sciences
Get insane with as my pen rewrites history
Zeus bows to the voices of my heart

Heart hovering around sacred poetry
conflicting ideas; my only crisis
Generations yet unborn gets inspiration from this
living inscriptions.
Sing to me of me,
my heart imperishable.

Wow! Wow!

kid7soccer:
Crack sounds, great light luminate the clouds as hail falls from the sky. I can hear the roar of thunder like a great beast on rampage seeking for it prey, dirt dances in the air from one end to the other. The wops and waps of the wind forces the trees to dance to a systematic rhythm only known to their hearing as the grasses wave their leaves in vain directions. As water falls from the sky, shooting stars appears on the ground. Hash and rush from all conners as people try to save themselves from the brutal surge of the rain. Can this ever stop, the firm of trees are falling, the hardest of rocks are cracked open. What will become of us when the flood is gone, no one knowns, we are all in a wait till the hazard of the flood ends.


wat do u guys tink about this

Prose or Poetry? Nice one whichever way!

samflexxy:
lols thank you ma'am but I haven't seen oma4u invite to join any group even do I already gave him my no.

Join us on 08039594156

Grave of Beauty

I once saw an old man, a wayfarer, walking
Along the boulevard of loneliness of countryside roads
With hysterical laughter graced his lips

Wait! Old man, why art thou laughing in this forest wilds?

"Son, do you not know that when elders sweat
while they speak, it's not the salty liquid that trickles out
It is tears that flows from their grievous heart"

"Son, the death of canary digs the grave of beauty
So many lost buckles in the sandals of a cobbler
Black volcanic ashes, soon, will cloud our mansion"

Oh! Old man, why is thy teeth so clenched?

"Son, do you not see the squalling wind besiege our mansion?
Hurly-burly, hullabaloo shroud the hushed hush of peaceful serene
Backlash, balderdash taint the beautiful minds"

"Son, the rubber that binds our broomsticks is torn
Conflicts amidst the kings-let shaking our mansion
Nose-diving into filthy, green water of tadpoles"

Old man, Why art thou laughing again?

"Ahem, I am a little fragment of the mansion
My voice may never be hearkened unto
I only babble to shroud the tears on my lashes"

"If by chance, a new mansion is erected
I shall rejoice with you in the underworld
Where hopeless hope transcend me into"

If by chance, a new mansion is erected
Flinty rainbow scenes will sprout again
Phoenix will arise; Beauty will be exhumed from her grave

I have got a lot to write. I will make sure I find time to write using these forms.

Noble4d, check this out

Grave of Beauty

I once saw an old man, a wayfarer, walking
Along the boulevard of loneliness of countryside roads
With hysterical laughter graced his lips

Wait! Old man, why art thou laughing in this forest wilds?

"Son, do you not know that when elders sweat
while they speak, it's not the salty liquid that trickles out
It is tears that flows from their grievous heart"

"Son, the death of canary digs the grave of beauty
So many lost buckles in the sandals of a cobbler
Black volcanic ashes, soon, will cloud our mansion"

Oh! Old man, why is thy teeth so clenched?

"Son, do you not see the squalling wind besiege our mansion?
Hurly-burly, hullabaloo shroud the hushed hush of peaceful serene
Backlash, balderdash taint the beautiful minds"

"Son, the rubber that binds our broomsticks is torn
Conflicts amidst the kings-let shaking our mansion
Nose-diving into filthy, green water of tadpoles"

Old man, Why art thou laughing again?

"Ahem, I am a little fragment of the mansion
My voice may never be hearkened unto
I only babble to shroud the tears on my lashes"

"If by chance, a new mansion is erected
I shall rejoice with you in the underworld
Where hopeless hope transcend me into"

If by chance, a new mansion is erected
Flinty rainbow scenes will sprout again
Phoenix will arise; Beauty will be exhumed from her grave

Who noticed the intertwined lines between stanza two and three? And the direct use of enjambment.

Read stanza two without break to three.

I saw your jealous eye quench the sea's/florescent, dance on the pulse incessant/Of the waves. (observe this full stop). And I stood, drained/Submitting like the Sands, blood, and brine/coursing to the roots. (another full stop) Night, you rained...... Continues to the next stanza.

This is brilliant use of enjambment. Stanza two to four are meant to be read straight, to aid the flow.

noble4d:
Your hand is heavy, Night, upon my brow,

The poet admit he does not possess the power to control the night.

I bear no heart mercuric like the clouds, to dare
Exacerbation from your subtle plough


The poet emphasize on the envious attitude of night towards the day. The poet sees himself as a victim of the night. The period when evil plans are carried out.

Confirm! Are we learning?

JigsawKillah:
This Man's words sha
I better start getting my vocabs up

A poet needs to be armed with literary dictions. word is our arrow.

