Mother
The eyes that closed
In anger
Have been forced open in death

The land that promised greenery
Has turned red
With your child's blood

Justice has become an elusive dish
One much talked about
But never tasted

Hunger pangs
Drove your son into the street
And for that
He's lost his life

No one cares to know
The nights spent
Feeding on the fragrance in the air
With saliva
To quench the thirst

No one asked
To bless his wardrobe
With clothes befitting
Of the living

But mother
His first venture
Into another's pocket
Has cost him his life

Who will fight for him?
Who will speak for those
Reduced to thievery
By life herself?

Who will bring to justice
Those who looted
The nation's treasures
And left her children
To penury?

© Viktoria

.........................
A spur of the moment something from yesterday.
�: ....

I'm yielded
make me
a student
of your leading

teach me
to move
in time
to your beat

and

help me
stand tall
on this stage
called life.

If I painted your name
across my back
and had your picture
as a mirror

If I continually gazed
into those dark eyes
would I find you?

would I see the love
you so profess
or would I just see
the "you"
the world brought about?

It's a baptism

I am the priest
and the supplicant

the confessor
and the father

I am the church
and the pew.

I confess my wrongs
to my reflection
and absolve it
of all sins.

I preach the message
of salvation to my soul
and surrender to myself.

I sprinkle some water on me
and declare myself new

It's a baptism
and I am the priest
and the supplicant.

Kindoo:
Amin
When the skin and hand is restored, joy is restored to our lives and land.

Indeed it is.
Things fall in place with that restoration

The drum
reserved for the feast
has lost its skin

and

the drummer
meant to caress her
to sound
has lost his hands

How then
will the feast
be celebrated?

Get a skin for the drum
oil it
that it shines brightly
and tune her
that she release
a perfect melody

Let us hold hands
as we pray
that the ancient
may restore to the drummer
that which is lost
that his hands
may once again
give sound.

Kindoo:
I love that part of "I choose to stand..."
What we see in life are product of choice.
Good one.

Thank you.

I'm glad you liked the poem

I've been away for so long
that
home has become a memory.

A figment of my imagination.

The colours, the sounds
the smell
they're all lost now
and have been overtaken
by harsh reality.

My new place is void of colour
white walls staring back at me
begging for a touch of life.

The sounds of people
making their daily rounds
to care for me
is now the norm.

And the smell
try as they might to mask it
the smell of chemicals
pervade the air;
a subtle reminder
that life has robbed me.

Or has it?

The birds come to my window at times
singing melodies
filled to burst with life.

The flowers are in bloom
and the trees spreading out
after losing their leaves.

Life hits nature
and it always recovers
so will I.

So, I choose joy
I choose to stand firm
in the face of life's onslaught.

I choose to celebrate
the little insignificant things
in my life
and if my fire
will burn out today
may it light paths
on my way to forever.

© Viktoria

1x2kills:
You seem very smart, real slay queen ���

Um....thanks, I guess

The days
are running
one into the other.

Today's Monday
My bad, it's Saturday
Maybe, it's Thursday.

Well, it's a day at least.

The four walls
of my home
have become companions
in dark times

I can tell
their length and breadth
their height and width

I can tell their feel
and how the paint
is chipped at a point

I can tell
that they feel my pain
and
wish they could
help me live life
outside their hold.



P.S: This was written in the thick of lockdown. Figured I'd just share it now.

I am a dancer who has forgotten her steps
And a singer who has lost her voice.
The things which once defined me are lost
And I cannot say who I am.

I am a dancer
But try as I may to move
To the lyrics of my king
Beckoning my body to submission
I cannot move
For my once supple body
Has forgotten to dance and grown stiff.
All I can give are jerky movements
A sign of my disability.

There's a song in my heart
A melody of love dedicated to my betrothed
And a birthing of my heart
To caress my heart's desire
But, I cannot sing.
I open my mouth in submission
Yielding to the urge in my soul
But my voice refuses
To proclaim my love.

I hope my lover understands.

How do I convince my king
That I meant no disrespect
But have only forgotten my moves?
How do I tell him
That my lack of song
Was not a shunning of his love
But a sign of my damage?
Will my king forgive me?
Will he still love me?

