Friday, 30 December 2011

Last post for 2011, onward to 2012. Thanks for the love

This is the true life story that I had written for O'Naturals, its a 2 parter so they should be having the 2nd part of it out before 2012, so you can go and read it there. But while I have this borrowed time, I'm posting this to you and also saying 'thank you for reading, for commenting, for believing in me, for praying for me, with me, for being there every single step of the way, silently and publicly. God bless you and Have a very happy New Year.

I on a personal front, hope to have a new laptop, write more, publish a book (this has been a 3 year dream, touch wood for 2012) travel, fall in love? (I'm open to offers) lol and live and laugh more. In all my pain, distress and fears, God has been so good to me. He's given me family,good friends, a best friend & sister, an outlet to express the gift He gave me. I am so blessed and I am certain that I'm on my journey to being pain free, truly alive and well. Here's to more poetry, stories, laughter and life. Happy New Year and God bless you real good.

Hairdos: Mother, Grandmother and I

I’m sitting on my little stool, in the living room, my heart beating just a little bit faster as the long hand on the clock creeps up. Somehow my armpits feel a bit wetter. I know that the door will creak open and ... and the door starts to creak open. I shoot off my stool and race into my parents bedroom and go under the bed. I had been planning this hideout for a while and I was certain that this time I won’t be caught.

"Tope"! My name rings out and I unknowingly shiver. "Why must we do this every time? I know you are hiding somewhere and sooner than later, I will find you, so why not come out and just let’s be done?" The voice fades off and I start to relax but the voice comes closer. "Honestly I don’t have time for this. When I catch you, it will not be funny!" The voice bounces all over the room until it bends over to my hideout and a hand shoots out and grabs me by the leg. Grandmother pulls me to the living room while rivulets of tears fall down my face.

Going to the hairdressers always took so long and ended unsuccessfully because I have a tender head. It had become a bi-weekly nuisance. One day, my mother snapped when she came and found me screaming like a sacrificial lamb while being held down by one hairdresser as the other tried to weave my hair. She paid the woman and marched me into her car with my hair uncompleted.

We got home and my Grandmother, who lived with us, looked at us with a smirk on her face. Mother and her were not the best of friends and mother tried her best to keep out of Grandmother's way. "So you have given up?" Grandmother beamed at my mother. My mom shook her head and said forlornly "I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should just shave her hair." I trembled at the thought and whined a big "no". I knew what happened to children who had shaved hair in my school. Everyone said they had head lice and teased them with the ‘gorimapa’ song.

Grandmother came to my rescue. ‘Let me finish it up for her and I’ll do her hair from now on. At least you will not have spend my son’s money needlessly." Grandmother ended somewhat triumphantly. Mom looked at her and let out what sounded like a grunt. I followed Grandmother willingly. Grandmother sat on the big chair and I sat on my little stool in between her legs.

Grandmother’s fat thighs suddenly clamped down on both sides of my head; holding my head so tight, I couldn’t hear anything. Her hands came over my head and like little needles poking at my head. It took me a while to find my voice because I was in shock. She finished up the weave just as my mother came out to see what was going on. "There! You see! Straightforward hairdressing. Done. All that money wasted when you had a true professional at home. And you, shut up!" Grandmother pushed me towards my mother, stood up re-tying her big wrapper around her waist and walked out of the living room.

"You see what you’ve caused now? Hmm? Mama will have something to say anytime you have to get your hair done! Left to me, I’ll just shave your head!" Mother said as she pulled me to herself and wiped my face. At that, I shouted "no". She echoed my voice. "No?! But every time you get your hair done, it is drama and disaster. What am I to do with you?" She scooped me in her arms and carried me into the bedroom where she gave me some paracetamol for my rising temperature and a cold orange Tree-Top drink. So I lay in my mother’s arms wondering how the next hairdressing time with my Grandmother was going to be. I didn’t have long to wait, it was two weeks coming.

Friday, 23 December 2011

For Melissa Hasbrook

It was a simple way we met, Melissa and myself. It was a poetry gig in Wigan. We both performed and somehow, someone introduced us and we started talking and I invited her to come stay at my flat and she accepted. I remember apologising profusely about the dingyness of the flat and she graciously told me it was a good flat.

She told me about her life and I shared mine and she told me of her history and I told her of mine and we chatted late into the night and the next day. I was sad to see her go, this new friend of mine. Imagine! A child of American Indian descent and I a mixed hesistant child of Dahomey and Yoruba origin. Light and dark, smooth and dred, and it didn't matter , for when we spoke, we were children of a common note-earth.

So the bond was forged and she inspired me with her pictures and my poetry of them and she wrote constantly to praise my faltering voice, reassuring me that I had something to say and ears listened. And I confirmed her of a soft bed and lighted heart whenever she came. And as the father watched from the castletop for his son, so I watched for her return.

She returned some months ago and light filled my room but the darkness of my pain formed a shadow which muted my joy, however, she used her light to pierce a hole through and left. Encouraging me to tear further and step back into the light I once danced in. Slowly, I listened for the drumbeat and gingerly lifted my feet, arched to descend in dance. I am dancing now, arms akimbo, head roll-tating in time with the percussion gong, feet laughing along with the gongo as rhythmn slithers up and down my back arching it with esctasy.

Melissa, sister in light, here is this for you.

For Melissa

With a harsh toll, I was awakened

to a new journey removing from self-pity.

Your parcel placed in my hand received with

false cheer from the postman.

Puzzled. I sat on my bed, smiling at memory

wondering what you laid beneath.

Bubblewrap. My childish piqued, till I opened

my epiphany.

Frien. I cried when I saw the prints of life

briefly shared to my excitement.

Realising how much I missed; a heart

who loves, receives me without judgement

I felt ashamed and cried some more.

Salt, tobacco, sage, (juniper?)

You brought healing in a bowl

I let it sit on my table; afraid of what

I did not know.

I confess, I let fear dictate my departure

from Mother Earth, letting her sit,

forlorn, in a blue bowl. Till,

you left and I, apologetic, asked her

forgiveness as I threw your gift on her face.

Friend. Sister. Dear friend.

Forgive my apprehension; I am

a creature of bad habits.

Skin conditioned to prickle at things unknown.

You, a constant voice of praise of my

episodic verse; my inspiration

by Platt’s grave; a visit of different cultures

in a bedsit diverged of prejudice; a light

inviting flickers of hesitation into a

secure knowledge.

I am born again. Tears washing

away the pities of a new age. Lights

like yours confirming again.

God is Love.

Monday, 19 December 2011

My Fight with Fibromyalgia

I have promised some time ago that I was going to explain the condition I'm dealing with but was really hindered by ill health, the lack of a computer and time, but today my church The Bridge kindly let me use their computer in their office so I'll be putting all I know. Now, please note that it took the doctors about 2 years to diagnose me and I had previous underlying conditions like Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and while I'm dealing with the condition now and making the best of it through Nutrition, if you want, you can go to the site and read up on it.

I started by being very tired for no good reason. Typically, I am a very strong person physically; I put it down to going to a Military School but uncharacteristically, I got very tired and went into almost shut down mode. Then shortly after that, I developed a severe headache that did like my head would split! As a typical Nigerian, I called home and started praying. My GP couldn't find anything wrong but I was in agony and because it came and went, some friends thought I put it on, just to get off work, but while I have my moments like everyone, the pain was very real and I was prescribed steroids but they didn't help.

Shortly after that, just when I thought it couldn't get worse, I started having severe pain in my joints and my body would heat up and I had some swellings and no matter what test I did  and believe me, I did them all, nothing could be found. The only explanation my GP could come up with was that it was a blood condition I inherited from my dad-Alpha thalessimia, however, it wasn't enough to create the type of symptoms I was displaying.

Well, I can tell you, it didn't get better. I went out so many times for healing prayers, I went to a Chinese pratitioner to seek help, some people started avoiding me, so many rumours were passed around about me. I was living in hell. I couldn't tell my folks back home the severity of my conditions because I didn't want to alarm them but I can tell you, there were times I thought death had to be better than what I was going through. I was in pain all the time, my bones ached, my nerves were super sensitive, I was tired all the time and I had no strength as before, sometimes, I struggled to even dress myself!

I love to cook but I couldn't even cook for myself. I remember one particular day where the pain was so bad, my body was on fire, I had a raging headache, I could barely make it out of bed to go to the loo. No one was around as I lived alone; and one thing Fibromyalgia does for you is it lets you know who your friends truly are, I was hungry but could do nothing about it until my friend and angel, Laura came over after work and she made me something. I had to sleep with my door open as I wasn't certain if I could get to the door.

Let me tell you one truth, there is no way one will be in that situation especially living alone and not fall into depression and it is dark and ugly, so I truly sympatize with anyone who is going through depression. However, after pressing on, I got a diagnosis early this year in February. Though it didn't take away the pain, at least it had a name and it wasn't some curse put on me because of my many sins ( someone actually told me this-to my face!) and once I knew what it was, I started learning about it and finding ways to deal with it.

I would love to say that I found a cure and its all gone and life is great but that is not true. It's a battle I face daily but I'm facing it. After my diagnosis, I informed my GP and my office and I started treatment. I joined a support group and a singing group at church because one of the ways to feel better is to do what you love as it releases happy hormones and I love to sing especially hymns. My symptoms have gotten worse in recent times as I am now falling more but I believe its just a blip and I'll overcome that. I have also started learning how to tailor my diet to help make life more manageable.