Stepsse:
the mercuric lik the cloud means he is not as brave as the cloud that can stand any night or cold....he's simply trying to personify the cloud there

Very correct!

After Beko got a new job, snapping pictures became a norm. He would call a photographer to come and snap him and his family or they would go to a studio to snap pictures. The flashes of the camera across their faces were enough to rejoice. Jolomi blessed God for Beko's new job. Things were much better indeed. The journey to his new job was what should be called an unfortunate-fortunate incident.
……………………..
In the 1970s, Beko's father was a courier of money for an unknown looter, launderer, transporting bills of Nigerian currency abroad. Beko's father was so smart that before he transported bags full of stacks of pounds abroad, a colossus clandestine parcels had absconded into a furtive room in his house, which he barred all inhabitants from entering. The day his sharp axe became drab was when pounds was changed to naira. He was abroad then and he had no iota of the changes that occurred, that Nigerian currency could be changed at that time. By the time Jolomi's grandfather came back, the money was due for exchange. To whom could he complain? To whom could he tell the miseries that hit him like a juggernaut? Hearing the news that the currency had been changed, he was instantly struck by heart attack that miserably deteriorated to stroke and paralysis. Beko was so furious at his father's greed, callousness and stupidity. For twenty years or thereabout Beko was being troubled by a constant visit to the General Hospital, which in one of his visits, he met the influential philanthropist, Moshood Abiola, who had come to ensure every patient was being attended to. He paid large sum of money for the patients to be taken care of and he didn't stop there, he visited always to ensure proper medications were being proffered.

After Beko's father stopped responding to treatments and eventually gave up the ghost, Beko had become a frequent acquaintance of Abiola, then he was fortunate to be employed as a security officer. A position Beko didn't know what it meant. He neither worked nor laboured but his salary were being paid. It was far better than public bus driver. That was how fortune knocked his door and he solemnly opened. Life became bearable, and home was more interesting. That was how they stopped eating oil flavoured jollof rice and yards of carpet were used to shell the patched floor. New TV came in. Life was good, far back, far back before grandma intruded.

Remi called out to Jolomi, "Jolomi, add little curry to that jollof!" Remi's voice was audible enough to reach Jolomi. Jolomi opened the cover of the cast pot, the smell of boiled onion mixed with oil and pepper with magi was enough to savour. Chunks of boiled beef and dried chicken were smiling at her from every nook of the pot. The hot vapour fell on Jolomi, but the euphoria of her birthday did not even let her feel the burning heat, rather it warmed her. She smiled, life was bearable now, not like years back when she would wonder if really they were eating jollof rice, because it was obviously flavored with palm oil.

Then, it did not really matter to her if the rice was really jollof, after all it was red and had the taste of magi. It was the kind of the special foods they had on Sundays. Sunday was one of the days Jolomi and Jamal always longed for. It was the day Remi always prepared what they called special dish.

Remi Jackson was a tall kind of woman, agile and kind. Her children took exactly her colour, especially Jamal. She was the best thing that would ever happen to Beko and the family as a whole. She was understanding and caring, and Beko always made sure he returned her kind gestures. Dibu, Beko's friend, who they used to work together at the garage as transporters had attempted to lure him into fidelity, but he remained truthful and sincere to his wife. Remi Jackson was not the kind of woman that deserved to be cheated on. Remi sold cloth at the road side behind the garage with other sellers and buyers. Her market was not bulky, but when she sold the little she had, she would go to market again to get another. She was able to stand up against poverty and hunger. With Beko's income, they could afford the children's school fees. They wanted to give their kids the best of education. Remi, sometimes after selling one or two cloth, she would make sure she arrived early, to prepare the dinner before her husband's arrival. And Beko appreciated and loved that, with the fact that even if Beko did not leave any money for her, she would hustle her way to save the family from hunger. Something other women would lock up their husbands at the neck. Occasionally when fortune beckoned and Beko dropped enough money the following Sunday meant a special dish. Slice of breads, tea, fried eggs swimming inside oil. Before Jolomi ate the eggs many loaves were gone with oil, she enjoyed eating the egg alone after devouring the bread. She would fix her eyes on her food and was always shy to raise her head, to look at her father dipping breads soaked in hot watery tea into her mother's mouth. Remi also would do the same before they both hugged each other. The sloppy sound her mother's mouth made while she was eating always made her smile. Jolomi was always smiling and hoping to end up with a man like her father. Jamal would pitch himself and his food close to the black and white TV. Another Sunday, it might be the oil flavored jollof rice, the kind her friends called concoction. After the rice, they would sip a cup of yellow-red juice, whose flavour came, not from the ingredients, but from the way they shared, toasted, before they gulped down the juice. They smiled and threw banters as though they were all friends. After meal Jolomi would sweep the floor. The floor was not tiled or covered with anything, the floor had been cracking and when she swept, dust would be thrust out with shards of concretes.