© Viktoria

Photo by Lucxama Sylvain from Pexels

Very much true. There is the need to love ourselves the way we are and make the necessary improvements.



It's really been a while. I've been good. I just wasn't able to really write anything until recently.

Thanks.

You're too tall!
You're damn short
You are black!
You're fading away.
Will you ever get fat?
You've got to lose some weight!

These words and many more
Were thrown at us on a daily basis
Till we began to hate our very selves.

We couldn't stand our looks
So we shyed away from mirrors
And all things that'll open us up
To our true nature.

We hid behind masks
Trading our beauty for their vanity
Conforming to their pictures
Till we had no idea who we were.

We lost all sense of self
And knew not the way back.

We struggled for their approval
Strived to make the bar
Which was always raised a step higher
Till we felt that we would snap.

We couldn't keep up with man
And his insatiable appetite
We needed to put a stop to it
And so we did.

Each day now met us at the mirror
Where we stood in awe of the beauty
Our eyes were opened to see.

We appreciated our every flaws
Our scars and our struggles
We determined to ever help us
Become better versions of us
And refuse to be put down by anyone.

We are unique, we are beautiful
We choose to accept us for who we are
And refuse to bend to the mould of men
We are unique.
We are UNIQUE!


Models: Efe Enas and Ndibe Carita

sheikshegetto:
Epilogue

A tall man strolled gaily through the motor park; oblivious of the stares he was provoking, his cloths was the object of their stares. It was as if he had bought a variety of clothings both native and western and had decided to try them all on.

He had a denim hat perched on top a dog eared style native cap the Yoruba called abetí ajá, the pointy dog ears sticking out like bat wings, a monkey jacket on a babariga robe, a pair of Jordan sneakers on a native hunters knee sized dogo shorts, he looked absolutely ridiculous in his bastardized outfit that the passerby’s concluded he was either at the early stage of lunacy or he had recently escaped from a mental home.

He boarded a bus heading into town and sat by the window, a plump elderly lady soon joined him, he greeted her cheerfully but rather loudly, she in turn ignored him with a hiss as she muttered about youths doing drugs and wasting their future. The man shrugged unperturbed, whistled happily to himself as the bus loaded with passengers, soon it was full.

“Oga boss, your transport fare abeg,” the bus conductor addressed him in Pidgin English, his teeth stained brown by kolanut, a cigarette hung from his swollen lips.

“My good fellow, I was unaware that this carriage was fare orchestrated, the paintings on your vehicle said otherwise,” the man replied in impeccable English.

The conductor stood with a confused look on his face as he tried to absorb the speech into a statement he could decipher, he then gave up with a shake of his head. He will not give this educated idiot the satisfaction that he did not understand a word of what he said, he didn’t kill anybody to deserve a headache early in the morning, he just wanted to collect his fare, and somebody should not come and frustrate him as the day was just beginning.

“Oga sir, is transport money I ask for, money for bus to carry you enter city,” the conductor tried to answer back with the little English he could conjure.

“Oh I beg your pardon sir; I see you are a layman with little or no knowledge of my diction so I will bring it down to your level, no offence intended my man.”

The conductor frowned at this, he felt he was being insulted but suppressed his growing irritation as the man continued his chatter, this will not be the first educated person he has encountered in his line of business, thinking they’re high above people like him, yet they could not afford a car of their own upon all their big big grammar.

“Before boarding your vehicle I saw a lettered painting and I believe it says ‘No fare No problem’ which can only mean one thing, and I really appreciate the charity, if there were more good folks like you out there, the world will be a better place.”

“Mr man because say my motor paint write say “No fare No problem” no mean say transport free.” the conductor roared crossly. “If you no get money to pay, abeg come down from my motor before I throw you comot from window.”

“I am Lanroye my good sir not Mr. Man, some call me Eleggua, Elegba or papa Legba and my close associates’ call me Eshu Láàlu Ogirioko a.k.a the stone wall and you sir cannot be among my inner circle for you are rude and obnoxious.”

