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My quiet riot of words begins here.

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This space is where my thoughts land when they’ve run out of places to hide. It’s part diary, part soapbox, part sanctuary. Expect reflections that challenge norms, stories stitched with memory, and questions without tidy answers. I’m not here to go viral. I’m here to go deep. If you’ve ever felt too curious, too intense, too “much” welcome. You’re in the right corner.

  • Thin Love

    Love,
    the rope that binds two hearts,
    the cord that fetters two breasts,
    the twine that enchains two bosoms,
    the thread that holds two passions,
    the bark that stiffens two paths.

    A few dusks ago,
    ours was as thick as diamond.
    Oh, this dawn, it faded.
    This dawn it melted.
    At this gleam, it faded into waned,
    This dawn it melted into spineti.

    Thin our love became,
    like a teardrop, it dried on the chin;
    like the moon that shone
    at the darkest hour,
    it vanished at dawn.

    Thin our love became,
    like the man filled with the vigour of youth,
    then frail and grey.
    Thinner our love became,
    like a candle in the wind,
    off it went.

    Our love waned.

  • Tale of Juvenile

    As I walked, treasure home,
    Singing and whistling aloud,
    Afar, my sight caught a glimpse,
    A precocious damsel,
    Strolling towards me.

    She wore her heart upon her face,
    So I called to her
    That I may give her a shoulder to cry on,
    And an eye to walk with.

    She smiled,
    And asked me to walk her
    To the seashore.
    There, we laid our laughter,
    Upon the sand,
    And the waves carried it away,
    Leaving us children once more,
    With only footprints
    And the salt of innocence.

  • The Myth of Magun and the Science of Penis Captivus

    In Yoruba mythology, Magun, literally meaning “do not climb” is one of the most dreaded mystical warnings. It is said to be a potent spiritual trap placed on a woman, usually by her husband or elders, to keep her from straying. The belief goes that any man foolish enough to have sexual intercourse with her, other than her rightful husband, risks sudden and often fatal consequences. Think of it as an ancient, supernatural booby trap for unfaithful lovers.

    In Verse 1 of the hit track Indomie by one of Nigeria’s most prolific and musically literate producers, Masterkraft ft CDQ, and Olamide Badoo, rapper CDQ makes a cheeky reference to this old belief. He raps:

    “Zebra line omo yen ma lo cross e, ko ma lo lu magun.” Translated, this is both playful and cautionary. CDQ likens the woman to a zebra crossing: a place pedestrian is permitted to step onto, but one where drivers are warned to approach carefully. In his metaphor, the woman is a “no-go area”, and the “crossing” represents a sexual boundary not to be ignored. The punchline, “Ko ma lo lu magun” drives the warning home: “Don’t go and step into Magun.”

    Traditionally, Magun is said to be placed on young, beautiful wives married to much older men. The logic, according to cultural lore, is that such women might have higher sexual urges, making them more likely to be tempted by younger lovers. To prevent a scandal whether in the form of an illegitimate child or the spread of disease, Magun is used as a kind of supernatural chastity belt.

    I once heard an amusing but sobering story from an acquaintance who served in the NYSC (National Youth Service Corps) in Ondo State, Nigeria. He recalled that during their orientation camp, the town’s king addressed the corps members and warned them to tread carefully with the young maidens of the community. According to him, many of these girls had been betrothed to elderly men, often due to poverty and the promise of favour from wealthy suitors. Naturally, when energetic young graduates arrived in town, sparks would fly. But, the king warned, some of these women carried Magun. In other words: fall in love at your own peril, or you might not live to tell the tale.

    The Science Connection: Penis Captivus

    Now, while Magun is rooted in spiritual belief, there is a rare medical condition that might help explain some of these dramatic stories: penis captivus.

    This phenomenon occurs when, during intercourse, the vaginal muscles contract so tightly, often during orgasm, that they temporarily trap the penis inside. Withdrawal becomes difficult, even impossible, until the muscles relax or the penis softens.

    It is vanishingly rare, typically resolves within seconds or minutes, and is almost never dangerous. But you can imagine how, in a cultural context where Magun looms large, such an episode could easily be seen as supernatural punishment for crossing forbidden boundaries.

    Where Myth Meets Medicine

    The interplay between Yoruba spiritual lore and modern medical science shows how ancient beliefs often find their roots in unusual but real phenomena. While Magun is seen as a mystical punishment for infidelity, penis captivus provides a physiological explanation for how two lovers might quite literally become “locked” together, feeding myths that have endured for centuries.