Sometimes, Beko would come home with piles of bend down boutique cloths. Jolomi loved the pairs he always brought home. She loved the scent that radiated from them, it made her pray for her father and bless her mother. She felt unique and loved, she felt blessed with such a fantastic home. She would pile the cloths in her school bag, she was always proud to show her friends.

"See, my daddy bought it for me." She would also show them pictures they snapped. The fuss and scurries that came after showing them triggered her sensations. Let me see! let me see! Her friends would request. I wish my dad could be doing this. She made them feel jealous and envious of her family. The pictures always amazed them, different poses and outfits.

Aisha800:
Following

Thanks for following. New update beeps!

adeh39:
Mmmmn..... U've got a nice nd interesting story going on here...., following uuuuuuu. Keep it flowing.

I'm glad to hear this. Thanks for reading. I have updated.

Bluestarry:
Nice stori cme update na

Bluestarry, Thanks.

ESIXLOVE:
following till witches begin use id cards

Esixlove, I have updated. Thanks for reading.

Flakkydagirl:
Now..this is A̶̲̥̅ good story.



Fllg

Thanks for reading, ma'am. I have updated.

CHAPTER THREE

Truly, grandma was very old before she passed on, but Beko Jackson would never wish her dead someday or any day. Like a needle showing ways to the thread, Mama had been the sailor directing her son's ship as far as he had known what it was to be a man. The bond that existed between this mother and her son was so strong that the only force that was powerful enough to cut short the bond was this angel that took away breath unaware. Death, it came like rapture, intruded, broke the bond, and took away mama's soul, but not the blemish her footprint had left on the sanctuary of her son's home. Her son's home was like a child. When a child is abused, the effect is eternal, unlike when the child is young, innocent, pure, filled with love and joy, and has no worries. His home had been abused. Grandma had truncated the joy Jolomi and her brother experienced in the earlier years and had broken their home that was initially a cocoon, a protective shed, a place of peace. If Jolomi had told anyone that there was fire on the surface of an ocean, she would have preferred them not to be skeptical about its credibility. She would just need to be asked to get them the ashes.

Home had become a dreadful place, home of terror, when grandma seemed not to fathom the camaraderie, the deep love and understanding between her son and his wife. Grandma had complained bitterly that Jolomi's mother had taken away her son's heart from her and soon she would find a solution to that. Grandma could not find a way to disrupt the marital bliss, but was able to perpetrate her brutal plans through her maid to whom she persuaded father to get married. She had advised her son how wicked women were. Women could kill their husbands to enjoy their wealth alone and to enjoy the children's cares when the time arose. Grandma was able to brainwash her son, flush away love and cares, and infuse the opposite. And now she was gone!

Jolomi began to put in places the torn mental picture of grandma, to remember what she looked like when she was alive, how she would lie to father how much Jolomi and her brother had been hurling insults on the new wife, and how her face would turn fiercer than a raging fire when she began with mother. It was exactly on Jolomi's fifteenth birthday, when grandma stormed home with her maid. Although the maid was not new to the family, in fact she was one of Jolomi's favourite, the least they expected this time when she came with grandma was pregnancy. Grandma's maid was pregnant and it was Jolomi's father who was responsible.

………………………………………………..
The joy of Jolomi's birthday celebration was not something that filled only her heart, her father, brother and mother were also basking in the euphoria. Not long after she woke up that morning, she quickly deep towel into soapy water, she bent down over the thick doubled ply wood table, scrubbing off the morsel that glued on it. She had invited her friends over. So she needed to make the room so clean and tidy. Even though they managed a room, that was not an excuse for shabbiness. She needed to keep the room so tidy that her friends that lived in flat would be envious of their "palace". She had scrubbed off the coated dust on the louvres that they could easily be good replacement for mirrors. The electronic sets only needed slight cleaning. They were new ones. Beko had thrown away the black and white television and the old stereo tape. Things had been better for him than it was in the past since he got a job with the Philanthropist. Her birthday would be special unlike the past soft drinks and biscuits' birthday.

Remi was at the backyard doing laundry, coming every little time to the kitchen to check the jollof rice on fire while Beko and Jamal went to cart the birthday's menus. Beko wanted to fulfill the promise he made to Jolomi that if she came first in class, her next birthday would be sumptuous, and Jolomi had made sure she relinquished all other inconsequential activities for reading, so she was always at the top of her class. Not only the birthday that motivated her, but the promise that she would continue her schooling abroad had been the great force behind her performance.

adeh39:
Mmmmn..... U've got a nice nd interesting story going on here...., following uuuuuuu. Keep it flowing.

Thanks for following, ma'am. Update comes soon.