Now note, fibromyalgia is incurable according to the consultants and my entire lifestyle has been adjusted to accomodate, for now, this condition but I believe that one day I will be drug free and I will be able to be the strong Abi again. For now, I  try to live life to its fullest each day, I want to be the happiest, fun filled person people ever meet and I personally have good reason for that, I have a personal relationship with Christ and I've got a joy and peace that nothing can take away now. Yes I know I may have to get into that conversation when I meet the man but I know that he will see the spirited firecracker under the frail skin and fall in love with that. And yes! I will love hard, laugh heartly and be throughly delighted with life.

Do I think I am unfortunate, honestly , no, however I know, I solemnly have to consider this condition within my life but it has opened my eyes to the advantage of good health above money and frills. I enjoy life more, I'm more willing to try things, I am determined to finish whatever I start; it has taken me almost 2 and a half hours to type this as my hands hurt with nerve ache but you're reading it thanks to a massage ball because I finished it and if that is not a sign of one who will overcome then I don't know what is!

This is the life I'm living and what a cracking* life that is!

*cracking in Bolton parlance means brilliant

Thursday, 15 December 2011

The Visit

This is something new that I have been working on. I would love to hear what you think. I warn you, its a bit long but keep with it.

The Visit


An insufficient word to cover

The traces of sweat underlying

My armpits as I pack my

Bags; going through checks

Bars, locks and doors, checks

Bars, locks and locks, checks

Bars, doors and bars to get

To him in his numbered shirt

Like a famous footballer kept

From prying eyes, no photographs


With steady eyes, he gazed at

Me as with trembling hands

I put my bag down wondering

If I could or should shake

His hand as I lift my

Fingers to my hair, a feeble

Excuse of a salute to the

Shadow of what made him

Once great.

Buttocks almost missing my

Seat, my heart pounds

An unearthly rhythm

I’m thinking with rabid

Eyes, yikes! Is there a

Doctor in this house? His

Steady gaze somehow comforts

And unnerves me simultaneously

The guard indicates the

Number five, fingers stretched

Palm wide, brisk, I clutch my

Pad to furiously comfort me

As pen scratches crazily on

Paper working with his lips

As he uttered new lines of

His memories.

There is no sign of remorse

Nor is there of triumph, its

A steady pace of what has

Been, emotion cannot unchanged

It. It’s a tripping of words of

Life gone past, actions committed

In hazes of black and as it

Flows, he’s lifting while

I’m the one sinking.

Behind liquid brown eyes

I furtively search to see if

Somewhere there could be regret

But my fear stops me from

Gazing too long, so I write

Squirrelling away my

Fevered angst, rage and

Pain. The guard comes

Back for five is past and

I pick up my bag, do

Not say goodbye. It’s a

Nonchalant release

Of a practice that is just

Now a hobby.

A quick backward glance

To this murderer of time

But all I see is the back of

His shirt and regret grips

Me once again by the tails

I am dangling between this

Truth that grips.

Mother, I am sorry. A whisper

As clangs of gates echo

My shame, I grip my bag

Closely, my tears glancing

Past the lines of heated words

My whisper completes my

Fear to face father and ask

Him why?

Instead. My footsteps

Echo the words building

Walls on my heart

As block by block

Sound. With each clang

Of the lock and bar

Repeat. You are

Dead to me.

Monday, 5 December 2011

New story and Research

Here's another story I have written for O'Naturals, I hope you enjoy it as its actually a true story. This week is eventful one for me and I'm just anticipating. Its a rush but also a tad nerve wrecking. I hope your week is filled with laughter and pleasant surprises.

Next post I should be able to give you more information on Fibromyalgia to educate you on it. I tell you, doing research on it has been quite fascinating because many doctors over here in Bolton have never heard about it or know very little so believe me, I had to go find the expert on this condition and there's so much to know.

Well God bless my dears and have a really fabulous week. x

Wednesday, 30 November 2011


Hello people, remember that I told you about my guest slot on O'Naturals, where once a month, I contribute a story or poem to their site. Well in case, you couldn't get to their page. Here again is the story in its full form. I hope you enjoy and I hope to be able to sort out my insurance and buy a comp soon.

By the Way- Fibromyalgia is a terror but I refuse to be beaten. I will overcome. I fell down in two places this last week and one was in public- my local bank¬ no need to say, it will be in a while before I go back there. Well keep me in your prayers and I'll be telling you more and putting more poetry up. God bless


Time had passed and I knew I wasn’t as easy to recognise but as soon as he saw me, Deji knew it was me. The first thing he did, after spinning me around, was reach for my hair. 'You changed it!' he exclaimed, half accusingly and half incredulously. He knew how much I cared for my hair in the past and how much money he had personally paid for its upkeep. I smiled and shrugged. My hair tossed a bit in the breeze. 'Well, I like it much better this way’ I replied. We talked some more, exchanged numbers and I left in a cab, leaving him standing, waving at me.

Deji and I dated while I was at university. He was a year ahead of me and from the first day he set eyes on me, he wouldn't let me be. He told me he was certain that I was an angel sent to him from ‘Jah’ above. At first, he was frustrating but I soon started laughing at his words and that’s how we ended up spending the day together. Before he left he asked me if I would go out with him and I asked him how he knew I was ‘his angel’. He said that when I walked in and light shone on my head, he just knew.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or choke! I told him that I had just had my hair done with a 100% human hair weave and it was most likely the gloss from the oil that caught the light. He shook his head and said it didn’t matter, I was still his angel and with that he left. From then on, he visited me frequently, took me out for lunches, ate in my room when I cooked and helped me with some of my assignments. And so we just sort of fell into being a couple.

On one occasion, I had just put in an 18 inch Brazilian hair weave when Deji came over. Although my head felt tight, I looked so good. Deji fell in love with it and could not stop stroking my hair. It would have been a romantic time together if he hadn't caught his fingers in my hair, while he was stroking it, and that hurt terribly. He tried to turn around and sat on some of my weave while I was trying to move and the pain actually brought tears to my eyes! It was disastrous. This was to be the script for the majority of our intimate moments. My hairstyles seemed to be causing us hassles and soon enough we started arguing. I got very angry and kicked him out of my room when he suggested me having less extended tresses. Deji tried to get back with me, to be fair, and I did try to make it work but my hair got in the way.

We broke up, Deji graduated and I never heard from him again. I finished school, traveled to the US for my Masters, my hair went natural and I finally got dredlocs. I had been living in the States for five years when I bumped into Deji again. My phone rang as I got out of the cab. It was Deji. He said it was wonderful to see me again and that I looked amazing with my hair. I smiled to myself and said it was good to see him too. He asked if we could meet up for lunch, we fixed a date and he hung up.

From one lunch date to several other lunch dates and then dinner dates. We realized we were still single and Deji asked me to be his girlfriend. We laughed so much and found a new rhythm with each other. Deji said it was like he was with a different woman and it made him happy.

I look into the mirror to check my reflection one last time. Deji’ is standing behind me and he bends to sink his nose and hands into my hair. I don’t flinch or wave him away. I lean back and remind him we’ll be late for the reception. He smiles at me through the mirror and says the guests can wait; after all we are the bride and groom.

Edited by Omozo Ehigie

Monday, 14 November 2011

My Guest Slot Starts Now

Remember I told you about my guest slot on O'Naturals. Well here's my opening entry. I hope you enjoy it. Sorry about my late posting. I hope I can solve this posting wahala soon. Much love

Wednesday, 26 October 2011

Work in Progress- Extract from 'Up from the Melon Road'

I've been writing this semi -autobiographical book for years now. Still looking for a publisher. Also been very ill, computer's gone kaput now and I'm in the library. I'd love to hear what you've got to say on this and others to come. God bless

Sunlight streaked in; I’m lying flat on my back, just as I had for the past two weeks. I breathe in deep and feel my shoulder blades contract with the unfamiliar action; I’ve been breathing lightly for so long, it felt unnatural to breathe in deeply, I feel twinges, but it feels so good. I do it again and breathe in real deep.

I rise up slowly throwing the covers from my body gently and I put my feet down on the lukewarm rug, I feel a bit dizzy but its okay. Unbuttoning my pajamas shirt slowly, and standing up I know it’s time. I have avoided facing this demon for so long but now I was ready to embrace it because I knew it was good for me. At last, I see the way to be free. I had prepared for it the night before, getting the long mirror reinstalled into my bedroom, so moving for the first time in two weeks, I was ready to see.

I walk to the mirror, looking into my own eyes, I dread to look elsewhere but I’m also excited. Slowly I raise up my hands and place them gently on them, barely touching and then I palm them; they are so soft and feel strange, so reduced, I circle them, then move up to the nibs and slowly pass my thumbs over them, I think my back groans.

I think I feel pain, but I’m not sure. I feel light all over for the first time, then I look down at them in the mirror and away and at them in the mirror and away and at them for real, they are perfect, round and they are small. The water surges behind my eyes but I blink them away fast, but the waves of a thirty-year pain are hard to dam (ignore). Slowly, then rapidly my tears fall on my naked body and I’m standing in front of a mirror ad I’m raining tears, but I’m not sad, I am very happy, very exhilarated, very, very light.

