₦airaland Forum

ELIXIR
...

the worst kind of loneliness
is the condemnation and ostracism
that comes from being grossly misunderstood.
it can make deities lose their godhood and minds.
it can send stars falling down as fragments of rocks.
it can make planets lose their velocities around the sun.

i tell you this -
not because my soul is a dark prison;
not because my body is a hall of death;
not because my eyes and ears are schizoid -
i tell you this, dear reader and soul rebel;
because my spirit has empathised with lofty birds
who have suffered persecution for having colorful wings.
i tell you this because the universe has
filled my ears with punctured screams and hemorrhage.

this is why the misconstrued loner is sad:
his loneliness is a living being, drawing strength
from fear and memories of native rejection,
covering all orifices with untruths, utopia and pus
until death starts looking like the answer to aged prayers.

in a war, the first rule of survival is strategy.
to survive a system that orgasms on
seeing suns set at dawn, you have to sit by the sea,
as your senses perceive the magic of creation,
as your heart beats hard while the soft voice
of love whispers... slowly and fiercely:
"Fear not!"

...
©Pat Ashinze, 03.21.19.



...
In honour of the World Poetry Day.

Cc: Obinnau
HumbledbYGrace

VALAR SCUMULIS
'(All men are scum)'
...

since the times are surreal
and dense with misty windfalls,
we, the men will watch the sun set
and pray to the heavens as effluvium flows
from the mouths of countless goddesses.
the news; the internet and the radio
are beacons that illumine the
atrocities that have befallen the male human.
the wars; the scandals and maladaptations
are witnesses also - to the miseries
and tensions that comes with being an XY.

this is a dangerous time to be a man.
if you do not know, now is the best time to
before your name becomes a curse
in the mouths of children:
for the sins of few, all have been punished.
for the crime of one, many rods have been broken.
this is how we murder the spirit of love.
by choking it with sarcoid lies and illusions.

if you are a man, listen.
if you are a woman, open your soul
and let the wisdom of the ancients
be your compass and refuge.
there is a dark cloud hovering over humanity,
poisoning it with chaos and toxic philosophies,
killing the bearer of testosterone with
resentment and unhealthiness:
"Hate!"

...
…
Created by:
Pat Ashinze.
Creator. Man. Clerisy.
Ilorin, Nigeria.
27th, January. 2019


Cc: Obinnau
HumbledbYGrace

Mods: Help forward to FP.
It may speak to someone.
...[sup][/sup]
Cc: Obinnau
HumbledbYGrace

DEPRESSION

after a prolonged war with life,
for the first few moments,
we become sullen and then lonely,
until our spirits become pale and void.
the light departs our soul and living becomes
as purulent and desolate as a necrotic wound.

the theory of depression is dark.
we get drunk to drown the pain
or smoke pipes to vaporize the demons
or crack jokes to make others laugh
or smile widest when the cameraman says "cheese!"

the demands of depression are hard.
you either hear the gun telling you to pull
the trigger or the rope asking you to swing from
its noose or the sea enticing you to take a
deep dive down the blue aisle
or the voice of gravity pleading with you
to jump down from the window of the
eighth floor from a 30-storey building.

we must not blame those that kill themselves.
the soul wants to be free at all cost.
but we also must not listen to death.
it offers uncertainties
and assumptions.
and agony.
for the dead and the dying.
no one is living.
we all are dying.

...

Written by:
Pat Ashinze,
Ilorin, Nigeria. 2018

IMPRESSIONS
...
a public creed teaches us
that first impressions are lasting ones
by which we build people’s characters,
premonitions and limitations from.
do not believe it, dear reader.
it is an old and rusty philosophy.
it has not evolved with time.
it is an often misguided truth.

i have known prostitutes
whose portals have entertained demons
and legions of insatiable men at the start,
but once you got to know these women
of the night street for the humans
that they really are, you get to see for
yourself that even darkness illuminates;
that even ashes spark fire.

i have known exemplary saints who have
sworn to the earth and sky and sea and fire
that they have seen God;
that they have heard his voice
and perceived his deafening heartbeat but
if you get closer and deeper to their soul realms,
you would see abysses and wormholes
that can swallow a nation and send
chills down the spine of angels.

see, my dear reader, life is hard.
the heart roams around in sheathed cycles,
hiding realness and portraying illusions.
it takes time to differentiate worms from caterpillars.
it is only one that turns into a butterfly.
be illumined.
…

Written by:
Pat Ashinze.
Ilorin. Nigeria. 2018.
…

Cc. Obinnau
DivePen1
HumbledbYGrace

obrien29:
Are you primarily a poet?