“Lanny or wetin you call yourself abeg leave that thing o, pay me my money, the grammar wey you dey blow since no fit pay for your transport, respect yourself and gerrout from my bus now.”

Lanroye’s dark eyes glowed, the jolly smile on his face morphed to a more feral one. “I could have had you killed on the spot for this insult but I can see you are not long for this world, poor fellow, Iku the debt collector has already scheduled you for appointment, you will kick the bucket in two market days, if I were you my good lad, I will set my affairs in order and amend my ways with my wife and child, and oh! My oh my, the child isn’t yours by the way, women ha! I believe there’s this saying which goes; after God fear women, harsh lad, harsh.” He totted.

The conductor blanched at this as he paled visibly, he left him alone without bothering about the fare. Signing contently, the man called Lanroye looked out of the window as the bus roared into life and coughed its way out of the park.

The broken English spoken by the bus conductor fascinated him, shame he wasn’t long for the world, he might have learnt a thing or two from him, Lanroye unlike the Orisha travelled beyond all dominion with his duties as a messenger god knew all the tongues spoken by men, of all the foreign languages, the old Victorian English was his favorite after spending a few decades spreading mischief in jolly old England.

The mortals hadn’t changed by a mile since he was gone in spite of their rapid advancement, they were as naïve as always, and their so called civility made them more susceptible to his influence, they were never contented, always running around like something was chasing them until their brief live-span expires like candle, It was good to be back.

He would have preferred staying back at the realm eternal but recent turn of events needed his very presence as his minions had drastically bottled a simple instruction, so so annoying and now here he was mingling with the irritating, restless mortals, a small sacrifice to bear.

Olu Koso has escaped, but his plans were far from disruption, for the thunder god was just a single seed on his Ayo board game, he has fulfilled his usefulness. Now his offspring are a different matter.

He was Lanroye the gate keeper, Eshu Laalu the stone wall, unto which foolhardy mortals run smashing, the caretaker of the earth, if a gardener beheld a diseased tree in his garden, his duty was to have it destroyed before it affects the rest of his crops, the humans are killing the earth, the corrupted ones must be uprooted, and if the infection has gone deeper than he feared, he would clear them all and inhabit the earth with the children of the Orisha.

He chuckled to himself, “what was the first step in his plans? Yes, awaken the Orisha each at his/her place of solitude calling them by their true names, the gods have many names bestowed to them by their fawning worshipers over the centuries but few knew their secret names and he knows them all, all ten thousand of the irumole, from the chieftain deities down to the minor groove spirits, and the next step?

Corrupt the Orisha; feed them their Ewò; their taboos, to Olokun the sea king, a sacrilegious offering of seafood mixed with the earth garbage, and spilled with oil, to Oko the sleeping earth, rotten food crops spoiled with sea water as sacrifice, oh the eternal rivalry, and to the ruler of them all.

Obatala the arch divinity, the king in white cloths, simply take away his white attires and cover him with one stained with palm wine and filth, and when the king of gods awaken in rage, from the offensive smell, seeking answers to this sacrilegious act he would tell him, tell them that the humans of earth sent him, he was just a messenger, and they shall demand justice, knowing that the mortals have forgotten them will make them furious, they would wake up corrupted and the WORLD WILL BURN!!!.

End of book one.

*********************************************************

i definitelt didn't see that coming. the suspense is killing. good read bro.

I felt fear today. I felt him seize up my innards breathing ice down my spine till I was immobilised. I saw his form creeping in the shadows till I felt I was running out of my mind. I saw him reach out a hand to my throat and opened my mouth to scream. I had lost my voice. Just when I thought I would die, I saw that it was just a tree dancing in the night, bending its graceful form to the song of the night. I had let fear get the better of me.


© Victoria Omoghena Edidi
Photo: Google
�

Kindoo:




I am sorry about that. Please, register afresh and try again, if it persist, please re inform me so I can inform the technical man behind the website.

I tried registering afresh and still couldn't log in. I guess that's it then.

Kindoo:




I am sorry about that. Please, register afresh and try again, if it persist, please re inform me so I can inform the technical man behind the website.