Thursday, 29 September 2011

Interview with O'Naturals

Hello friends,

Just a quick plug for me and my friend. I have been interviewed about my hair on this wonderful blog and I have also been taken on as a guest blogger. I am so excited as it is the first time this year I'll be doing this again. I had thought I had lost my mojo, its amazing what falling in love does for you!

please go the site and read and comment, yes its about hair but I think its interesting.

Cheers and God bless xx

Sunday, 25 September 2011

Engaged Lines- A new story

For many years I lived with my friends at our address, each person had their flat but we would come together and have meals, games, conversations etc. For a long time, I took it as granted until one person decided to move out and return to their home. I remember one night where we were eating in oe flat and generally having a good time and I said to them 'girls, hold on to this memory, because one day, that's all it will be, we may never be able to be together like this'. It was like a prophecy, both girls moved out, then the guy and I was left alone. I didn't grieve, I couldn't because I just couldn't believe that it was all gone. Then slowly with help from new friends, I started to grieve and this story is a result from that process. Pardon me if its a bit out there, that's what its meant to be. God bless x


It wasn’t till I got to the junction of WaterWorld that I was certain that something was definitely wrong. I had suspected it two days before, when I woke up at ten am and didn’t hear Nife’s familiar two taps on the door. I had woken up with that disconcerted feeling where you know something familiar is gone but you just can’t quite put your finger on it.

This feeling had continued when I dressed up and was about to go up to Nife’s flat to find out how I had gotten up before her, Cylan had stood behind my door, arm lifted, knuckles clenched to knock when I opened it and he scared the daylights out of me.

At my strangled scream, he gave me a gentle smile and put down his arm and introduced himself as the new tenant in Nife’s flat and told me his name. At my puzzled frown, he said she had talked about me and had kept him as a surprise. Now, I know that I had travelled to the States for two weeks and she had mentioned a change of some sort but I was certain that in our recent conversations, she hadn’t mentioned a new tenant or her wish to move out. I shrugged and looked up at him, he was quite tall, but I wondered what he wanted at my door.

He said he had come to ask for some oil, olive oil to be precise, which as I turned back into the flat to get for him, he walked in and started looking around, somehow, I was also drawn into looking around my flat and it felt somehow strange like someone had been in it in my absence and moved things around. Still in my scrambled mind, Cylan asked me to come up to his flat and I followed him, carrying the oil, into what was formerly Nife’s flat. He opened the door and it was very bare and looked very bright like someone had painted white light over the blue colour of the wall.

I sat on the only chair in the room while Cylan poured the oil into a bottle as he asked about my plans for the holiday. I had not been aware of a holiday so I asked him what he meant. Apparently, in my absence, the government had declared a two day holiday to celebrate some royal event. I mused aloud that it was strange that it had not been mentioned in the States then Cylan asked how my holiday was. To my bemusement, it was like I couldn’t remember much, I went quiet but Cylan just shrugged and silently said many things passed unmentioned in the world.

Without much time to reflect on my forgotten holiday, I somehow ended up spending the whole day with Cylan in his flat. We chatted, listened to music and ate flat bread with the olive oil. Cylan said it was very healthy and that olive oil made him more ‘aware’, it all sounded a bit dramatic to me but the meal was nice. We got on really well and I started to wonder if Nife had organised his ‘moving in’ to match make. I had had boyfriend drought for over two years, so I guessed she was trying to set me up and with the way our conversation had gone and his eye appeal, I could be buying her a ‘thank you’ present.

However, I went to bed with a sense of ennui, it should have been a perfect day but there was some kind of overcast.

Waking up late again the next day, I decided to clean up my flat and call Nife and some other friends. It was looking at my mobile that triggered my first worry for the day. My best friend Caroline hadn’t called me at all! This was very unusual as she was normally the first and last voice I heard daily. I was perplexed with myself that I hadn’t even noticed the previous day, I had spent so much time analysing my meeting and chatting with Cylan that I had forgotten my friends.

Picking up my mobile, I called Caroline to chide her for not calling but the line remained engaged and the same thing happened with every number I dialled. So I decided to finish clearing up, and then try again. I had nearly finished when Cylan came down, I opened the door and he was standing there but with another girl. Oh… she was tall, slim and very pretty. I wasn’t impressed but I kept a straight face as Cylan introduced her as Ada. To be honest, I wasn’t very charitable to her but she was very chatty and after sometime, she wore me down and we started talking about music and when I mentioned that it seemed the phone networks were down, after I had tried to call Caroline and my other friends and still got the engaged tone. Ada shrugged and said it was a usual thing, I disagreed though and questioned why all the providers didn’t leave a customary clients information jingle to inform on problems. Then Ada looked at me, then at Cylan and giggled. This annoyed me.

We ended up watching a movie which wasn’t so memorable late into the night and then I asked them to excuse me as I needed to get up early for work the next day. Cylan then said he also had to go out first thing in the morning and we would walk together. I gave him a half smile and said that would be fine and then they both left but I peeped out my door and found that they both went up back to Cylan’s flat. Very annoyed and confused, I went to bed.

I woke up early, feeling a strong sense of oncoming change; I couldn’t shake it off as I got ready. After a while, I started to feel rather light headed but I pushed through and finished up. Shortly after, Cylan and Ada arrived at my door, with an arched eyebrow, I mentally clocked that Ada hadn’t gone home. Giving her a disgusted eyeballing, I stepped out with them and we headed towards the train station.

As we walked, everyone we met, who normally said hello to me, walked past without a word or even a smile. Again I checked my phone to call Caroline as I was now quite annoyed with her and even though the network reception bars were full, the line still stayed engaged. Very puzzled now, we kept walking and as we crossed the road to where WaterWorld was, the puzzlement left and certainty settled in and my heart started to beat rapidly.

It was the flowers that I saw first, then the police notice asking for information about a serious collision, and then I saw the picture. With my chest thumping and feeling very faint, I felt Cylan’s and Ada’s cold hands hold me as I finally understood.

Friday, 23 September 2011

Facing Truth

I had written previously about coming back with a story or two. Little did I know that my life was to take a novel punch or two. For the past two and a half years, I have been fighting an aggravated condition. I know I have had it all my life but it had never gotten as serious as it then became. It has plagued me for a long time, I had been called lazy because of it, back at secondary school, I had been called a malingerer when I had genuinely felt unwell but in all my years, I had not felt it as bad as I do now.

For two and a half years, I wondered what was wrong with me, some people said it was in my head, some said it was an attack from a demonic person of my acquaintance, some people said I should confess my deep hidden sin and I would find forgiveness and relief. I went for tests (cancer gene, HIV, sexual diseases, blood genotype etc) nothing! The only slightly helpful thing was that I had the alpha thalessimia trait which explained some of my body pain and fatigue, however, it was not enough to explain the sometimes bone wrenching, excruciating pain, extreme fatigue and agonising tremours I suffered constantly.

Then late last year rolling into early this year, the term fibromaylgia was bandied about then confirmed with severe spinal pain was diagnosed and for about ten minutes, I wept like a baby in my consultant's room. I was made aware of the fact that it had no cure and I most likely would carry it for life but this did not dampen my relief that finally, I knew what was ailing me.

Shortly after that I had the threat of cancer and potential surgery but with faith in God, much prayers with friends and some trepidation. I got the all clear on my biopsy and no surgery is needed.

In all that time, I have met incredible people who have gone the extra mile to make my life more comfortable. I have almost loved and lost men who couldn't cope with the fact that I might not be the active, agile woman they want. I have had my faith and trust in God tested and hopefully, I have succeeded. Best of all, I have come to know the real me, who I am, my strenght and my weaknesses. I have found a new love and respect for myself and the whole experience has made me more sympathetic, less impatient and more understanding of the world around me and for that knowledge, I wouldn't give nothing back.

Don't misunderstand me, these conditions aren't things I would wish on an enemy and I wouldn't do them again given the chance. I like being healthy,though I mostly can't remember what that was like, however, the lessons I have gained are invaluable. Family is good and important. Love that doesn't run at the sight of pain is real and best of all, I do not believe the report of the doctors, but rather the report of the Lord which says I can and will be healed.

So as I bask in the mercy of my Saviour and Redeemer, and enjoy the love and closeness of my family and open my heart to the possibilities of love ( I never believed that I would enjoy the intimacy of a romance and the stabily of love) I don't have a partner yet but I now know that it is possible. I wish to let you dear reader know, there is truly sunshine after the rain, no matter how long it falls and there is hope, no matter how dark life gets. I know because itt is my truth. God bless.

Monday, 12 September 2011


I promised that I was going to put in blogs that I've found to be interesting. If you've noticed, I have rearranged the format of my blog. I particularly adore Original Mgbeke, she's just a legend. When it comes to the gossip of what's happening on the Nigerian scene, I usually go to Linda Ikeji and My Naija Lifestyle. Since hooking up with Omozo, I have been paying more attention to my hair and skin and the compliments show I'm not doing badly. I will be guest blogging for O'Naturals once a month, so look out for that, its where I've been picking tips for hair care and generally sharing stories of the joys and headaches of natural hair. Another place for excellent advice on hair and skin care the natural way is LITK.