I am a Creator

*THE BLACK MAN*

The typical black man does not read. The black man. barely creates or add to the innovative market. He hardly reads things beyond the scope of his discipline or schedule. He exists, procreates lifelessly and haplessly, smokes, drinks, imbibes religiosity, lambasts and tags people as the cause of his misery and hopefully grows old to give spineless advices and die at 80.
...
It irks the typical black man to ingest and digest extraneous and intellectually emancipating things. It is a burden unto him to read mentally illumining things.
Knowledge intimidates him. Knowledge makes him vulnerable. Self-development is a rarity amongst the black man and his folks.
...
Instead... He prefers mirages, inconclusive dialogues, vituperations, rhetorics, slavish mentality, coitus and enjoys blaming the government... even for his self-inflicted ignorance.
…
The black man believes he is free and obligate in existence. He believes he is a child of the ancestors and that the universe is a flat tire that pumps up to patency according to his will. The black man prays a lot, sins a lot, misinterpret a lot and hardly employs his brain. The black man thinks too much and feels too little.
…
The black man frowns on and denigrate his fellow black man that attempts to shift aside from the conventional norm. He says to the air and earth… _My fellow man is arrogant and uncultured! He will fall hard soon. He will die young and go to hell._.
The black man is a very funny man!
He is a lamp that sees the darkness of others but never succeeds in seeing the obscurity of his own mindset.
…
The black man is cursed!.

…
_Written by_
*Pat Ashinze.*
*Man. Writer. Clerisy.*
*For The Black Man and Others*

Cc. Divepen1
Obinnau

Cc.
Obinnau.
HumbledbYGrace

Cc.
HumbledbYGrace
Obinnau

CHILDBIRTH
…
childbirth is the mother of adventures.
you hear of heavens, rocks and earths
getting split opened like the mouths of lovelorn soldiers roaring irate, vocalic grunts
on an harmattan-baked morning.

childbirth tells squeamish tales:
how the body shuts itself
into utter disharmony, yelling out in
arrhythmic intensities as stormy memories
invade the grey matter.
these memories - are memories that wander through deserts, drying lakes, pools of hemorrhage, scars, fantasy, anger, pain, violation and happiness.

the hips of a woman are maps
to the source of a universe.
little wonder why nature prefers
making them conduits for morning birds
to fly, tweet and welcome sunrise.

if you see a mother tending to her child, bow!
they are conveyors of a realm -
where blood, grit and moans first met
to create a new song:
a song… called Love.

...
Pat Ashinze.
Man. Writer. Clerisy.
Ilorin, Nigeria. 2018.


Cc:

Cc.
Obinnau
HumbledbYGrace

BODY SHAMING.

if you think the grace of a woman
is only in the curve of her hips
and the shape of her breasts,
and the sleekness of her body,
and in the lush vitality of her portal,
then, you do not understand how to read
beneath the jagged lines - the sacred geometry that make up her glorious heart
and her beautiful mind.

if you think the beauty of a man
is in the brazenness of his looks
or in the gallantry of his muscles,
or in the tallness and swiftness of gait,
or in the heraldry of his bulging arms,
or in the curly ruddiness of his frame,
or in the beastliness of his nether regions:
then - you do not know how to identify
gods amidst a myriad lot of guns and roses.

if only you could listen
to the wailings of their punctured minds,
you would hear prisoners begging to be released.
you will see lost travelers seeking for doors to self-discovery.
you will see spirits roaring at the inconsiderateness of idiots trying to play God.

now listen, as the moon does to the sun:
they are not flat or too thin,
they are not globose or too fat,
they are not malformed or maladapted,
they are deities, crafted by the universe.
they are pollen, blown by the wind
to fill the earth with flowers and colours.
they are richly filled in places we can not see.
be illumined.

...
Pat Ashinze.
Ilorin, Nigeria. 2018.

*58: A Retrospective*

1960- 1966
a bonfire is made,
from diverse firewoods.
a stray bird finally finds a land
she can call home in the heart of Pangaea.
but then, if you pray for rain,
you have to deal with the mud too.

1967 - 1970:
the sun strikes Biafra's earth with sorrows
and war pollutes her air with grenades, bombs, rape and teardrops, thereby drowning butterflies in bowls of blood.
the east still remembers - even the north,
of what it costs to fight a war of light and shadows.