    In the end, whether explained by ancestral wisdom or by anatomy textbooks, the message is the same: some boundaries, moral, spiritual, or physical, are best respected. And if CDQ’s lyric is anything to go by, sometimes it’s wiser not to cross the zebra line.

  • The Spell

    When mothers call at dusk,
    Come, lay your dawn down.
    We were in the dark.

    Last night she was here,
    To bid her Olose farewell.
    She swaggered like the leaf of the igi iroko,
    in the sacred grove of the goddess Osun.

    Alluring was her scent,
    like Obi edun in Osun’s grove.

    How do I resist her?
    She is the Arugba of Osun Olomi Iye,
    the one chosen.

    How do I desist from her?
    She is the chosen one of the Orisha.

  • Swan Song of a Sage

    Earth, ancient mother,
    I return to your embrace
    as the hourglass sighs its last breath,
    as the drum of the clock beats its final note.

    I come to rest where the sun bows low,
    its golden crown slipping behind the hills,
    its fire spilling into the waiting night.

    Farewell.
    Farewell.
    Farewell.

    Farewell to the sands,
    you cradled my footprints,
    you kept my secrets,
    you bore witness to the weight of my labour.

    Farewell to the waters,
    you quenched my thirst,
    you washed my wounds,
    you sang to me in the language of rivers.

    Farewell to life,
    I danced with you in your season of bloom,
    I climbed your heights where the air was sharp and sweet.

    Farewell to the unborn,
    I have seen the turning of the ages,
    and even in the shadow of death,
    my name will walk among the living.

    The bald eagle wears the silver crown of age.
    The leopard’s back has kissed the dust.
    The bat flies at noon,
    the day unsettled by its omen.

    The vulture waits in the market square at midday;
    death has run its race,
    and the mothers bargain with silence.

    The sage departs
    when the sky is grey with ending
    and green with beginning.

    Farewell,
    until the drums call again.

  • Olokun

    Olokun, the goddess,
    The duchess,
    Mother of all mothers.

    Your milk, earthlings crave;
    Your care, sucklings rave.

    Olokun, the goddess,
    Like the stalk of plantain,
    Your offspring cluster,
    To the barren, you gift children
    as rain gifts rivers.

    Olokun, the duchess,
    Their fears you drown,
    Their doubts you doom.

    Olokun, the goddess
    of the river,
    Olokun, the duchess
    of the gods.

  • Ginger Shots & Paraga Philosophy

    When I moved in with my sister at Pedro Police Barracks, Shomolu, I thought I had landed in the middle of the Tower of Babel. Every language was spoken here, every tribe was represented, and every cooking pot contributed to an endless food battle in the air. You couldn’t walk ten steps without your nose being hijacked, one corner smelled of fresh okra soup, and by the next, it was as if someone had boiled their laundry in palm oil.

    I didn’t like living there, too noisy, too crowded, too full of people who loved loud arguments about things that didn’t matter. But my sister and her husband were police officers, and the barracks came with the job. So, I adapted. Children adapt fast; we don’t dwell on where we are, we just scan for who to play with.

    My school, Saviour’s Primary, was a short walk away. I made friends quickly, children are like Bluetooth, no passwords, just instant pairing. Years later, after moving to Igbobi College, Yaba (a boys-only school), I still kept in touch with a few of those old friends. One of them was John.

    John’s father was also a police officer. They’d once lived in the barracks, but when his dad got transferred to Ibadan, he left his two wives and nearly a dozen children in a small, rented room nearby. I say “nearly” because even now, I’m not sure whether it was ten or eleven kids, headcount was tricky when they kept popping out from behind doors like stage magicians’ rabbits.

    John’s stepmother was a woman of business and spirit, literally. She sold two things that made her the unofficial minister of mood adjustment: local dry gin and cigarettes. Her small stall was the headquarters of a ragtag crew I christened the Paraga Boys.

    Among them was Tunde, nicknamed Tunde Osu because he was a third-year philosophy student at Ogun State University. He had a habit of greeting people with a solemn “Good evening” regardless of the time of day, and could turn any casual chat into a philosophical debate about the meaning of life. I suspect the paraga gave him his gift of gab, while I was just high on my own organic ginger shots.

    Then there was Salam, a Kwara Polytechnic graduate with a degree in Business Administration who somehow managed to spend most of his days not administering any business at all.

    And finally, there was Wale, an unforgettable character who drove a battered Mitsubishi Beetle manual. One fateful afternoon, Wale decided it was time I learned to drive. “It’s simple,” he said, tossing me the keys like we were in a Bollywood action movie.

    I had never driven a car in my life. But armed with misplaced confidence, I slid into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition, and miraculously moved the car forward. My moment of triumph lasted all of four seconds like a man with weak ejaculation. In the blink of an eye, the glory was over, replaced by the sickening thud of metal meeting metal as I crashed straight into a man who had just stepped out of his brand-new car.

    This wasn’t just any car, it was fresh from the Lanre Shittu Motors. The man had taken his family out to an eatery to “wash the car,” as we say in Nigeria, meaning to celebrate the purchase with food and drinks. Instead, he ended the day in a hospital bed.

    The injuries were serious; he stayed admitted for over two months. My sister ended up paying for his hospital bills, and to this day, I’m still not sure what hurt him more, the physical injuries or the heartbreak of watching his newly “washed” car get smashed before it even dried.

    Through it all, John stayed the same, never touched paraga, never smoked, and never missed church. I called him Pastor Spinner because every time I tried to make him talk about his crush, Ibukun, he’d spin the topic away like a DJ scratching a record.

    But John’s house had another attraction for me, Rashida, their neighbour. Rashida was young and beautiful, in the same year as me in secondary school, though we attended different ones. Her mother sold soft drinks and biscuits, and Rashida ran the stall with quiet efficiency. On days when ginger shots weren’t available, I’d buy a chilled malt drink instead, only I never actually paid. She’d smile shyly, push the bottle toward me, and wave off my money like it was nothing.

    She was petite, with a voice so soft you had to lean in to hear her, and eyes that seemed to linger just long enough to make me wonder if she was thinking something or just counting her stock. We never talked about anything deep, school and small gossip but somehow those short exchanges felt like the highlight of my visits. Standing there, sipping my free malt, I’d pretend it was casual, but inside I was wondering if she knew she was the other reason I came around so often.

    Looking back now, I realise the barracks was a strange kind of university. Tunde taught me that paraga and philosophy are a dangerous mix, Salam taught me that a degree doesn’t guarantee productivity, Wale taught me never to learn driving from a man who thinks accidents are just “part of the process,” Rashida taught me that sometimes the best things in life really are free and John, dear Pastor Spinner, taught me that you can live in the middle of chaos and still keep your faith, your values, and your secrets. The barracks might have been noisy, smoky, and unpredictable, but it gave me enough stories to last a lifetime and one very firm rule: never accept driving lessons from a Paraga Boy.

  • Spirituality, Faith, and Divinity

    I was born on a Nkwo Market Day, a day considered sacred in my community. My father named me Ehiwariornotoyelua, which means, “we pleaded with God that he lives longer.” That name was not given casually. It carried the full weight of a father’s grief. Before I was born, my father had buried many of his children. One tragic day, he lost two of them within hours of each other. The sorrow in our home was deep and unrelenting. My elder sister was named Onwuemezilem, meaning, “Death, please pardon me.”

    In our family, names were never random. They were not just words. They were stories, shaped by pain and prayer. Each name was a whispered plea to fate, a conversation with the divine. In my culture, a name is both memory and prophecy. It reflects who we are, where we come from, and sometimes, where we are going. My name felt like a covenant; a promise whispered into the ears of the heavens.

    My father’s sorrow eventually led him down a different path. He searched for answers beyond what his eyes could see. That search turned him into an herbalist, a seer, and a spiritual guide for many. His journey from grief to spiritual calling laid the foundation for how I first experienced the unseen world.

    Our home in Idumu Ozuke didn’t feel like an ordinary house. It felt like a sacred ground. People came from all over. They brought goats, chickens, tortoises, whatever they could offer. These were sacrifices for healing rituals. The blood from the animals was used in ceremonies to call on the gods, and the meat was shared with our kinsmen. Nothing was wasted. Everything had meaning.

    The shrine had its rules. Women who had reached puberty were not allowed to enter. Only the spiritually clean were permitted inside. But as a child, I had access. I saw the inner workings of what many only heard whispers about. The room was lined with bottles of local brews and foreign gins, gifts brought by those seeking help. In my young mind, I believed that the more expensive the gin you brought, the faster your healing would come.

    At dawn, older men would stop by to take a quick shot of gin before heading to their farms. It was more than a drink. To them, it was fuel for the body, and maybe even for the spirit. On Eke Market Days, our compound would be packed before the sun had fully risen. People came filled with hope, fear, and desperation. Some were sick, others just lost. It often felt like my father held the last candle in a very dark room.

    On Afor Days, however, my father rested. Those were the quiet days. He would sit on the large tree trunk by the verandah with his kinsmen, telling stories and sharing drinks. Before taking his first sip, he would pour a little on the ground. That was his way of greeting the ancestors, honouring those who had gone before us.

    Behind our house was a thick bush where he grew herbs. He treated the plants with care, almost like they were alive. In his bedroom, there was a carved bust of his own head. He called it his Ehi, his spiritual twin, the part of him that belonged to the divine. That statue stood guard while he slept and perhaps watched over him as he healed others.

    My father was fearless in his duties. Many nights, I walked beside him to remote T-junctions, wrapped in the stillness of midnight. Under the cover of darkness, he performed cleansing rituals for people battling mysterious illnesses. For those with milder ailments, he used a large clay pot filled with water in his inner chamber. He would stir the water with his hand and then wash the head of the sick, whispering sacred words as he did. No matter where the pain or sickness was, he always started with the head. In our culture, the head is everything. It is the crown, the seat of destiny, a living god. That pot was our own Pool of Bethesda. But unlike the biblical version, my father stirred it constantly, as if to keep the spirit’s alert.

    These rituals were believed to remove spiritual attacks, restore peace, and bring healing. And people believed. They came in numbers. They left with hope.

    One memory I’ll never forget is the day my immediate elder brother died from a snake bite. My father and his kinsmen believed the death wasn’t natural. They left the body untouched and travelled to a distant village for answers. When they returned, they brought spiritual men with them. In broad daylight, right there in our compound and before many witnesses, they performed a ritual to call on his spirit and asked him to name his killer. It felt unreal, like something out of a film. But it was real. I saw it with my own eyes.

    When he wasn’t helping people spiritually, my father was on the farm. We had a large piece of land in Ekpon, about a hundred kilometres from our home. During planting season, I would go with him and my younger brother. We stayed in a mud hut, worked the soil, and slept under a sky full of stars. Those trips were hard, but they were beautiful too. They taught me discipline, silence, and strength.

    Then, in 1996, everything changed. My father died.

    After his death, I was sent to live in Lagos with my eldest sister. She treated me like her own son. At first, we lived on Ajegunle Street in Onipanu, sharing a small home with her and our uncle. She enrolled me in a better school and brought some structure into my life.

    Eventually, her husband, who was a police officer, moved his family into the police barracks. I joined them in the year 2000 and lived there until 2015. The barracks were nothing like home. They were noisy, crowded, full of energy and tension. But they became part of my story.

    While living with my uncle, I had a spiritual awakening of my own. I gave my life to Christ and started attending Chosen Vessels Christian Assembly. When I moved into the barracks, I joined TREM (The Redeemed Evangelical Mission) and was eventually baptised.

    Life in the barracks introduced me to many characters, but none like Mama Ngozi. She was from Okija in Anambra State and was married to a man from Ondo Town. Her children had all dropped out of school, yet she took it upon herself to discipline every other child in the block. She was feared, especially because she often spoke about fetching water from the Okija shrine every year. During certain seasons, she dressed in all white from morning until night, like some ghostly priestess walking among us.

    We all shared a single bathroom, more than seventy of us. To get to school on time, I had to wake up by 5:30 a.m. One early morning, while heading to bathe, I saw Mama Ngozi completely naked, holding a calabash and shouting curses. I just walked past her. Everyone feared her. I never did.

    Not far from my secondary school, there was a junction where someone always left coins on top of boiled eggs. I noticed this regularly. One day, curiosity got the better of me. I picked the coins and spent them. Deep down, I knew I was tampering with forces I didn’t understand.

    In university, people started calling me Joseph. I kept a dream journal, writing down what I saw in my sleep every night. My upbringing had taught me that dreams are not random. They are messages from somewhere deeper.

    One evening, while walking near the Lagos lagoon, I met a man named Alfa Jamiu. He asked for my name. I said, “Emmanuel.” He smiled and said, “That is God’s name.” When I asked what he was doing by the water, he said he came to pray. He waded into the lagoon, whispered his prayers, and when he came back, he handed me his number. “Call me if you ever need anything,” he said.

    During NYSC, I was posted to Ijebu-Igbo. On weekends, I often returned to Lagos to raise money to renovate the school where I served. One Sunday, I boarded a bus and sat beside an older man. He wore a turban and had a strong body odour. We got talking in Yoruba. He was going to Oru-Ijebu. I paid his fare, and he thanked me. Before getting off, he asked for my name. I said, “Emmanuel.” He smiled, reached into his pocket, and handed me a white-wrapped substance. I politely declined.

    These encounters, strange, beautiful, divine, and sometimes eerie, have shaped the way I see life. From the rituals behind my father’s house to the baptismal waters of TREM, from dreams to Lagos streets filled with spiritual echoes, I have walked between two worlds.

    If there is one truth I carry with me, it is this:

    Life is spiritual.