I'm learning to start loving gently, to be soft and be a woman in the true sence of the word, so I've been reading up Myne Whitman and Till My Dying Day. True accounts from the latter and interesting fictional and occasional love accounts about relationships and their ups and downs.

Its been a very educative, enlightening and interesting browse through the blogs. I hope you find these and others as delightful as I have.

Till then. Take care and God bless x

Love of a special kind

Now I'm no romantic, ok maybe a little bit of a romantic. I like being treated nice like the next girl, being thought of as special. I like to think that a guy somewhere has me on his mind, thinking of ways to make me happy. I have been praying for quite sometime about who my life partner is and how we'll meet and what not and as the reality of it draws closer, I really realise how scared I am of making that commitment, of taking that step and shutting the door on life as I've always known it and open the door to a new life, a new philisophy.

I realise that I can't just say this is how I want my marriage to be and expect everything to fall in line. It is going to be meeting someone who's from a different background and lifestyle and together we lay our dreams down and work together towards us. In this, there's no me, just us. All my notions, beliefs etc have to aligned and adjusted and questioned and I have to answer questions like why,when and how.

I have to think realistically about the future, look at a man and really question if I want him to be the father of my children, the one I sleep next to at night, the one I make love with, look across the table when we're eating, grow old with, etc and it scares me crazy because whether I like it or not, I will have to make that decision and say 'yes, I will marry you' and 'I do'. this is some real scary stuff.

Then I went on Myne Whitman's blog to read whatever new stuff she's written and I came across the StoryCorps video and came across a real love story. I sat and wept like a child for some good minutes. I normally don't cry, but I did because I wondered if anyone would feel the same or something akin to the love between Danny and Annie, I wondered if I would be able to handle such a love and not feel overwhelmed or unworthy of such love. Then I calmed down.

Now, I am a praying woman but I've had to ask God how to pray for my partner, how to know he's the one that will be my shelter in life's storms, the one I can look at thirty years in and say without a doubt that given the chance I would do it earlier and again. I have asked God, I can't say I've gotten an answer yet but I'll keep looking to the skies, waiting for my answer. However, I've come to find out that it is true what the sages say; that love comes to you when you least expect it, when you're not looking, it tiptoes on you and taps you on the shoulder. Crazy thing but yes it is so true.

Please enjoy this video of Danny and Annie and may you find love that stays through the ages, a heart that holds you tight and calls you precious, arms that assure you that their main purpose from that moment on is to hold you, protect you and love you endlessly through time. God bless and take care.

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Blog Browsing

I have been going online daily just getting into blogs and following quite a few. For someone who has just one follower, I am so caught up by the wealth of information about hair, love and romance and body care. For anyone who reads this, I will recommend some later to you.

I am enriched daily with all the information and gist. I'll be putting up a story soon, so be on the lookout.

God bless xx

Friday, 26 August 2011

Shea Butter Find

I have been taking better care of my hair recently due to my contact with O'Naturals- a blog by an old school mate. Its amazing what you can pick up when you rub minds with others. Well in my search for the ingredients of my new hair conditioner, I was worried about finding the main one as its something I was certain I could only find back home or in London.

Shea Butter-Ori to the locals like me.

So imagine my shock when I was on my way to my doctor's appointment when I came across the Bolton Food Festival and right on the front is a man selling...yeah you guessed right Unrefined Shea Butter! I was pleasantly shocked but I came back after my appointment, I bought the shea and after stuffing my face with free samples, I went home and mixed up my first batch of hair balm.

After spilling a lot on everything and getting the essential oil mix wrong, I can say my hair's never smelt better, looked shinier or felt softer.

Thanks Omozo

Thursday, 18 August 2011


Its been a while that I had come to the blog. My computer getting damaged and ill health didn't help but I'm grateful to God that I've got progress now. I have been writing , stories mainly, ramblings from a fevered brain addled with opiate based medication, so many exciting things there.

This is an old poem but one of my favourites, so I want to share it as I slowly return to the land from which I grew fat. I have found one certain truth in these past months. I write because I must; its life, air and living to me. Even when I laid down with painful bones, gnarled fingers and fevered breath. I still picked up my phone and recorded thoughts and stories and songs. It would not leave me, not give me a moment's rest until every last word had been stored for transcribing.

So as I start anew, enjoy the strains of my longing heart years ago and maybe your heart is in this place, don't despair, believe it or not, this too shall pass. You will live.

God bless x


You came and conquered me

You conquered me

A strand of hair on my pillow

A note paper with scribbles

A fading picture of a romantic place

These foolish things

A half-empty cologne bottle

A broken pencil

A worn out T-shirt

A chipped glass

These foolish things

A memory, a smile

A song, a laugh

You do these things to me

These foolish things

So foolish things

Remind me of you

And conquer me

Saturday, 23 April 2011


I'm still under the rage of refusal. The refusal of rape, child abuse, violence , sexual brutality. So I'm still writing.


Many envy people who live in thick walled houses

I don’t.

My thin walls let in every bump, thump and rumbadum dump but

Its nosy vocals reassure me that if I can hear them,

So can they hear me.

I used to live in a thick walled house once

It was safe, private and filled with familiar voices.

Those times were different, where seeking arms

did not meet a surprised bed or

hard floor but a beating heart.

I remember, however, a little girl who lived behind thick walls.

Evil waited for her at the bottom steps under the very last

deck of floors and took her into the hollow,

covered her frightened lips and plunged.

Every time, her lips got less frightened and

opened in gaped resignation.

Evil took again and again; walls did not protect her.

They were too thick to let through the sound of her shocked heart.

Soon evil got bold and moved from under

the darkened steps and into her walls,

underneath a sister’s nose, who, instead of offering hopes of protection,

blackmailed for adolescent wiles.

So thin walls may be flimsy, exposing, nosy and

noisy, still, they suit me fine.

For in this noise and within these walls.

I find safety in every bump, thump and rambambam gump.

For if I can hear them, then surely, happily securely,

they can hear me.

Friday, 22 April 2011

Bow of Rayne

Why do women get hurt so bad? Especially by some man they know and usually trust? This is a question I have been asking for some time since I heard about trafficking and , rape and violence. And why is domestic violence called that? There's nothing domestic about violence. The word domestic means tame, homely, sheltered, so how can violence be domestic?
This poem is raw and written just as I feel it, I hardly ever write like this but I just couldn't help myself, it just poured out so it might need editing but for now. read and feel rage whenever you come across violence like this

Bow of Rayne

A woman was raped last night, her legs spread, her pride taken with gritted teeth, open moans and shuddering conquering thrusts. The walls echoed her shocked disbelieving groans as the growing rage in her bones bounced off the floor to collide with her skin as she lay open, spread, helpless

A million visions of a billion deaths, a thousand questions of how she could have found death like this; so brutal, intimate, violating and strange in something designed to be familiar in the hands of a man meant to be father, friend, protector, lover, him

Her bones ached to desert the body that helplessly got plundered endlessly for six minutes, wishing to be dancing in the moonlight again, in saffron robes, with purple weaves of a silky scarf, whispering love words to her intimate parts, setting fire to blood as they echo the constant refrain ‘I know you, I am you, I was born you’ but

The floorboards, instead weep a new tale of a raiding of treasures carried in a pouch behind a zip to be washed away, running into the sink like suds from a clean plate, but you and I know there is no cleanliness here

This raiding has taken innocence and her soul away in a plastic bag and dumped it on a highway, a river, leading surely to hell and as he shudders in accomplished ecstasy, withdraws, stands and closes the door behind him, trust has sounded the notes of betrayal, become fragile and broken apart , threads gossamer light and unreliable

The door closes, his arrogant release stinks up a maddening rage, terrifying in its whoosh, holding knives, guns, every form of protection to stop that which already has happened

And while this sofa daily takes the rock, rock of a damaged body, and hearts are ripped out and the telephone wires are cut, cut out questions, concerns. The storm of bewilderment gathers and pours forth like a single unending note of wailing, undiluted

Piercing the roof, scattering birds at perch till it reaches a sky that absorbs and says nothing back. Then it rains and she seeks punishment in every way , wishing a bigger, darker death but she never finds anything bigger and darker enough and grey clouds soak her with grief as she breaks anew daily hoping today is the day she dies

Nay, her eyes open again and men become ghostly shadows, evil and harmful and her purple gives way to black and brown and deep and gray and gray and gray again.

The walls spoke out this injustice and I cried out a stream to she who laid in the deep, wishing death of fathoms deep would consume in its visit. My tears reminded her somehow of saffron skies and purple hues, blues, greens and red. Red that invited her to be sexy again, to be woman, to be deep, rich and proud

To kick the arrogance in the nuts and enjoy its constant agony of eye watering crunch and pain. We know it would never be enough, yet somehow whatever way justice comes, it finds us dancing on rooftops saying love should not be thrown and sorry is a word we’ve provided exit for

In this dance, this place takes leg upon leg, swish upon swish and wraps it up in lavender, green so rich, it hurts and penetrates the womb planting a seed that beckons to the deep of what we are and will continue to be

We swell with righteous anger at this arrogance; shut the door on the thief who steals our souls in broad day while we sit. We clubber him jointly till he surrenders in pain and acceptance that these women shall not sit no more, we give birth to this rage that rips apart whoever, whatever threatens us ever again

No more will we sit and watch our beings be taken, be stolen and thrown away by word. No more will our worth be down-priced by slaps, punches and rape and by God, no more will we seek love from some clay feet god by way of sorrow or death

The house where rape happened has collapsed on itself; here it shall happen no more.