1970- 1979:
irritations die and hope becomes
a song everyone knows how to sing.
but, the air is still gassed with wry croaks
from bald toads that want crowns instead of buggy swamps.

1980 - 1998:
tyranny spits in the face of God,
burying the souls of the just in darkness and diseases.
maniacs rule our cities, geniuses drive cabs.
misery grows wings and abominations flies around with pride.

1999:
the sky regains her blueness and freedom songs
fill the throat of songbirds. God heals a poliomyelitic adult with the word that gave existence a purpose: _Let there be light._
but our demoms did not retreat.

2000 - 2018:
like Moses and the Israelites, we have revolved in an endless cycle of fluctuations. nothing has changed. nothing may change. even angels have chills sprinting down their spines - They ask:
_who cursed Nigeria?!_

...

Pat Ashinze.
Man. Writer. Clerisy.
Ilorin, Nigeria. 2018

Cc: Obinnau
HumbledbYGrace

MissWrite:
This is a really beautiful poem. I read it last week, I think; and I had to come back. Good job.

Thank you very much.
Thank you very kindly.

...

...
DRIFT

nothing makes
a man look stupid
like wanton misery
and consistent failure.
And love.

i tell you, dear reader -
not because i have drunk sour wines;
not because i have seen the sky bleed;
not because my memories have grown
grey beards and have become arthritic;
i tell you this to show you the vanity
behind having an human existence.

if you see a man crying, run!
his soul is filled with shadows.
his memories are naked and silty.
run! - before the heaviness spreads and
makes you a city beneath the earth.

truth is: the mind of every man is filled with grief:
consisting of sorrows that sting like desert arachnids and
hurt like the jests of blasphemous demons.
we hide our pains behind our teeth everyday,
praying in dense notes for death to run away,
waiting for God to show his face in the clouds.

another truth is that happiness requires sacrifice.
it is the reward for hearts
that have chosen to ignore pain
and learnt to live in a world
filled with dangling windows,
punctured destinies, broken stories,
false friends, envied pedestals,
desolate cities and empty rooms.
happiness is not for cowards.
be illumined.
...

Written by:
Pat Ashinze.
Ilorin, Nigeria. 2018.

BEYOND THE DARKNESS


the sky waits
and the sun tarries
for the bird to remember
it can fly and soar high
even when its wings defy will
and the storms rage unkind.

see, my dearest reader.
it is not strange to forget purpose.
it is not new to drift into cluelessness.
it is not a sin to fail and falter.
even the crow oversleeps seldomly
until the dewy dawn tickles her
long throat to obey nature's order.

even the flaming fire may forget
how fiery and bright it can burn
until it sees the ashes of past exploits
and remembers itself as a song
of lights and thunders.

at times,
frequent or infrequent;
our finest moments in life
are often borne when we remember
the forgotten words: that
we were made for more than
what is; that this cannot
and will not be the end.

© Pat Ashinze
Ilorin, Nigeria
2018.

Ccc: Obinnau, DivePen1, Mynd44, Lalasticlala
FP, pls

*THE CHRONICLES OF AZUKA*
_Episode 5_

by: Pat Ashinze

Several times, every year, Azuka would journey downtown from his University campus to visit his half-uncle, Prof. Nwibe Marcus, a billionaire and nationwide recognised clinical psychologist at Nobleman's university whose research articles, theses and journals on mental health had illumined a lot of obscurities concerning psychiatric affairs and had discarded many myths and hideous rumours on the said subject.
Truth be told, Professor Marcus was an achiever, even by achiever standards.
Having graduated second-class upper in Psychology at the age of 23, he had a jolly smooth sail throughout the postgraduate fields, spanking a professorial appointment at the tender age of 34.
His interest in the perambulations, the congeniality between the mind and body and the seemingly interesting infrequence of human behaviour drove him to focus his compass on Clinical psychology and it luckily paid off for him.
He would be 40 in a few days time and lo, he had already had the world reclining at his feet. Fine, he was a single father of 3 lovely boys having being widowed six years back following an uterine aneurysm that took away his dearly beloved Sandra away. But still, he stood, alive and well. Bless God. Bless Willpower.

As for Azuka, visiting Prof. Marcus was not because of the intelligentsia or literati or of something related to academic clerisy. No. Azuka visited Prof. Marcus frequently to escape the reality of his woes at the University environs. First, his grades were highly anaemic, his girlfriend Ifeanyi had ported away with Bertrand the Abuja moneybag whose face knew no smile or laughter, his brain was frequently fried thanks to incessant alcoholism, occasional weed puffs and _science studentship_ as the streets called it. And then for the food also. Chicken being a gold standard with beverages and strong wines.