Okay.
I'll do just that

Kindoo:
'Blood is beautiful
when offered up as sacrifice'

Nice works

You can also post your poems on Wurastories.com.ng
Read a story,Tell a story.

Spread your tentacles!

I've checked out the website and registered. But, I can't seem to log in as it keeps telling me that my password is incorrect. This isn't the first time I've encountered this. Any idea how to resolve it?

Thanks.
I'll check it out.

Black is the colour of gods
For clothed in it
We sit on thrones crafted from darkness
And from there judge the integrity of mortals.
Man has proved disloyal
So we sit to decide
If grace still stands a chance or not.
Do not judge us unfair
For every time blood is shed
We weep.
We cry black bitter tears
Mourning the one that never really lived.
She didn't know what she wanted from life
So, we didn't know what to give her.
Death seemed alluring to her
Infact, she called for him
And so, we let her have him.
Don't misunderstand us.
Blood is beautiful
Only when offered up as sacrifice
Not when snatched from a mortal.
We delight in sacrifices.
Don't think us rigid, dear mortal
For if a man can plead his case
We always grant his request.
We are gods.


© Victoria Omoghena Edidi

Who do I turn to?
Who will listen to my tales of woe?
Stories written in blood and sacrifice
Telling of the pains and loss
Which scar my body
Weakening it of its resolve to live.
Who will look through the mirror?
Strewn with shards of shattered dreams
Whispers from eons past
Of a future with my beloved
Cruelly snatched by fate.

Where do I turn?
Life made me believe that the right was right
And the left was wrong
Which was not to be
For the right sucked me in
Stripping me of my dignity
Ridding me of all I call my own
And throwing me out to the cold streets.
I have nothing.
Even the left promised nothing
But days spent in regret
Crying for that which would have been
And forgetting to live in the moment.

The gods have forsaken me.
The water promised tranquility
Vocalising songs that'll put an angel to sleep
Only to rob him of his estate.
The mountains roared security
A shield from the storms
And a backbone for the weak days
Only to break me on a week day.
Trust in the unseen is futile
For the gods love only themselves
And man is powerless to intervene.
The path of life is a blur before me
With the cardinal points in a tango
Losing all sense of direction.
Who can restore order to chaos
Ironing the wrinkles of confusion
And hanging up the cloak of sorrow?
Who can save me?
Where do I go for help?
Who do I turn to?



© Victoria Omoghena Edidi

Let's seat on the grass
And mourn all that we've lost;
The years we let roll by us
Refusing to stand for our beliefs
As it was much easier to leave things to fate
Than to take over from them.
Let's mourn the decisions we scorned
For being ruled by fear
We chose to seat by the seashore
Rather than venture into waves to discover life.
Let's sit and mourn
The gold eternally buried
As we chose the path of nonchalance
Rather than mine the treasures in us.
We mourn our dreams
Not those we had in the dead of night
But those imprinted on our hearts
Dreams we starved of drive
And watched nonplussed as they died.
Let's visit the cemetery
For 'tis a land blessed with treasures
Invaluable gems and potentials
That man refused to give out
And took with him to the grave.
It's the close of day
And we've got nothing to show for it
Not a life we've touched
Nor legacies laid down
Nor a blessing to our generation
We've got nothing but regrets.
For blinded by timidity
We refused to acknowledge the diamonds in us
And chose to settle for wood shavings.
Now that it's all over
We see the futility of fear
For it restrains and gives reasons for our incapabilities
And now we know
That there's nothing to fear but fear itself.

© Victoria Omoghena Edidi

Our elders have a proverb that goes: the dog that will get lost will not hear the hunter's whistle. The hypothetical dog being hellbent on its self destruction will ignore all attempts by the hunter to safeguard it and consequently face its doom.

This got me wondering. Did the hunter ever think that maybe, just maybe, the dog so much wanted to be saved but couldn't break free of the pull holding it spellbound? What if the dog got hooked on the taste of the rabbit delicacies it gets while hunting that it chose rather to chase the rabbit on that particular day ignoring all signs of danger? There are a whole lot of what ifs to that scenario. I believe it's high time the hunter stopped blowing the whistle and resort to drastic action to save the dog. He could snatch it out of harm's way or just think up another means of saving it.

It is my belief that this also applies to humans. Some of us have inadvertently found ourselves in unpleasant situations and have tried to severally break free with no luck. Others have seen their loved ones going through such and wondered the way out. Severally you've been spoken to or tried to speak to the individual and it all looks like it's falling on deaf ears; believe me it isn't. We're just tired of trying; everytime we think we've got it figured out we realise that we're back where we started. We've had about enough and want to give up. But, don't give up on us or on that person. We really need that one person who'll take the risk of seeing us become better individuals living a free life. Reach out a hand today. Don't get so carried away by your challenges to become unconcerned about others neither should you get discouraged by our prior reactions to your help as to let us go. There is always a way out. Please find it and help us see it too. Place our feet on the path and guide us till we are able to stand. We need you.

Every day at the set of dusk
We set out in search of livelihood
For we have no other time of day
But night to satiate our appetites.
Nature was cruel to us
As it formed us to inhabit the dark
And so when humans sleep
Then does our day begin.
We are unlike other creatures
For we were created tiny to go unnoticed
With a song on our lips to announce our presence
And a pin of a mouth to extract our meal.
The sleeping humans are our best bet
As they make harmless factories
For our much desired meal.
We sing our songs
Which tells their state of consciousness
Then pierce their flesh
To get their heavenly nectar.
There's always the need for caution
As this simple act of survival
Could result in our sudden death.

Darkness is all around me
Can you feel it?
It's the air I breathe
The song I sing
And the tears I weep.
It's eating me up
Can anyone hear me?
Please end this agony
And lead me to the light.

I can sense a way ahead
My heart tells me there's more
I stretch out my hands
But all sense of direction eludes me.
If you can see me
Please take my hands
And lead me to the light.


The light beckons on me
It tells me I can be different
It sings of purity and cleansing
A necessary balm to my battered soul.
Are you still listening?
Do take my hands
And lead me to the light.

Hello people. It's been a while. I wrote the piece below to encourage someone out there who has lost a loved one; that they know that there's always hope.

" I'm sorry", I heard a voice whisper from the shadows; "if I had had a choice in the matter, I would have stayed", it continued.
I looked to my left from where the appeal emanated. I saw a translucent form which looked so much like my father. His eyes were sad and pleading; he needed me to so much understand why he had to leave me; why he had to leave us.
This is strange for I spoke with father this morning. He was in perfect health and was even looking forward to my birthday celebration which was to take place in two days. How could he be here apologizing? This had to be a cruel joke.
"It's not a joke", he returned. It appears that he seemed to know my thoughts. "I am gone, dear one. I know that you'll be mad at me but, try to understand that this is beyond me. I love you and your mother more than you two could ever imagine. I'm sorry I'm bringing this on you. Do forgive me. Look after your mother for me. Be her strength, for she'll be needing you to lean on. Help one another to move on. You'll never be alone. I love you."
Just as soon as he uttered those words, he faded into the night and I awoke. It was a dream, and yet so real for I woke to tears streaming down my face. There was this sudden wash of grief over me; a sense of being incomplete; a sense of loss.
The ringing of my phone jarred me from my contemplations. It was my maternal aunt. That's strange, for we spoke the previous day. Her first words were: "June, you need to come home". The quivering of her voice gave her away. I asked about my father and she broke into tears.
My fears were confirmed. I let out a scream of anguish, dropping my phone to the floor. It's over now. I recalled my dream with dread. Of course, it was never really a dream. Dad in his own way had come to say "good-bye".
"Good night fearless warrior", I whispered into the silence that followed my scream. I packed a few things and made ready to go home trying to come to terms with it. A new future awaits which I must face with courage. Though the road seems dark now, I do believe that I'll eventually see the light. I'll try my best to be strong for mum and I as we've only got each other now. I lift my bag to my shoulder and walk into the morning sun; walking to a new life; walking with the assurance that we'll be fine eventually.

Losing a loved one is not the end of life. There's always light at the end of that tunnel. Just hold on. Time always heals that wound and it will for you. You'll emerge stronger from the darkness and that's a fact.