Wednesday, 16 March 2011


First published on the 25th of February 2011, this was documenting the heartbreak after the love malarkey of Valentine. Its a painful thing to be heart broken, and its equally as bad to see someone going through it. You want to gather them in your arms and put them together, even if you saw the disaster coming and you had warned them. Well, here it is, sharing a shattered heart with a friend.

I heard your heart broke last night.

Its noise drew me. I’m here today

to hold tissues against your chest to

staunch the pain and failing miserably.

Rock, rock, rocking with disbelief

Your pain is palpable. Its echo hits

my skin, I shiver in sympathy.

What does one say to the broken hearted

that could possibly ease their pain?

Shake, shake, shaking with shock

It’s an ugly sight; its scar will be jagged

but, you and I will learn lessons,

you, by feeling and I by sight, to

never trust a heart to a laughing man.

Cry, cry, crying with pain

I heard your heart break and like in a multiple

collision, mine, hairline-cracked in response.

I am here holding your chest catching up

the pain, as in response, my heart pulses with grief.


Tuesday, 15 March 2011


March is the month of moving on. Its the time to get into things and live, so many poems that will be on this month will be in that trend. Wishing you progress as you go on.


You stare down into your glass

Willing your stubborn tears could

Flow down, mingle with your wine

Brand you by one assured name:

A fool. As you watch my back leave

Held gently by arms which could

Have been yours.

I’m not looking back

There’s nothing to see, I am

Nestling in the rest of him who

Put me first. Why soil such clean

Ecstasy with reminders of how

I had to stand further back in line

Of your life, while you lived rapturously

Assuming I would always be on stand by


When I stared into my glass of gloom

Another wiped my tears, whispered in

My ears, pulled me away to a place where

I always come first.

I wonder why I waited around so long

What exactly was it I was hoping for?

Today we meet again, when you

Realised I had left that stagnant line and

You suddenly realised you could have

Been the one, I nestled close to

With your sodden eyes, I am

Not enticed. Hope you enjoy your wine.

Wednesday, 16 February 2011

Life, Leisure and Questions about Love

First published on the 24th May 2009

What is it about life that makes us keep going on for another day, a hope for a brighter day, a better day? What is it that makes a man and a woman fall so deeply in love? What makes thenm fall out of it? Why is love always equated to an imbalance (falling in love) a mental health condition (madly in love, love sick, crazy in love) or a state of incoherence (I love you, I am in love with you, I love you) (need I say more?)

How do you keep love and sex apart? Is love between two people possible without an expression in sex (or for the delicate at heart- love making)? can two people who really love each other and want to be together really stay in a room without touching or ending up in bed, the side of the wall, on a chair, clothes off or on (take your pick) when it all goes tits up, where do all those emotions go? What do they leave behind?

What makes us? Breaks us? Defines us? Redesigns us? What makes us aware of whom we are, what our values are, what our core beliefs are? What makes others aware of us?

What is this life if full of care? (Thanks Hillarae Belloc' Leisure'-I hope I got the name right) do we have time to stand and stare?

Hmmm, there goes a butterfly.....

In between my breasts

is a fire stoking quietly.

Awaiting cool fingers, wander near

Stroke as a match, set all ablaze.

In between my breasts

is a river, flowing wild.

Inviting a plunge into depths

rediscovering in approaching climax.

In between my breasts

is a mystery, holding truth.

Of all that men, being beasts; beasts, human;

Human in the illusion of gods.

Eden- the continued story

These are more thoughts on the sides of love:

First published on the 17th of April 2010

This poem is put here at the request of my dear friend. It is a missing link in the 'Contrast of a Telling Heart' note.

Love like life is a gamble. The best we can hope for is to hold a good set of cards and play a good game.

God help us all.


I don’t know, how despite
the signs I married him.

Osa bo le gbe mi
Se mi bo se bami

His love is tight.

I stay here by decree

of his telling glance. His

warning touch of perceived endearment.

I daren’t move, gritted smiles.

Laughter torn from deep in my soul,

laughter,which follows the mandate:

Mirth or pain.

Osa bo le gbe mi
Se mi bo se bami

His love is hard.

His soft word placed in my twisted ear,

‘This hurts me more than you’

I’m a child, waiting certain punishment, then

the apologies flood my lap, as my

punisher blames regretful tears on me.

My fault for being not so right

‘See what I make him do?’

Osa bo le gbe mi
Se mi bo se bami

His love is deep.

Colours banned from my palette

Gold is sallow, silver is crass

The query of who’s mating dance I wish to attract

makes the peace of drabness comforting.

I am a bird of paradise made for one

garden, the flaming swords are for my protection.

Does it matter that my feathers droop and fall?

Osa bo le gbe mi
Se mi bo se bami

His love is constant.

Vows are taken seriously here,

there is only one god in this house and he's not above.

I walk and hear clinking gently

reminding me of no escape.

I am a gold-ringed prisoner.

This union is till death, accident-prone,

my sure feet unsteady, I will walk into

another doorknob, trip down another stair.

I am certain of this truth.

Osa bo le gbe mi
J’owo se mi bo se bami

His love will be death.

I don’t know, why despite
the signs I married him.

Contrast of A Telling Heart

There are so many sides to love, here are two ways I've explored. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

First published 29th March 2010

Many things happen in a girl's life and boy! Have I had my drama? I'm back to not sleeping again, as you can see by the time (please pray with me) not being able to eat and this is serious ( I mean I went to a £9 chinese buffett and I was looking at the food like schwepps, even though I was hungry fa!) so it is serious and just general fatigue (I've been in my 'Lord change my life for good' status for so long, I need a new song)

Well in all that jambolaya, I've been writing! (At least one thing stays constant!) And here are two poems. I wish to hear what you have to say about them. I performed them at the Tower of Babel organised by CAN but I can't seem to be able to upload the video. As soon as I can, I will. I also want to give a massive shout out to a friend and brother Lookman Sanusi-Thank you for the honest edit in The Recall. I am grateful that you don't look at my toes; I must learn to walk in sturdy shoes. Thank you.

The Recall

Iwo ko, emi ni
Emi ni, iwo ko
Iwo ni, mo ni, mo fe
Ni okan mi yan.

The recall of your skin

On my memory is loud.

I haven’t met you but

I see you.

The image of your eyes

Beckon me to pleasant dreams.

I don’t know you but

I see you. I see you so well.

Iwo ko, emi ni
Emi ni, iwo ko
Iwo ni, mo ni, mo fe
Ni okan mi yan.

Your lips caress the edge

Of my mind as I imagine

The ecstatic response my

Sighs will convey. Your hands

Teasing the secret thoughts in

dark recesses.

I’ve never touched you but

I feel you ease in, deep.

Iwo ko, emi ni
Emi ni, iwo ko
Iwo ni, mo ni, mo’fe
Ni okan mi yan.

In the muted lights of my desire

I will picture you as I deem fit

You will be my blaze of genius

I, your restless artist.

You will be

Known, seen

Touched, felt


Iwo ni, emi ko
Emi ko, iwo ni
Mo’ni, mo’fe, mo’yan
Ni okan mi yan.


Just so you know...

Eti kan, Oju kan, Owo kan, Apa kan
Atori ta fina ‘yale, wa l’orule fun ‘yawo

He took me like pieces of barbecued beef

Slapped me within the thighs of his bread

Plunged his salami in.

Squeezed his mustard on my weakened, marinated flesh

Clamped me tight between his fleshy hands and bit.

I oozed, fought in rebellion

Toughened gristle hiding within his teeth to prove a point.

There are many ways to have a woman but

I’m not telling.

Eti kan, Oju kan, Owo kan, Apa kan
Atori ta fina ‘yale, wa l’orule fun ‘yawo

He took me like slivers of onion rings

Crushed me in the creases of his grater

Stirred his pickle in

Drizzled his olive oil on my roughened, coarse skin

I clumped together, denying him his desire

Maybe I would be left alone,

Surviving this night, escape perhaps, finding help

Tell all.

Eti kan, Oju kan, Owo kan, Apa kan
Atori ta fina ‘yale, wa l’orule fun ‘yawo

Monday, 14 February 2011

What This Woman Wants

This is a follow on poem to the previous poem. Wishing you light, hope and love. God bless x

First published 7th of September 2010


All I want is to be

a woman.

Sweet mud sucking between my toes

Grass, itchy fresh tickling my back

Strong touch holding yet

Letting me free-fall as my head

Tilts back, eyes squint in the sun

My eyes watching God.

I want to be a woman

Subtle sand seeking secret crevices

Wind tugging my hair, teasing

Asking me to join in play as

Rain peppers my skin with wet kisses

Showing me how love can

Come down as I lift my lips, my eyes

Firmly opened watching God.

All I really want is to be

A woman.

Jumping in the river as currents

Envelope me with wet desires

Tendrils, trail around me, caress

Softly , set me on fire

Call me to the deep, asking

To let go, be free as the waters

Bathe me , my eyes gaze to the

Sky tenderly watching God.

I just want to be a woman

Sunrays warming my back as

Sweet salty trails run from

My back down my legs. Intimate

Marking its way down territory

Wind blowing coolness as salt dries

On my upper lip. I lick, tasting

Love, life. A bird flies with cry,

Smiling , I gaze up, the clouds

Sanguine in the sky and there’s

God’s eyes watching me.

Old time Nwantintin

Recently a friend of mine on Facebook wrote this statement [Churches in val mood. Red hearts and roses hanging on church walls. Churches are hosting red carpets and comedy shows today and 2mrw. Naija xtian no fit come last. But is romantic love anytin African? Ever saw or seen our parents kiss in public?]

And it made me think back to my parents, they met and married in the UK and are staunch members of Deeper Life Church but they loved and showed that love daily. They kissed especially when leaving or returning to the house and just sometimes to show affection. It wasn't done in public, in public they showed their love in a different way, the way they looked after each other, respected each other. I learnt the gentle, quiet, beautiful and sublime love from them and its what I want.

Flowers, chocolates and presents are all good but nothing beats the gentle trust and assurance that you are loved no matter what. That is what every right thinking person wants. That is what I want. and if wanting that means waiting a little bit more, then it would be totally worth it. 
So for everyone who gets that look or question of 'when are you next', I say don't sell out, hold on, with God on your side, you'll overcome.
So thinking of the old time love, I post this poem and say to you all Happy Valentine. God bless.

First published on 3rd December 2010

The Return 

I will meet you at the path

with the best of nkpokiti dances

Ululating your ancestral names, so your father’s line

can hear and be proud

I’m aiming for the back-hairs at your neck,

hoping they encourage your head to swell

Then I’ll lead you up the cement steps,

into the house, strip off your dust weary clothes,

chanting the songs you suckled to, remind you of your mother’s smell

Lead you in to the bathroom where

a pail of warm water awaits, and as you pour,

I’ll wash your back with black soap and tickles

Then clean and fresh, you sit before pounded yam

with fresh fish soup and as you eat, I’ll recall songs

that will transport you to the fields of nostalgia

When you finish, I’ll await your burp of satisfaction,

show you the raffia chair prepared for your resting

And as you lie content, I’ll lay my head on

your lap and rub your stomach

The trees and winds joining the gentle chant

of my heart-mine, mine, mine.

Sunday, 13 February 2011


Does the lady protest too much? I don't know, I'm no lady! Just a question though. How does one really know?

First published on Wednesday, 11 February 2009

Misread things and February

Again, the month where we fall, get out, think and hate love is here and already I'm sick of it! Why one month has to have so many emotions tied to it is beyond me but since I'm slowly converting to the whole idea of this love thing. (I have good examples around me...its rubbing off) here's something for people enjoying the magical experience of that crazy thing called love. Note though, that I put my personal abilistic spin on it.


In your shadow

Comfort looms

I am wrapped tight like

Kola nut in shell.

Fingers trace outline of

Lips, eyes, lashes, dimple

I stick a tip in, tickle;

Bubble of laugh from

my stomach

Tumbles up into

my chest

Out of my throat. I. Am. So. Happy.


In the cast

Shelter stays

I am cocooned like

Fish in deep water, there is safety

Freedom at once.

Lips graze then

Part and tongue flicks

Picks up salt, grit


Pucker, press, imbibe essence of

Deliciousness, which is you.

In here

I am whole, found,

alive, true, sane, complete

filled, loved.


I absolutely love this song and I think it fits with the poem-feel free to enjoy!

When Love Comes

I'm using the term 'Love' here very loosly since I'm not a person who does PDA (Public Displays of Affection) well. I always want to slap people who just do all that kissy kissy stuff in public! Call me a prude, but I believe that love-(I think my last post settled what we call love, or rather what I call love) should be a private, beautiful thing, it should be graceful, gentle and tender, something people consider a priviledge to see. However, what do I know? Maybe I'll be one of those irritating women who coil around their men at every given opportunity, trying to stamp their lip imprint on him so that everyone would know, he belongs to her! I shudder at the thought.

First published on Thursday, 27 November 2008

If- More Sham Lyrics

I'm still going on the theory of what love might feel like, so here's another poem.

PS I'm working on the hate theory too, just must get the emotion right. Cheers!


I am tucking my nose

into that indent your head

made on my pillow,

catching every scent of your skin.

Its wood, grass, wind, rain

mud. Fresh, clean, spicy.

How I adore your smell!

I inhale deep, wrap myself in

the towel you left, lie

half asleep, wondering if you

have your face tucked in

something of mine,


Whatever Love Is

Really...what's love got to do it? This is a question noone's really answered you know? I've heard so many definitions of relationships and one thing remains constant, especially those who have been married more than a year, 'its not about the emotion of love but the discipline'! This didn't make any sense at all initially but a friend kindly broke it down-it means all that mushy gushy thing you feel will not stand the test of farts, stretchmarks, flaccid "nkannkans",unreasonable behaviour, bad habits, hairy chins, skidmarks, body odour, mouth odour, receding hairlines,inappropriate scratching of intimate areas in public, picking the nose, sickness,disease (haba!), not in the mood, complete loss of libido, lack of money excetera, excetera.
What will stand is that two people like themselves enough to say through all the above and more, I have decided to stay by you, with you and love you.

Love is not soft, rose tinted and rainbow hued! It is hard, tough and constantly forgiving, it is graceful, humble and in many cases beyond belief. So I ask those who are 'celebrating' their love and valentine; really...what's love got to do with it?

First published on Wednesday, 19 November 2008

If- Tales of When Love Strikes- Sham Lyrics

The question has always been 'when love hits you what will you write?' I have had the good fortune to come close to the emotion, never been a true disciple, but a good acquintance.

I would like to believe that love and I have gone beyond mere shaking of hands and nodding across the street.

I think we have reached the stage where, we stop and say hello, give each other the outstanding penny at the check out point in the supermarket, we know the area where the other lives and stuff like that, we are not close but we're not far either.

So I give you these tales, tales of what I would write if love struck, I call them Sham Lyrics.

This thing is deep, rich

It makes like butter, warm places

Happy feelings joy and fear

At the same time, unequal measures

Smiling, fearing, it is all

Heady and I love it.

This thing is dark, light

It makes like red wine, chocolate

Those nice things that make you smile

And your pockets bleed

It is beautiful, radiant

Disturbing, cheesy

Not me, all of me.

It is a misty place

I am beckoned to its quiet edge.

There are no promises, no theatrics

Just a simple ‘come’

This invitation is potent

Enticing. I am of two minds yet

I find my toes tingling in eager

Response, gently levitating to follow.

Wanting Needs

Valentine's Day is very nearly upon us and is there much love in the air? Restained emotions abound this year I think, every flamboyant thought being thrown into uproars of people seeking political freedom. I think this is good, I know this is good, no one should be oppressed for whatever reason, no people should be used as political pawns to suit a nation's or leader's greed.

However, enough of that slight steam and back to the issue of l'amour (God help us!). I have no investments in this except my words, words which protest attimes and which cave in some other time. So in the spirit of February, Here goes for broke...

first published on Thursday, 15 October 2009


A) Skin.

Smooth builds into

Rough, melds into dips

Depths, curves.

Lovely. Musk, sweat

Primal coma, secret

Places invoke, invite.

B) Hair.

Flutter, flick

Lightly sting, caress

Heavy glides over.

Sheen. Digging in,

Drag lightly, let

Pain collide by pleasure.

C) Caves.

Moist promise warmth

Strength plunge deep

Dark, pan-ic, still

Stroke, stride, slide

Call plump, plunde

Sink. Lift. off.

Sunday, 6 February 2011

Wisps and Dreams

Going on the love theme, it is clear that the average person's mind is a bit lke a maze, hard to negotiate and you eventually get lost somewhere, somehow. Now I've been called both difficult and easy to please. I guess I have my days. There are so many rules to live by, either rules made by yourself, society or family. They are hard to break loose from and sometimes a dangerous noose by which we tie up ourselves and hereby prevent ourselves from moving-anywhere!

I'm not too certain where I'm going with this as I'm still trying to process it in my own head, but this is not the first time, I've been here, so there is a certain assurance that I'll walk this maze again.

First published 26th January 2007

It took me a while to decide what I was going to put in my journal, I was meant to write in it sometime ago but I kept on putting it aside ‘cos the flow hadn't come but then I thought (oh, oh) wait a minute, I’m a writer ke! (Yes ke!) Why not put up some of my work (so that you people who think 'does she think she's Wole Soyinka?' would know that I’m chasing his pen).

So here is a little something, something, a poem, written for that imaginary guy who warms my bed, loves my body (love handles, turkey wings, buddah belly and all, ah yes and corns) loves my mind and wants to spend his days and nights with me irrespective of my moods (ok, I know I’m asking for a lot but hey! a gal can dream)

'how my love is to be'

Not for me the clichés of the past

They taste bitter at the back of me throat

I don't want my romance in

The sweet by and by

I want my love, nay, I need my love, now!

