My quiet riot of words begins here.
Come, Aduke.
Let us walk into the forest,
away from the piercing eyes of Iya Agba.
Let us lie beneath the starry sky
and let the trees watch as our hearts are knit.
Let me bury the pains of your heart
in the depthless pit of my soul,
where love is endless
and strife is brief.
Come, rest on my bosom.
Listen to the rhythm of my steady heartbeat.
Tilt your head toward my stomach
and hear the butterflies hum your name,
Aduke.
I hear splatters of rain in Lagos.
I hear the unrhythmic splash of cherubs’ tears
sizzling on rooftops
and filling potholes in Iyana Ipaja.
Rain in Lagos.
The hours stay wet and cold with misty air.
The torrent sweeps the Marina walkway clean,
floods the Ebute Meta walkway,
and invades gated houses in Lekki.
Rain in Lagos.
Commuters scamper for shade.
Bus conductors hike fares.
Third Mainland Bridge is gridlocked.
Cars crawl toward their destinations.
Rain in Lagos.
The salt seller hides her bucket.
The sleepy sugar seller counts her losses.
Come rain, come shine,
Lagos lives.
Business moves.
Let us stay together.
I will mutter no word.
Stay here.
Let me breathe in the fragrance
of your sweet perfume
and wrap you in the cocoon
of my steady arm.
Let me shield you
from the fears of an unknown tomorrow.
Stay here for a million years.
Place your hand on my chest
and feel the warmth of my chest hair.
Stay here.
Let me warm the cockles of your heart
on this freezing harmattan night.
Stay here.
You are the sprouted dream
I carried from yesterday.
The necklace that crowns my manhood.
Child is beauty.
You are the beauty of my soul,
The upshot of my love’s seed.
Omolewa,
My treasured mirror,
Plinth of immortality.
In your eyes I see my soul,
The muse of my masterpiece.
Omolewa,
Born from a true love nest.
Child is calm.
You are the wind that eases
The fuss in my soul.
I cherish you without end.
How do I write
Of beauty so flawless,
A soul so virtuous,
A heart with shimmering iridescence?
Margaret is pearl,
A beauty with oriental lustre.
A fair lady without a spot,
With skin that glows
Like noonday sunlight.
Hair that flows like the Euphrates
In Eden’s early calm.
Pearl is rare, like Margaret.
Her smile softens cold hearts
And moistens deserts.
Margaret is pearl,
A gem among women,
With luminescent eyes
That speak into dark souls.
Two things happened yesterday that forced me to rethink how I relate with people. My day started slowly at work. A little before noon, I received a call from Alex, an old university course mate and an irregular caller. We laughed about our school days until I asked after Kate, the lady who proofread my final year thesis. I still had her number on my phone, though I had not called her in three years. I even bragged about keeping it.
Alex went quiet for a moment, then told me she had died the previous year from maternal complications. My day dimmed immediately.
The second incident came later. A former crush called. I hesitated, watching the phone ring like it was a strange object. On the third ring, I picked up.
Me: Hey Peju, how are you?
Peju: Fine, Oliver. And you? You sound good.
Me: I am well. How is work and family? And why the call?
Peju: Why should I have your number saved if I cannot call you?
Her words landed with weight. I had kept Kate’s number for years and never reached out. Not once. Not even a simple check-in.
We praise mobile phones and the internet for making life easier, and they have. Yet they have also weakened real connection. Even love, attention and friendship now pass through screens. Everything has shifted.
I once reduced my Facebook friends because I struggled to keep up with seventy five people, let alone seven hundred and fifty.
So here is my plea. Scroll through your phone book. Call someone you used to care about. That call might be the last chance you ever get.
Several thoughts ran through my mind as sweat dripped down my face. I wondered why no one noticed my sudden change of countenance.
A few minutes earlier, I had been chatting with everyone on the bus, looking forward to the dinner party at Eko Hotel and Suites in Lagos and the after party at Get Arena.
In the middle of all that anticipated fun, my phone rang. A familiar voice said, “He killed her.” It was my younger brother. He had just told me our beloved sister was gone. She had spent more than thirty years in a marriage that was hellish and nightmarish.
My only memory of her husband was how he beat her to a pulp. The violence was like a ritual to him. He gave more attention to battering her than to paying his children’s school fees. He was unfaithful and irresponsible.
The complaints became too much for my father. It became an “earsore.” He visited his son in law, returned the bride price, and took his daughter home. She kept begging to return to her abuser because she feared becoming a laughing stock among extended family members.
Eminem and Rihanna must have had her in mind when they sang “Love the Way You Lie.”
Weeks later, he returned with his kinsmen, begging for her to come home. He refunded the bride price and promised to change. He forgot that life is not a Nintendo game.
He lied again.
The final straw was when she went to visit a bereaved friend. He gave her permission for one day. She stayed two. When she returned, he welcomed her with flogging, as if she were a goat that had eaten the master’s yam. He grabbed her hands, swept her feet off the ground, and she somersaulted.
He stomped on her lower abdomen. Thick blood began to flow. She was already in menopause. Her screams echoed through the compound. Neighbours rushed in and took her to the hospital. The doctor confirmed her womb had ruptured. She died a few days later from the complications.
I detest every form of abuse. In my Yoruba tongue, “what is bad is bad.” It has no other name.
We live in a society where many stay in abusive relationships because they fear what people will say. They let society dictate their happiness, forgetting that life is personal.
My sister stayed because of culture and public opinion. She died trying to respect a system that relegated her to the background. A system that reduced her to a sex object and a child making body. A system that questioned her worth and identity as a woman.
When she died, the same people she feared mocked her memory. They asked why she stayed. They blamed her. They asked if she was tied down.
These were the same people whose opinions she tried to protect.
Physical abuse usually begins with verbal abuse. One day he insults you. Later he slaps you. Soon it becomes fists. After that, it becomes death.
No one should remain in an abusive relationship, male or female. Many women believe “when we marry he will stop.” He will not stop. He will continue until he kills you, or until something worse happens.
If you are in an abusive relationship, speak to someone. Make plans to leave. Your life is worth more than public opinion, tradition, or shame.
If you have left one, please share your experience.
A true story.
A fortnight before my twenty fourth year on this stage of fools, with apologies to Shakespeare, I visited my mentor, a man I hold in high regard. A towering intellectual. He decided to entertain me at a nearby alehouse, an ardent believer in the age long saying that in wine lies the truth.
Egbon: Oliver, place your order.
Me: I don’t drink alcohol.
Egbon: I insist. You are intelligent, but I get your best when you drink. Please drink something.
Me: Waiter, give me one Origin or Ice.
Egbon: Origin is better. It is medicinal and herbal.
Me: Egbon, it contains alcohol.
Egbon: It is only 6 percent. Besides, you are a social drinker.
Me: Mmmmh. Sounds fine.
Waiter: Oga, big or small?
Me: Small. Waiter, you wan kill me?
Waiter: No oga. I dey sell market. Take big abeg.
Egbon: Are you sure small is fine?
Me: I am a house fellowship leader.
Egbon: Hahahaaa. Oliver, do you know religion is counter productive?
After gulping the drink and feeling a bit tipsy:
Me: Religion clouds your reasoning. D. H. Lawrence once said you should ask questions.
Me: Religion says no.
Egbon: Waiter, bring another bottle.
Me: (collecting it shyly) Egbon, I am a house fellowship leader. I must not be caught in the act.
Egbon: What act?
Egbon: God is the giver of all things.
Me: Yes. However, moderation is civility.
Egbon: Moderation is alien to our culture. Here, selected politicians loot with impunity. We do not nibble. We devour.
Me: You have spoken well. Waiter, bring big.
The waiter rushes to the table.
Waiter: Oga, I tell you that time. Big dey save money. Make I bring two?
Me: No. Bring your freezer. Alakoba. Abeg change the CD to Fela and increase the volume. Thank you.
Egbon: How is your love life?
Me: Love sank with the Titanic in 1912. How is your wife?
Egbon: She is wifely. What do you think about the removal of Ajami from the hundred naira note?
Me: You mean the new note?
Egbon: Yes.
Me: It is a welcome development. Nigeria is multi ethnic with more than fifty nine languages, and the state language is English. We are bedevilled by dual idealism. We copy wrongly. Our concepts of secularism, democracy and federalism are warped. In a true secular state, a Sharia court is not permissive.
It is time we understood that a true federating unit should develop itself. Every state should pull itself up with its own bootstraps, from where it is to where it ought to be.
Egbon: Flow, Oliver. Please flow.
Me: The present breed of politicians are intellectual vegetables. They see public office as a path to enrich themselves. Political office in Nigeria is not a call to serve. It is a call to loot. They are lootocrats.
Egbon: Oliver Onyibe, you are a seraph among mortals. You are the hope of a working Lagos and Nigeria.
Me: Ase. We need to hit the road. It is getting dark.
Egbon: Yes. Let us go and prepare for the mystery of tomorrow.
Me: Waiter, take care of yourself and madam.
Waiter: Thank you oga. Abeg come tomorrow.
Me: If I get chance, I go come.
Waiter: Thank you oga social drinker.
The harmattan breeze moved through the room,
cold and dry.
Her presence pressed into my thoughts
before she even spoke.
Then I heard her steps.
She entered,
and my heart warmed
as if placed in a hot oven.
She walked with quiet confidence,
steady and upright.
Her chest glowed in the firelight,
her skin smooth,
her breasts set like bright points in the sky.
Her scent drifted toward me,
soft and sharp,
like flowers kept close to forbidden places.
Desire tightened my body.
I pulled her close
and tasted her mouth.
My body responded,
alive and urgent.
She drew me forward,
steady and sure,
until I entered her
and lost myself.
She held me again
and drew breath back into me,
lifting me from the edge.
I parted her,
moved through her,
and stayed until the storm passed.
When I rose,
I nodded in quiet triumph,
calm as the agama in the sun.
No melodious drumbeats.
No stomps of dancing feet.
The day stays dry as bone, locked in pain and agony.
Trees stand unclad under the harmattan breeze.
The maidens of the town are missing.
Christmas in Chibok.
No Saratu to cook the rice.
The town feels empty.
Hens wander through the dust.
No rice grains to grind.
Christmas in Chibok.
No Kuli kuli or Masa.
Grief wears black.
Mothers mourn their maidens.
Welcome! 