The cold hands of fear gripped my pounding heart. The icy grip was spreading fast, seizing my innards and paralyzing me. I could barely breathe for fear that I would be heard. Even the night was afraid for it was eerily quiet. The children of the night had gone into hiding because they could sense that death was around. The rustling of leaves nearby made me almost jump out of my skin. I couldn't help but wonder why I hadn't listened to my friend and postponed my trip.

The academic staff union of universities had embarked on an industrial action three days earlier and my school was affected. I had stayed the three days hoping it will be called off; but, it was not to be as they had decided it will last for two months after which deliberations might begin. I decided to go home on the third day of the action because I saw no point in waiting till morning. I packed my bags, bid farewell to my roommate, despite his appeals to postpone it and left. It was 4pm and home was five hours away. I decided not to call ahead as I wanted to surprise them.

I got to the outskirts of my village around 8pm. I walked the short distance to the park and found it strangely empty. I had travelled by night severally and knew that this was odd as motorists normally stay out till 11pm. Seeing I had nowhere else to go, I decided to walk the forty minutes to our family house which entailed me walking along the road covered on either side by heavy vegetation. Luckily, I only had one bag on me.

Fifteen minutes into my walk, I heard strange sounds ahead. I shrugged it off as my mind playing tricks on me, but, I noticed that it was too quiet which was unlike my place. Fear began to grip me. Walking forward was becoming a struggle. I forced myself to continue walking when suddenly I was yanked off my feet by a hand at my throat. Its grip was powerful, I couldn't shake it off. A guttural voice asked, " Who are you and why are you out past curfew?"

That was when I noticed that I was surrounded by barechested men who tied red wrappers around their waists and were painted with white chalk. I was unfortunate enough to have traveled home on the day of their festival. I pleaded my ignorance and apologized, but, they refused. The penalty for being out past curfew is death as I had intruded on a sacred ceremony and I had to pay for that.

I was carried to the shrine by the jubilant men. They seemed way too happy to have caught me. I was stripped of my belongings and prepared for the sacrifice. The priest made me kneel before a block on which I was to place my head for easy access to their axe. I continued pleading and crying while they tried to position my head. My appeals seemed to incense them more. I placed my head watching as the axe came down. As it struck my neck, I awakened.

Alas! I was in bed. I was drenched in sweat but alive. I felt my neck with my hands just to be sure it was really a dream. My head was in its place on my neck. I couldn't help but be grateful it was not real. Well, I don't think I'll be travelling by night any time soon.

Denial is a pill I pop daily in a bid to deal with reality. Time, they say, heals; but, I've come to doubt the efficacy of that line of thought. With each day that passes, I die a little more inside. I've considered giving up severally, but, the thought of my three kids all alone with no one to love them has kept me going. They are the best kids any mother could ever wish for, and, I'm glad they're mine.

I stood at the veranda watching them play. My babies have come a long way. Life has not been fair to them. They seemed happy though. How I longed for the innocence of childhood; the ability to compartmentalize and just live in the moment. Nature hadn't been that kind to me. I could still recall the incident that robbed me of my joy.

David, that was my husband's name, worked as a driver in a transport company plying the Lagos-Abuja route. Due to the nature of his job he was never at home; but, whenever he was around, he always made it up to me and the kids. He had been given two weeks leave in line with the company's policy and had spent it entirely with the family.

I can still see his smile whenever the children amazed him and his laughter when he played catch with them. He was their hero. The love in his eyes whenever he looked at me was fresh in my memory. After ten years together, he still treated me as though I was a day old bride and I basked in his love. Within a short while two weeks was over and he had to resume at work.

The morning of his return he called the kids, played with them one last time and bid them farewell. My mind was troubled over his going and I shared it with him. He shrugged it off as my worries of being left with the kids; promised to return and kissed me goodbye. I watched him walk towards his bus fighting the urge to run after him and stop him from leaving. He turned one last time, blew me a kiss, got in the bus and drove off.

An hour later, a knock at the door jarred me from my contemplations. Three strange men wearing solemn faces greeted me upon opening the door. They introduced themselves, confirmed my identity and refused to answer my questions as to their presence until I was seated. The tallest of the three then broke the news to me.

David was gone. He had met with an accident and had died on the spot before help could come. I felt numb. I couldn't believe it. I looked to their faces for signs of laughter and saw none. Slowly I could feel pain seeping in. I could feel my heart dying. Just then, Daniel, the youngest of my children came in crying for his father. I couldn't contain myself. I burst out in tears clutching my baby to myself and feeling my heart break a little more with every escaping sob.

It's been one year since my heart stopped beating. I still stand by the door hoping I'll see David driving up the street even though I know it's a futile hope. The kids ask after their father and I am at a loss of what to tell them. I hope that one day I'll be able to let go. In the meantime, I'll try my best to be there for my kids as they're all I've got now.

Life has never been fair to me; at least, that's how I've come to see it. I've always been the black sheep of the family; the problem child of the home. I am the child they got, hoping they had another. Have you ever read in the Bible where it says, "I am fearfully and wonderfully made"? Well, that's me. I am blessed with looks that'll give Aphrodite a run for her money and cursed with mental disorders that makes one question the goodness of the gods.

People are drawn by my looks and chased by my instability. I've never been able to keep friends because no one wants to be associated with me. Well, neither do I. No one knows what it feels like to not be in control. They think I do it for the attention; why not take a glimpse in my head and have a feel of what it means to be me?

I am never alone. I am always surrounded by people watching me every second of the day; trying to make sure I don't hurt myself. I can't escape to my head because it's the kingdom of voices. I hear them everyday from waking in the morning to sleeping at night; each wanting to be heard. Even in my sleep, they come for me. By then, the voices take forms tormenting me as though to chase me out of my mind. I am never at peace. Severally, I've always wondered what it feels like to take a leave from my head. Just go away for a while; enjoying the serenity that comes with it and just live.

There's the urge to cut myself and just watch my blood flow for the fun of it; nevermind the fact that I might be dead by then. At times, I find it really hard to resist that urge and give in to its pull. I take the blade to cut my wrist. The rich red colour is enthralling; can't seem to stop myself from watching my lifeblood flow with joy, until someone comes in and tries to stop the flow. My joy is cut short. Even in my instability I am denied my happiness.

There's this voice that is always louder than the rest. It's always telling me to pick things by the way side. It gave me no choice. It overpowered me and forced me to do his will. He wasn't so forceful initially, after all, my subconscious was stronger. But with time, my defences weakened as my periods of sanity began to be far apart until I totally lost it. Now, I have a collection of junks at the corner of my room; junks I've refused anyone from throwing out. As my collection increased, my family began seeking means of restricting my movement and finally locked me in my room. I am a disgrace that should be hidden than exposed. Now that I'm trapped, the voice is tormenting me for disobeying him. Can anyone please help me out? I can't deal anymore. It's almost taking over, and, I can't tell what will happen then.

From my brief periods of sanity, I heard my family discussing my fate. My family was never buoyant financially and my health has helped wreck them permanently. They've decided to keep me in the village where I'll be at the mercy of relatives. They tried their best to salvage my being but it was obviously not meant to be. Besides, they never wanted a girl child when the gods decided to impose me on them. So, they'll move on loving my little brother who was unfortunate enough to have me as a sister. When next you think I'm an attention seeking brat, do go through this and reconsider.

The children and youths are the future of any nation. There are several factors which could derail them from the path of future relevance among which is the academic performance of the individual. There has been an increase in academic nonchalance, a continuing loss of trust in education which has resulted in poor performance as seen from national examinations written by students nationwide. This trend has become a source of concern to parents and the nation at large. To tackle this situation effectively, knowledge of the cause is needed as this will help channel resources efficiently.

A lack of motivation on the part of the student is a factor that can go a long way in affecting the academic performance of the individual. The student has no inner drive for excellence either due to a disinterest in the subject matter or a lack of understanding. There is a lack of incentives to spur him on, hence, a poor performance ensues.

Distractions which could be in the form of internet use, television programs and social events also play a role in the individual's performance. The average person spends two to four hours on social media chatting with friends, following celebrities and generally carrying out unproductive activities. There has been an increase in appealing television programs which has taken up the time of people such that they're able to spend hours watching without tiring. The students, as a result of this, spend time meant for academic activities on these unproductive ventures.