I want to snatch my kisses

From his lips like apples from a tree

I want to look across a room and

Stamp my signature on him

Like a branded cow

I want to pull myself into

His arms like a whirlwind in a barn

To be wild, wicked and free

Not for me the clichés of the past

They taste really bitter at the back of me throat.

Instead my love ...

Draw me
Draw me into this union
Where your arms wrap
And I am safe

Where your lips smooth
And I am whole

Where your eyes seep
And I am reborn

Where your heart is
And I am loved

Draw me into this union
This sweet, wholesome union

my loneliness leaving into the night
I becoming 'some' of a body's
Yours .

Divorced Intentions

Do you sometimes wish you could hear God's voice directly? I know I do. I'm not afraid for I don't think He'll use the big boom voice of the Ten Commandments, but rather the still small voice of calming Elijah's personal storm. In matters of the heart, there's no greater time, I need to hear His voice than then.

For we humans are SO complicated and our lives are so tangled up and when one is trying to live in a straight way, somehow a curveball is thrown and splat it all goes. Its in this craziness and stupidness that I really wish I could hear God speak directly to me, in my ear straight down into my soul and I sit straight and sure for I know.

But God being God wouldn't do that, would He? Besides His Word speaks His heart loud and clear and if we all knew the bumps and lumps ahead on our journey through life, what would be the joy of living? There would be no angst, pain, anguish, joy, relief, happiness, contentment-all these emotions that tingle us into awareness and then what would be the fun in that?

First published 13th April 2010.

Well I've been thinking how we as humans say one thing, yet act in the total opposite way. Take me for example. I say I love all music, but I really am a snob, I can't stand rap and R & B. A friend says she's lonely and would take any guy's offer , as long as he's tall, light skinned and works in a bank. A man tells you he wants you desperately in his life but has absolutely no interest in you or your life.

The mouth says one

The heart another

If only the night would speak truth

I should be so lucky.

Words pull,

Actions push

If only the night would speak truth

I should be so lucky

Time passes

Failed hearts sigh

If only the night would speak truth

I bloody well would be so lucky!

Waiting for Him?

As we're in this 'lovely' month, I've been going over my previous writings and guess whay I found out? My poor taste hasn't changed! Maybe I shouldn't use the term poor taste, maybe I should use 'illusion'. My illusions still stay the same. Still the same desires, wants etc. Some might call it determination, others a lack of growth.
Call it what you will, I'm a bit downhearted by it cos I'm now thinking, if after 4 years, it hasn't come to pass maybe I need to 'reshuffle the cabinet'? Oh what do I know? Nothing apparently, but one thing I know is that there wil be a right time, place and person. There has to be or so many of us are doomed! Oh dear!
Don't listen  to the ramblings of a very tired old goat! Hold on to your dreams, they will happen.

First published 14th April 2007, here was my take on men, love and the whole shebang

I have found recently that I write about really elusive men, I mean men that don't exist for me, fine, handsome, intelligent, humorous men. Ok I lie, I have met some of these men but only in passing, either they are moving swiftly to other women or they are too absorbed in just how wonderful they are!

Yet I find myself making mental homage to these men that are only mine in a dream state where I reign supreme as 'The Desired' I have actually thought that if I were ever allowed to choose a name for myself it would be Desiree, the extra 'e' showing the extent of longing, but it would also show what strong narcissistic whims I enjoy.

Moving swiftly on, I look at many of my writings as a homage that that man that will never be and I don't feel bad about it anymore, I used to really feel angry when I was much younger (yeah!) That I couldn't find any man to fit that mould I had carved but now I'm not resigned, just accepting, that truth is really further from fiction, but...fiction is good, that is why so many millions of copies of 'Mills and Boon', 'Vogue' etc have sold, fiction is appealing and we would still get our noses stuck in it, just so that we can, for those 84 minutes (the longest it's taken me to finish one) just to indulge in that elevated reality.

I have taken to writing my own fiction, its familiar yet strange, shallow as a cup of water but deep enough to quench my thirst, it's mine so I can make it to be whatever I want and I do.
I'm rambling, so I'll just put in my latest offering to that man in the pages of my reverie and float away again.


He is a dream

He is an easy dream

A delightful dream on a lazy day

Beautiful eyes let me lounge

I'll gladly lie eternal in this sleep

If you'll let me.

He is a tree

He is a graceful tree

A grand tree in a buoyant field

Wonderful hair let me roll

I'll gladly skirmish in your lush fragrant mane

If you'll let me.

He is an eagle

He is a majestic eagle

A strong eagle gliding in a blue sky

Graceful beast, let me fly

I'll gladly soar the winds with you

If you'll let me.

He is a river

He is a raging river

A strong river rushing out to face the sea

Splendid man, let me swim

I'll gladly be submerged under your will

If you'll let me.

He is a man

He is my man

A man worth writing slushy poetry for

Beautiful, wonderful, graceful, splendid man, let me be

I'll gladly move to whatever rhythm you beat

Just let me.

Wednesday, 2 February 2011

Teardrop-February Blues

I have found that I have a lot of angst with regards to February. It is a month I wish to wish away ASAP, so we can get on with the business of living. I am so not a fan of February! Many have their theories as to why-my response is 'to each , his own' I don't have to have a reason for not liking something and that's that.

So this month, I'll be posting the many angst-filled lines I have written over the years in this particular month, who knows , maybe it will all make sense in the end.

First published 24 February 2008

If I have learnt anything recently, it is that everything is never quite enough. there will always be the hunger for something more, there never really can be perfection, so we keep reaching forth, and the most content people are those who know how to pick their battles. I am learning.

A wise man said to me once, and I must point out that he was a bit fed up of the world and in particular, with my whinings about my expectations of others. He said 'blessed are those who expect nothing, they shall not be dissappointed, but will always open to the possibility of being pleasantly surprised'

Think about that. So here is 'Teardrop' Enjoy


Wind against my face.
Heartbeat echo fear, passion, hurt.
I am stretching, my hands in front of me,
as the waves from the keys hit my fingertips

Heartbeat echo fear, passion, hurt.
The tune of blood rising to the surface of my skin.
My legs lift from the ground, toes pointing down.
Its crescendo rises from the earth, tumbles into my thighs.

I am stretching, my hands in front of me.
'Take me back', I cry, to the place of my innocence,
where I wandered on virgin plains, a precocious child,
sucking rhythms from the nectar of the grass.

As the waves from the keys hit my fingertips,
I learn anew, "love is a verb."
My teardrops hit the fire and fry.
Broken down by the climax, I am dust in the air.

"Water is my eye, most faithful mirror"
It crashes as I melt into sound.

Rattle my Window-Part 2

I have been threatened with broken limbs if I don't put up the rest of the story (so LM, I hope I can come into London without fear now?) only to find that its not the first time, I had been in this particular situation, So here it is, first published in December 21st 2007, it is 'Rattle My Window'

As Joko got in, she saw two of her husband’s colleagues and his immediate boss. Another neighbour was there. Bewildered, she frowned. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Madam,’ it was Rele’s boss who spoke. ‘I’m so sorry…your husband was sent to Benin to do some things for the office…but…he had an accident.’
Immediately, her neighbours moved closer to her and stood near. She looked at Rele’s boss. ‘Accident? How? Where’s my husband? How is he?’ Joko couldn’t understand.
Her neighbour was already crying and Rele’s colleagues were looking at the floor. When his boss couldn’t hold her gaze, she understood. ‘No!’ Joko screamed and all went black.

Seven days later, Joko woke up. She was thankful for the blessedness of oblivion, but she had to wake up to life. She woke up on her wedding anniversary and cried bitterly through the day, she refused to see anyone and when she remembered Rele’s promise to come back, she clung to it and urged him to do so. When she became hysterical about it, the doctor had to come in to sedate her to sleep.

A month later, Rele was buried and Joko went home. She made it a ritual every night to call on him to rattle the window, but nothing happened and she would cry in frustration. Her belief in his ability got stronger when Iya Agba came to visit. Wizened with age and sorrow, she pronounced that she could feel her son was still in his house. Instead of Joko being frightened, she became strengthened and she continued to stay in the house. At first her friends came to stay with her but she craved for solitude and mercifully she was soon left alone. At times, in her quiet moments, she would call for Rele and times when she needed the arms of her man; she almost became crazed with vexation at his absence. She hated him and loved him, she begged him to return and cursed him for leaving her.

Then as the months flew by, she lost faith in him. She started to smile again and she stopped calling for him in her dreams. She stopped laying the table for two and she stopped talking aloud to him. Later, she stopped wearing black clothes and started wearing bright colours. At first she was afraid and yet hopeful that he would take offence and rattle the window, but when nothing happened for a whole day, she threw her widow’s weeds away. She started to use make-up and she started to find her banker attractive especially after the way he helped her manage her money after Rele’s death. She went out with him several times and enjoyed the experience. He was very different from Rele but he was a nice person and the dating excited her.

Four and a half years later after Rele died, Dipo the banker, proposed to her, Joko went into her room and called for Denrele again to give him, his final chance to register his presence. She waited for a full minute and then turned around and left. ‘Well, it was stupid of me to have believed he would come back, who knows what goes on after a person dies.’ She thought to herself as she walked out of the house and went to Dipo’s house to tell him she had accepted his proposal. She had already put the house up for sale and moved her things out, ready for a new life.

As she drove away from the house, Rele became visible. He looked out of the window and rattled it in frustration. How was he to know that it took a ghost so long to perfect the art of appearing and tangible action? He had been there through Joko’s tears and pains and he had stood by her as she had voiced her frustrations. He had flinched when she abused him and he had wanted to explain to her that he would never have left her if he had the power.

He had been delighted to see her smile again and wear bright colours. He had loved her anew as she applied make-up and sang little songs. He had felt a little jealous as she came back looking alive after having dinner with that banker guy, but he had been truly happy for her that she was living life again. He only wished he could tell her how much he had loved her and wished her the best. How he had tried to comfort her with his presence. ‘Well Rele, she’s happy now, its time to go.’ a figure appeared beside him and smiled. With a nod and a little sigh, Rele held the figure’s outstretched hand and they disappeared. At last both he and Joko were finally free.

Monday, 31 January 2011

Jewel-Melody for Elizabeth

First published on the 25th of June 2010

I don't know why but I didn't start off liking you much. We weren't friends and I prefered Jokesman to you. But your love stayed strong, unyeilding,constant and I grew to know you, understand you and like you very much.

Many unfortunately don't have someone like you in their lives and it makes me wish I could share you so they could know just how wonderful it can feel.

You taught me that there's nothing too high for me to reach, too hard for me to fail (even maths!) and I thank you and even though I say it everytime to you when we talk, I just want to say again. I love you mum, thank you for everything.


The very bones of you
Yielded and moved to birth me.
The flesh of you tore and
Pumped blood, pus, water
On my clumsy eyes.
The tears of you, mingled with
My sweaty dark head and
You saw a miracle.


The bones of you
The flesh ripped from you
The very meat and blood of you
I love.

My Mothers Eyes are Volumes 2

First published on the 2nd of March 2008, this is a follow up part to The Melody to Elizabeth-My Mother

Mrs Idowu (as I call my mum, she was once my teacher so it stuck) wasn't always my friend, I was very much a daddy's girl and I remember so many clashes between my parents over my discipline, I would commit a crime, dad would let me off with a speech and a hug and mum would scream at my dad 'Wale! If she's spoilt rotten and grows up irresponsible, its all YOUR fault!'

I thought the woman didn't like me. She came down hard on anything I did wrong, was swift to punish and slow to praise. it never occured to me that after waiting almost 8 years to have me and me being a split image of her, she saw herself in me and wanted to (rightly or wrongly) right the wrongs in her own life, give me better access to opportunities.

It took my father's death to enable us build the bridge. At first, I thought we were friends out of necessity but I later realised that it was genuine and deep. We had shared so much together, good and bad and for the first time, we saw each other as women, not mother and child, but women, sisters, walking the same road of life, her with all the experience, I with the hunger to know. Leaning on each other, we could be symbaotic, weaning each other , yet dependent.

Most of my writings are based on my mother, she is the prototype of my heart. Sometimes, when I write things that bring some deep seated memories to the fore, tears seep from my eyes, for I wish I could experience my childhood again with the new eyes with which I see her.

My mother is beautiful, she is joy and pain wrapped up in patience. She is my teacher, sister and friend. She is the harbringer of my birth and rebirth, the one who invited the muses to take dwelling within my soul and school me. She is love, she is discipline, she is heart that hurts itself to make me a better person.

My mum was meant to be here with me today, but circumstances stated otherwise, yet she is not bitter. She is hopeful and filled with love soaked prayers. I don't feel bereft, I feel protected and that is good.

My Mothers Eyes are Volumes 1

Recently, I've found myself missing my mother more and more. I haven't seen her since 2008 and circumstances prevent us from doing the travelling but believe me if I could I would and I know its the same for her. We compensate by calling every week but there's nothing like being able to just cuddle into her stomach like I used to do when I was a child, or to eat her food and smile into her face. Its nothing like smelling her skin as she hugs me tight, especially if I've been crying or just hearing the tinkle in her voice as she laughs.
My mum rarely laughs now and it makes me so sad. I wish I could make her happy, my mother with the beautiful eyes and I know one day she'll peal with joy again, by God's grace she will laugh again.

First published in April 2007 the 14th...

Recently I've been watching Gina Yashere's presentations on video as the Nigerian mother Mrs Omokerede and it is fascinating that so many people said she reminded them of their mum. I'll be seeing my mum in a couple of weeks and while I'm excited, I also tremble, its amazing how fast we revert back to being a child once our parents show up, no matter how successful or grown up we've become.

I look forward to those special meals that is my mum's way of saying 'I love you ' and 'sorry' (plenty of arguments there) and those audible 'humph' to tell me she doesn't approve of my latest hairstyle/dress/guy. And yet I dread them , because I know I'll be a child again, and I don't want to be a child, I want to be grown up yet grown up life is so hard and being with my mammy (can you believe that!?) would so make it seem all better.

Yet sometimes when I talk to her, I realise that slowly but surely, my mum is becoming the child, she's slower, less energetic, a lot more forgetful, smaller in size somehow and she asks for my opinion more, sort of looks up to me and I'm frightened , because it means , I'm becoming an adult and will one day be someone's mammy and one day she'll depend on me just as I have depended on her and will I be worthy, can I take care of her as she has of me?

Have I learnt enough off her to teach any child of mine? Will I be as good a parent as she has? Can I face the things that she has for me?

I think of this and I want to capture the moments , the moments when I am a child, her child and enjoy them and when the time comes for her to be my 'child' (hopefully a long time away to come) she'll have a wonderful time too. So this is for my mum, a poem I wrote for her.

Have you seen my mother's eyes?

My mother's eyes are eyes of water
They pour and gush cleansing streams over me

Have you seen my mother's eyes?

My mother's eyes are eyes of sunlight
They banish afar the shadows that lurk within me

Have you seen my mother's eyes?

My mother's eyes are eyes of air
They blow a breeze of comfort to my wandering soul

Have you seen my mother's eyes?

My mother's eyes are eyes of rain
They cascade down and quench my thirsty spirit

Have you seen my mother's eyes?

My mother's eyes are eyes of fire
They ignite and flash with passion at my pain and issues

Have you seen my mother's eyes?

My mother's eyes, her eyes are eyes
of love, of pain, of wisdom, of a sage

You should see my mother's eyes!

Exits and Entrances

First published on the 14th of April 2007, this is a poem where I had to explore my emotions about home and leaving home. Home for me is my mother's heart. Wherever she is is home to me.

I recently went to an Oxfam poetry do, where I had to do some reading there and I was given the topic of, my thoughts on my arrival into this country. It’s funny that I had never thought of my emotions about leaving home. I have lived with my mother after all for 28 years! It should be an epic! But alas, (who is this Victorian, if I may ask?)

Anyways in this land, I have faced things I never thought I would, some things have happened to me that I had only read about in books. I have experienced friendship that defies race, colour and sex, I have also had betrayal, I have met open hearts, arms and minds and I've also enjoyed the horror of racism, but its all good. I am who I am, I shall not cry because I have no reason to be ashamed. So I share my thoughts on my coming here, maybe I'll write about my different lives also one day, but for now, read this and be safe.


It is 5.30 am
My bags are packed, in the living room
I am dressed
My household hesitantly wakens
Reluctant for this journey to begin
My mother comes into my room
For the last time?
Smiles a halting smile
As she sees, I am awake and dressed
She comes towards me and
I have a strong urge to hold her and say 'mummy'
I give in and her hands hang to her side
First, I was almost offended
Then I remember my mother doesn't do farewells well
We gather in the living room
My brother, sister and mother
Two friends also, who have come to say goodbye
We pray, I kneel
My mum lays her hand on my head
'Be safe', she says
'Remember who you are and let nobody make you ashamed'
'Be safe'

She suddenly rushes to her room and returns
Her red towel in her hand
'Here take this and never forget'
Orisha ewe mapa’ya mi lekun
We must not cry
We have no need to cry
This is no funeral or maybe it is
Maybe it is the funeral of my childhood
A severing of my ties to my mother's wrapper
A final goodbye to the child I was.

I have to go
My boxes are loaded away and my mother stands
Almost shivering
She turns to her sister and asks her for the time
But my mother is wearing a watch
The last announcements come for final boarding
I hug everyone except my mother
She is shivering but smiling
A fragile, glassy smile that looks like it will shatter
I crack a silly joke
Everyone laughs

I walk to her, put my hand luggage and guitar down and hold her
She stands, gives me a weak smile and whispers
But I do not hear what she says
So, I lean closer
'Be safe she says 'and never be ashamed of who you are'
I nod and smile, bend my head and touch her eyes
'You must not cry'
'You have no need to cry'
She smiles again and my aunt butts in
'If you don't move on,
They might leave without you'
I pick my stuff up and
Turn away

I have asked that no one walk with me
I walk slowly, not looking back but
Knowing they are still watching me
I get to the final door
The airhostess smiles
My face is wet
I wipe my eyes
I must not cry
I have no need to cry.

ps: I put in a picture of that incredible woman with speaking eyes; my mother and my performance of the piece at the Apples and Snakes gig 'Brothatalk' in London