Howbeit though, the epicenter of Azuka's fugitive visits was for the homely safety that radiated all over Prof's house. It was enough adhesive and attractant for Azuka. Azuka had access. The guards never halted or froze him for clearance or whatnot. They knew him well enough .Azuka was lucky. Azuka was good. Good men are lucky.

Dang! Prof. Marcus was not just an academic genius, he was enviably wealthy as well. Borne as the last child of nine spawns, that was also sired from the least favourite wife for that matter, Prof. Marcus's father had willed him a hackneyed wasteland, some ignoble cash and a jalopy Mercedes car at the very moment of demise oblivious to the knowledge that the very filthy land was incalculably deposited with crude copper and columbite minerals.
The land would have been derelict as an asset until fortune gave Professor Marcus an ambrosial smile when American expatriates came over to Nigeria for wanderlust and work - only to discover that the said wasteland was an heavily pregnant mine that had suffered abandon and disuse. He was a research fellow back then at Nobleman's university and thusly, a lifelong, breakthrough deal was struck - this was how he became a Forbes' magazine interviewee.
God is funny. Very funny indeed.

Come to talk of Marcus's house, it was descriptively a mini-Eden. It was situated on a twelve-acred landmass which was about a stone throw from the suburbs.
Painted in royal white like the beard of the biblical sages: the portable-sized edifice was built in an avant-garde form.
Fenced all over in a medium-sized, gothic-fashioned barricade style, the seven-roomed bungalow had a well groomed lawn that could almost compete with an average football field, a man-made stream, some flowers that were definitely not Nigerian in origin, a few sculptures, vintage galleries, spiral structures, a grand piano, a bar and little kaleidoscopes of colored glasses that adorned the window of the professor's study (which Azuka had no access to). The air of the house in its egyptian-perfumed entirety itself reeked of the fact that it belonged to an owner with great intellect and modest choices. It was plainly civilized luxury.

Yet still, despite the money, the fame, the vast knowledge, the influence, the big connections to fat heads and the glamour, The Prof had chosen to embrace a humble, solemnly private and plain life. He did not remarry. No one could be like Sandra. No one. The boys would have the society as their mother. Azuka knew this. The boys were still young. Henry, the eldest was just 9. Azuka wanted to counter and counsel Prof but what is the opinion of a poor man when the rich is burping and deciding. Maybe at another time. Not now. Azuka was wise. Wise men keep quiet and listen to reason. Family apart, wise men mind their business and leave all to God.
Heck, he was worth 500 million dollars. US dollars for that matter. Not Zimbabwean or Liberian. US Obodo Oyibo dollars. Azuka knew the worth. A good man must know things. Azuka was wise.

Azuka never boasted of knowing or being related to his half-uncle. Not to anyone. Not for the familiarity nor for the money or elitist status. As far as Azuka was concerned, he was not entitled to Prof. Marcus's money. Azuka was poor and reckless but he was not foolish. The rich do not owe the poor anything. Azuka was wise. Wise men are not leeches. Wise men reduce and diminish their sense of entitlement. Azuka is wise. Wise men are good.

Epilogue: Azuka wants us to know that the rich also cry. He wants us to reduce our sense of entitlement and if possible, make them inexistent. He wants us to know that the wealthy do not owe the poor any dime, that choice is all that matters.
Most of all, Azuka wants us to know that everything is a product of time and chance so nobody has a right to be arrogant.

Written by:
Pat Ashinze,
For The People, 2018

Episode 4 continued.

...

saying that: _Azuka's scoreboard mark was a scientific proof that evolution could go back in reverse._
Damn it! It was maddening and debilitating. It was impolitic and undignifying. Azuka's was liquefied on that day - throughout the week to be sincere.

But this time, he must say something. He must do something. The mockery was becoming too heavy and too frequent for him to reciprocate with ignominious silence. He was not taking defeat. Good men fight for their peace. Azuka must fight. With words. No blows or traumatic measures intended. For justness' sake, Cletus was twice his size and build.
Good men fight battles they can win. Azuka was wise.