A further cause is the gap in learning between teachers and students which also affects the students' interaction with the academic community. The teachers are unable to pass knowledge across effectively to the students, either as a result of inadequate materials used, the teaching method adopted by the teacher or a disparity between the teaching material and the method of evaluation adopted at the national and international level.

Parental laxity is another contributing factor. Most parents are entangled in their daily activities, not having sufficient time to monitor the academic performance of their wards. They do not go through their assignments and academic report at the end of the year thus, breeding academic nonchalance in them. There is no regulation to the use of social media and television for the children. They are left to themselves in a bid not to appear overbearing, therefore, assisting in making waste to time which could have been used to increase productivity.

Furthermore, emotional stress could affect the performance of a student. Emotional stress could result from a lack of finances, illness, particularly terminal illness of a parent or loved one, a broken home amongst others. This makes it difficult for the individual to concentrate on book work, thereby lowering his performance.

Finally, learning challenges such as dyslexia, Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and others affect the performance of a student. These are not rampant in a population, but, still a causative agent in some cases. Dyslexia is a medical condition of the brain that makes it hard for a person to read, write, and spell; while, ADHD is characterized by increased motor excitability (running, jumping and difficulty focusing in the classroom). Due to these, the student is seemingly marked as unserious or a problem child, and left to himself.

Having discovered some of the causative factors, deliberate efforts must be undertaken to remedy this which could be in the form of any of the following:

Parents should encourage their children to take up subjects they're interested in as well as reward them accordingly when they perform excellently.

There should be a limitation to the time spent on social media as well as other time consuming activities.

The teaching materials used at the local level must correlate with that used both nationally and internationally.

The teacher should seek improved methods of getting knowledge across to the students.

Parents should intentionally become involved in the academics of their wards so as to effectively monitor their progress and help them improve.

Efforts should be deliberately made to make the home conducive enough to improve the students' performance.

Finally, careful attention should be paid to the student in order to spot learning challenges and effectively deal with them.

Living can be likened a lot to driving on a road having lots of sharp bends; you never know what's coming out at you. Of the many ills that can befall a man, the loss of a loved one ranks top on the list of irreversible challenges. Life and death has proven to be two sides of a coin that man cannot escape from. The bereaved may move on with time but can never forget the individual. Death is an inescapable levy placed on all alive which without default must be paid. The path of the bereaved is likened to walking down a dark path lit with dying candles, barely giving light. The future seems uncertain and the way shrouded in darkness. The person needs to find a way to create a light of his own and find his way again.

The first step to healing is acceptance. The bereaved must accept that death is an inevitable end and must be willing to let go of the pain. At this stage, the person feels a myriad of emotions coursing through his being; ranging from pain to anger to regret to guilt. The bereaved should know that these are normal and then let go of every one of them in order to heal. Harbouring these emotions opens up the person to depression and its attendant ills.

A support group will go a long way in easing the pain. This could be in the form of family and friends or a group for the bereaved. The individual should talk about the deceased, talk about how he feels as this will go a long way in letting out the hurt. He should not be left to himself no matter how much he craves it because isolation is a breeding ground for depressing thoughts. This doesn't mean that the people around should become overbearing in a bid to be sympathetic, but rather, they should be sensitive enough to know their expected comportment and act accordingly.

The individual could also start building a healthy lifestyle through the consumption of healthy foods and exercising of the body. He could also try out new activities in order to distract himself; activities like swimming, cycling, writing and baking amongst others. The list is endless. This technique helps keep the mind occupied locking out the pain.

Finally, the individual could help in counselling others going through the same experience as he. In offering help to them, he is able to let go of his pain long enough to help another heal; gradually healing himself. Also, he derives the sense of fulfillment or of being useful again, thus, hastening his recovery.

The bereaved should be allowed to grieve but must also be helped to overcome it to an extent in order to preserve his health. It has never been easy to overcome but time always helps in healing which is something people should bear in mind. It's not a pain that can be erased at the snap of a finger; time alone heals it.