₦airaland Forum

sirjay:
Some HARP to take you high, STRINGS entwined in your brain, you OATS to understand but you BARLEY do

Plus a spark of Gordon's might help you feel Gulder (gooder)

novakane:
while we were searching for an abducted child, we heard some snoring
coming from the boot of a car
So when we looked inside we found out it was a "KID NAPPING"

Yeah a kid napping in a nappy, booth(butt) soiled with faeces

abbas99:
I feel SOBERED (so bad) right now...I nid HARP ..sorry HELP!!!!

Some HARP to take you high, STRINGS entwined in your brain, you OATS to understand but you BARLEY do

VALHALLA
High on the thought of glory he forged on, in the face of gore he smite and smote, bloodlust and blood thirst, his emotions ravaged as he plundered. But deep down he sought respite; through the icy cold hands of the grim reaper, while his hope for glory took a retreat, despair… Overwhelmed by the rain of mortar, metal and shells, and a thermic mix of blood and sand around him. He gave up before giving up, shred to pieces as the inertia lunged him back and forth, he suffocated in his own blood as the bullet ripped through his aorta. VALHALLA!!!

More @ www.juggernautbnyusuf.

[5/14, 00:33] Dr. Ajayi Abass Oluwaseyi: So strange

So soft spoken 
So well mannered 
So calm 
So loving 
So emotional

So garrulous 
so ill mannered 
So harsh
So hateful
So cold

They met....

Rest of the poem @
http://juggernautbnyusuf.
[5/24, 19:30] Dr. Ajayi Abass Oluwaseyi: Little bird

Songs the little bird sings 
Melodious and enchanting
Songs and stories 
Melodies of fallacy

.....................................................................
Little bird 
Sugar coating information 
Adding salt and spices 
Little bird 
Radio without battery
Agbejoro agbaye

Little bird 
One day Bush meat will catch the hunter 
A steaming pot of soup awaits your bird flesh.

Dedicated to all Gossips and Rumor peddlers

Juggernautbnyusuf

Read the full poem @
http://juggernautbnyusuf.
[5/27, 23:52] Dr. Ajayi Abass Oluwaseyi: Urchin

Licking the remnants 
Remnants of the remnants 
From a bowl filthy 
Washed Clean by salivary juices



Dirty and filthy 
A gang of filthy kids 
A street orchestra 
The Almajiri orchestra

[caption][/caption]

Source :www.youtube.com

Singing a symphony 
Little voices, sweet music 
Masters of the art  
The art of street begging

Dark faces
Silky brown hair 
Ringworms and dandruff 
Worms and craw craw

Neglected and ignored 
Oppressed and vulnerable 
Orphans with parents 
Sent to the city

Stomachs empty
Brains uniinterested 
Knowledge unacquired
Effort in futility

Almajiri 
The street urchin 
Faraway from home 
Faraway from motherly love 
In a big city
Young and vulnerable 
Weak and unprotected 
Only God can protect you

What are we doing 
Why are our eyes closed 
Can't we see 
Are we blind

Many eyahs are not enough 
Many orphanages are not enough 
Many bickers and tribal arguments are worthless 
Many efforts and actions is what they need 
Many of them are tomorrow's leaders

Dedicated to orphans all over the world.. On Children's Day

Juggernautbnyusuf

Becoming a Mum

From the peak of ecstasy 
I conceived 
In the worst of pain 
I deliver



From trimester to trimester 
Between smiles and anger
From sadness to happiness 
Between cravings and anorexia 
From model thin to obese

Swollen face
Swollen stomach
Swollen legs
Swollen and out of shape 
Swollen and waddling like a duck

More of this poem @ http://juggernautbnyusuf.

Little bird

Songs the little bird sings 
Melodious and enchanting
Songs and stories 
Melodies of fallacy

.....................................................................
Little bird 
Sugar coating information 
Adding salt and spices 
Little bird 
Radio without battery
Agbejoro agbaye

Little bird 
One day Bush meat will catch the hunter 
A steaming pot of soup awaits your bird flesh.

Dedicated to all Gossips and Rumor peddlers

Juggernautbnyusuf

Read the full poem @
http://juggernautbnyusuf.

Something for those whose love are far away

Post cards

Postcards cannot bring you home 
Postcards are not you
Postcards are pictures
......................
.................
Come home soon 
Postcards are not you

Read the full poem @

http://juggernautbnyusuf.

Generations



The plague had descended 
Hovering around the town undescended
Ghosts; souls cursed 
Curses unrescinded

Evils of ages past 
Evils of generations passed
From father to son, passed 
From mother to daughter passed

Looting and maiming
Killing and destroying 
Oppressing and repressing

Voices of the weak 
Tears of the widows 
Cries of the oppressed 
Curses chanted

Sins of the elders 
Visited on the generations 
Born and unborn 
The plague will remain until the ways are changed

Dedicated to Nigerian leaders and the oppressed masses.... 
By Juggernaut Bn Yusuf http://juggernautbnyusuf.

Slumped on the couch in a semi recumbent posture
My eyes closed I wondered
Through all my memories I rendered

Been in existence for four decades
I am indeed a fool at forty
Church mouse poor
Divorced without children
Disliked and disinherited

Weed and spirits
Pornography and sex
Violence and anger
Foul words and vituperations of hate
I am a Pandora’s box

Hated by all
Like them all I hate myself
This is me how can I change
Was I born like this?
Was it my society?
Was it my family?
Was it my peers?

Seeking for a panacea
For hope in my hopelessness
A cut in the wrist
The radial or the ulna?
To swallow a caustic cocktail
A prescription of lorazepam
Or a bullet to the head
To seek religion
To confess and accept my sins
To purify my intent
To sanctify my evil mind of iniquity

Sometimes I wonder if my struggles are truly real
My fights worth fighting
Where is the me of yesterday
What will the me of tomorrow be like
Am I truly here
Am I real?

http://www.juggernautbnyusuf.

Weirdo

image

I don't know what to think, neither do I understand, I keep wondering why I am like this. I don't understand myself neither do I understand others, worse, they don't even understand me.

I am a babel of emotions, worse than bipolar I can be happy and sad at the time, or switch from one to the other in splits. In love and hating, Anger and calmness. Everything is just muddled up.

I get confused, but I am brilliant, intelligence is a part of me as I am a part of it, I figure out things even before others do. But when I present my ideas they are too dull to get it, so they say its gibberish. Maybe in another fourty years they will find out. After am dead maybe, and probably erect a memorial for me.

As pawan the wind I am carefree, culture and societal values don't mean a hoot. Neither do annoying and nonconstructive opinions. I am very good at not giving fs. And shoving disses where the sun never comes up.

My dress sense is crazy, who cares about make up? Something that fully covers.. Yeah. I don't fit in but I stand out.

I have tried believe me, I have tried to be like you, to act like you do, to tame myself, to correct my weirdness and confusion. But I just can't, cos I am as abnormal as everyone.

But I am ME, and I careless what others think, point fingers and throw eggs, jeer and boo, insult and castigate.

I am a weirdo, am wired like that...
I am a weirdo, weirdo and proud

www.juggernautbnyusuf.

Hustlers Prayer

Oh God, I know am late again
It's been a long time we had this conversation
But things haven't been easy
I pray I hammer again this time

I drank garri and groundnut yesterday
I am grateful because some don't even have groundnut
Others na ordinary garri
Even some no get food
Please God up grade my groundnut to chicken and my garri to fried rice

The last time I hammered I made several promises to you
But the devil came in form of friends, girls and booze.
The money vaporized, I still wonder where all the money went.

My mum still expects me to bring that girl home
My mum needs money for that check up
My younger brother's fees are long over due
My landlord threatens eviction
My girlfriend has a list

Work day and night
Meagre pay swallowed by mega bills
Mega bills mount before meagre pay comes
I am a certified debtor and my creditors know I am bad for business, they call me bad credit

Oh God, put a smile on my face and I promise to be good
Let my hustle yield millions and billions
Fuse me to wealth and detach me from poverty
Grant me that Midas touch
So all I touch becomes gold
Upgrade me Lord
And I'll never stop bowing before you
Amen
www.juggernautbnyusuf.

Don't be sad

When the tears approach
When your heart rents to pieces
When your knees weaken
And your body can't take the hurt
Oh my love.. Don't be sad

When problems descend
When fears encroach
When evils envelope
And darkness is all you see
Oh my love.. Don't be sad

When the light at the end of the tunnel is gone
When hope feels absent
When prayers seem unanswered
And no help is in sight
Oh my love... Don't be sad

When God is with us
When we remain strong
When we are together
And our love is unfettered
Oh my love.. We will be happy

Dedicated to EM
www.juggernautbnyusuf.wordpress.con

Generations

image

The plague had descended
Hovering around the town undescended
Ghosts; souls cursed
Curses unrescinded

Evils of ages past
Evils of generations passed
From father to son, passed
From mother to daughter passed

Looting and maiming
Killing and destroying
Oppressing and repressing

Voices of the weak
Tears of the widows
Cries of the oppressed
Curses chanted

Sins of the elders
Visited on the generations
Born and unborn
The plague will remain until the ways are changed

Dedicated to Nigerian leaders and the oppressed masses....

www.juggernautbnyusuf.

Battered

Tied gele, all smiles, looking perfect in her iro and buba. Mum was so happy, smiling through her broken teeth, the sight brought painful memories.

Behind mama's smiles was a past, filled with pain, tears and anguish. With scars, broken teeth and visual impairment as its evidence.

image

Those days, wee hours and late nights, noises would filter into our rooms, then the arguments, then it gets louder. Then the voices become bangs, shattered glass, broken plates, curses and threats, then she screams, then we hear the punches land, the first, the second, third and we lose count. Then the belt, the screams increase, then whimpers, then the door bangs, and the car screechs out of the compound.

We would come out of our rooms, and go check on mama, scattered hair usually bleeding from a cut or bruise, she would look at us sniffing, stretching out her hands she would try to smile but the swollen lips and black eye wouldn't let. We would huddle together with mama, as tears fresh tears would flow from her eyes, sorry mama, we would chorus repeatedly as we cried along.

Baba wasn't scary, baba was a jovial man, simple, loving, baba would buy us gifts, take us on outings, we had a lot of fun, outsiders would can baba "nice man", "gentle man", "Baba jeje", but with mama.... He transforms, she never pleases him, quick to anger, quick to curse, we would sometimes question his love for her, but he did love her. Even though he hit her. Or so they both claimed.

I grew up in fear, as loving as Baba was we were scared of him, we would run inside our rooms and lock the door when he came back from the office, keep mum like we weren't home. He knew we were scared, as he would sometimes ask why we ran away from him.

Mama's bruises and wounds didn't go unnoticed, her brothers and sisters would beg her to leave Baba, but she would shut them out, asking them out of her business. Their pleas fell on deaf ears. Mama alienated everyone. Like a case of Stockholm syndrome, she stuck to him.

As we grew older and left home for school, mama or a neighbor would call, she would sometimes have to be hospitalized, I remeber when I went home from school and spoke to baba about it, he seemed to understand but he never stopped. I hated him for it.

I remeber when mama called me aside one day and said to me "I love you, son, and I stayed with your father and faced this pain for you and your siblings, but I'll curse you if you ever lay hands on your wife or any woman at all, only the dregs of men stoop that low". Only then did I realise she stopped loving him years ago, but put up with him to ensure we were not separated from family. Only then did I realise how much mama had been suffering, only then did I swear to myself to be successful and take her away from him.

My Dad is a woman batterer.

Wife battery is not African culture, it's bullying, it's oppression, it's wickedness, it's a crime and a sin.

Teach your boys how to respect women....
www.juggernautbnyusuf.

Battered

Tied gele, all smiles, looking perfect in her iro and buba. Mum was so happy, smiling through her broken teeth, the sight brought painful memories.

Behind mama's smiles was a past, filled with pain, tears and anguish. With scars, broken teeth and visual impairment as its evidence.

image

Those days, wee hours and late nights, noises would filter into our rooms, then the arguments, then it gets louder. Then the voices become bangs, shattered glass, broken plates, curses and threats, then she screams, then we hear the punches land, the first, the second, third and we lose count. Then the belt, the screams increase, then whimpers, then the door bangs, and the car screechs out of the compound.

We would come out of our rooms, and go check on mama, scattered hair usually bleeding from a cut or bruise, she would look at us sniffing, stretching out her hands she would try to smile but the swollen lips and black eye wouldn't let. We would huddle together with mama, as tears fresh tears would flow from her eyes, sorry mama, we would chorus repeatedly as we cried along.

Baba wasn't scary, baba was a jovial man, simple, loving, baba would buy us gifts, take us on outings, we had a lot of fun, outsiders would can baba "nice man", "gentle man", "Baba jeje", but with mama.... He transforms, she never pleases him, quick to anger, quick to curse, we would sometimes question his love for her, but he did love her. Even though he hit her. Or so they both claimed.

I grew up in fear, as loving as Baba was we were scared of him, we would run inside our rooms and lock the door when he came back from the office, keep mum like we weren't home. He knew we were scared, as he would sometimes ask why we ran away from him.

Mama's bruises and wounds didn't go unnoticed, her brothers and sisters would beg her to leave Baba, but she would shut them out, asking them out of her business. Their pleas fell on deaf ears. Mama alienated everyone. Like a case of Stockholm syndrome, she stuck to him.

As we grew older and left home for school, mama or a neighbor would call, she would sometimes have to be hospitalized, I remeber when I went home from school and spoke to baba about it, he seemed to understand but he never stopped. I hated him for it.

I remeber when mama called me aside one day and said to me "I love you, son, and I stayed with your father and faced this pain for you and your siblings, but I'll curse you if you ever lay hands on your wife or any woman at all, only the dregs of men stoop that low". Only then did I realise she stopped loving him years ago, but put up with him to ensure we were not separated from family. Only then did I realise how much mama had been suffering, only then did I swear to myself to be successful and take her away from him.

My Dad is a woman batterer.

Wife battery is not African culture, it's bullying, it's oppression, it's wickedness, it's a crime and a sin.

Teach your boys how to respect women