Deepened and fidgeted by fury, Azuka launched an organic rant at the top of his mildly baritone voice –
_“I swear, Cletus! You will pay for this!! You think sey you fit talk anyhow bah. You think sey na your mouth sabi yanga pass abi?? Nobody messes with me. …You wretched, inconsiderate, shapeless and uncivilised swine! By the way, Cletus. _Just make sure you marry an intelligent and virtuous woman because, truth be told - no good child deserves to partake in inheriting your filthy genes._

… Like rapture come down, there was a deafening silence on the entire field. Azuka had said something new. Something destructive and superseding. Azuka had trashed Cletus, the bad mouth. The field had girls to testify to. Everybody guffawed and laughed so hard. This was the top of it. Cletus had being buried alive, by Azuka's tongue.

That day, that fateful and clementine Saturday; Azuka won the rights to the hostel's respected persons list. Cletus never said something outlandish anymore. Not to Azuka. Not to anyone anymore.
Like Christ's last words in Golgotha _It was finished._

Epilogue: Azuka wants us to know that it is okay to scream back at the world when we feel oppressed and molested. Azuka wants us to know that silence is not always golden. Azuka wants us to tease and joke with sense. Azuka wants us to know that
_The world is for the Outspoken._

Written by:
Pat Ashinze,
For The People, 2018.

THE CHRONICLES OF AZUKA
Episode 4

By: Pat Ashinze

It was Saturday. A Saturday that was privileged to be weathered by a clementine atmosphere. Noontime was handing over the baton to eventide.
The school environs were calm and less fussy as compared to the normal five operating days that typically represented the hustle and bustle of a tertiary campus. The male hall of residence - Azuka's hostel, however was agog with liveliness and adrenaline.

Azuka leaned against the doorpost of the hostel entrance, watching his hostel mates preparing football sets on the jaggy field. The sets were five in number and there had to be a tussle between each of them. It was for pleasure mainly - sheer, sweaty and teasing pleasure.
Azuka's phone bleeped. He looked into the screen to read the Universe fact application daily update. Azuka loved being current with information. Good men are wise. Wise men have information. Information is power. Information is knowledge. Azuka was wise. Azuka is good.

The application offered montages and galleries of geographical knowledge that was oblivious to Azuka's infinite memory. Azuka was wowed. So all the hydration that the Sahara desert needed to become a flourishing greenery was just about one-seventieth(1/70th) of the bulk of the Atlantic ocean. Wow. Waoooooh. Facts are good. Good men get facts.
Having had a revealing peek into his loyal android device, he cradled it in a fatherly manner, dusted the backside that looked soiled, locked it and tucked it in into his breast pocket.
The football match was getting tenser. Azuka positioned himself to a more comfortable pose.
Then something made him vent.
“Haba! Which kind goalkeeper be this??! Why is he running away from shots? Why is he blpcking his manhood when a freekick is coming through?? Isn’t it his duty to save shots: come heavy, come soft? Ha ha!, he is even putting the blame on the defenders, when it’s so clear that he has all the faults to answer to! This is just ridiculous!” roared Azuka in jocund delight.

"Oga, sharrap joor!" A voice nearby responded. It was Cletus’s, the hostel jester whose mouth had no remorse or reverence for anybody.
"You just dey talk, dey talk; which wan you sef sabi do? Abi no be you, Azuka?? You wey be sey your legs go dey shake like person wey get seizure on top sey you wan kick ball!! See sef, no be Azuka dem suppose name you. Na Uzoma!!". jeered Cletus, the bad mouthed Calabar boy.

Azuka replied back earnestly.
"Cletus! What was that for? All I did was give a sincere criticism! So, why would you mock me like shit?! Is it a crime for a man not to know how to play? Besides, as you can see, I am a good football analyst! I watch football and make concise assertions. So, just leave me alone!!"

"Shioor, yeye guy! Ball, you no fit play. Tennis? Network not available!.. Even the software games sef, na humiliation you dey always bring come home. You are a totally boring loser... Abi you don forget dat day wey you score own goal abi shey na home goal, kon dey jubilate till referee tell you sey na 2nd half una dey play, sey una teams don shift sides. He he, Werey guy!!"
This time, everyone in the common room busted out in frantic, irrepressible laughter.

For a few seconds, Azuka was speechless. The mockery had pierced his mental marrows. True, he had score a own/home goal but it was out of ignorance not negligence. He had used some codeine on that day though but notwithstanding, it was totally a mistake. Azuka had forgotten that it was second-half time and that the goalposts would have switched concurrently also. Arrrgh. A bad day it was indeed. Now, Cletus was scratching old wounds with his uncircumcised tongue. Cletus had the usual habit of making Azuka look miserable and stupid before others. Azuka remembered how Cletus had once mocked Azuka's scoreboard marks in public; amongst a plenitude of girls for that matter, saying that: