DELIVERING MY PREGNANCY

DELIVERING MY PREGNANCY

DELIVERING MY PREGNANCY!

 

Am Pregnant! Yes Pregnant! And For You!

I tried an abortion but failed like a coup

Pregnant like a dove not like a turtle-dove

Not with a child but with your subtle-love

 

Pregnant like the succulent grasses of the rain forest

I’m lost in the amazing maze of mesmerizing interest

Pregnant like the clouds about to pour with zest

I’m lost in my conquest to find your love on hillcrests

 

I have been arrested beaten and molested

By the gods of interest and the demons of pursuit

Yet I never give up to pain and despair

Though I have a sprain yet I ascend your stairs

 

Not to rest but to deliver my pregnancy

Not in discrepancy but with all decency

I have the tendency to fail but all I ask is clemency

from your heart and soul where I hope there is vacancy

Delivering my pregnancy

Delivering my pregnancy

 

I have climbed the highest hills

Just to tell you how I feel

I have crossed the largest seas

Just to show you the future I see

 

I Have lived in valleys

Just to express my values

I have hunted for miles

Just to see you full of smiles

 

The winds of love bend the branches of my heart in one direction

The tides of your affection leave me with fondness as infection

The sun of your feelings hit me hard like electrons

The rainstorms of passion sting me like injections

 

In Pains yet in pleasure

In deserted plains yet I find you to treasure

Tho my emotions mount pressure

Yet I endeavor to give you leisure

 

Your lips is sweeter than refined colostrum

Your heartbeat is more sonorous than my subtle drums

Your skin is as cool and tender as the morning dew

Your words taste as sweet as the African woman’s stew

 

Forget Zuma and Abuja come with me to Kilimanjaro

Let me swear my love in the presence of Cupid’s arrow

Let us have an exchange of hearts and rings

Lets us leave my kins and live as queen and king.

 

Words would try, but ail

Verses would aim but fail

Thousands of poems may be to no avail

But let not your heart be veiled

 

Lovers may say; “till death do us part”

But I say; even death cannot cross our path

Just like a pair of dice

This love will toss us to paradise.

 

PREGNANCY OF FEELINGS FINALLY DELIVERED!—POTIUS SERO QUAM NUMQUAM [BETTER LATE THAN NEVER]

—TIJANI, Oluwamayowa Emmanuel!

 

About the Author

His prowess as the poet, writer and administrator saw him through as the editor-in-Chief of the much revered Mellanby Hall Press organization, (The first Hall of residence in any sub-saharan University). As the Editor-in-Chief, he drove the organization to being the best Press organization on campus in 2013[UCJ, CAMPUS TIMES AWARDS], as he was also awarded most outstanding Pressman for 2013 and 2014 (Campus Times award and JCI FOPA).

As a witty public speaker, Tijani became arguably the finest speaker on any Nigerian campus, following his win at the Nigerian Championship of Public Speaking (Abuja 2013). Till his exit from the University of Ibadan, he stood out as the university’s finest satirist via his numerous political prosaic renditions on and off social media. Tijani is currently serving his fatherland as a practising Journalist who wants the best for his country.

 

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WOMAN – A MAN OF MANY PARTS

WOMAN – A MAN OF MANY PARTS

WOMAN – A MAN OF MANY PARTS

A caring heart free of wiles,

Screams of pain masked by decorous smiles,

Soothing than the warmth of tiles,

Refreshing than the waters of Nile,

 

A complete being yet divided,

Shared in the hearts of children birthed,

In pieces of cakes digested,

In plates of knowledge consumed,

 

Woman - man of many parts

Woman – man of many parts

Selfless to remember all,

Follows her hubby to the ball,

Rescues her children from a fall,

Fills the house with goodies from the mall,

 

Rises from bed before dawn,

Wakes all in the midst of yawn,

Beautifies the house like a mowed lawn,

Renders hunger as a mere pawn,

 

Gentle as a dove,

Sharing petals of love,

A haven of protection like a proven cove,

Stretching her hand to express love,

 

P.S.: Happy International Women’s day to all women who have desired to embrace greatness.

 

About the Author

Osho Samuel Adetunji is a graduate of Mechanical Engineering from Nigeria’s premier University, University of Ibadan. He is a poet, a blogger, a Public Speaker, an on air personality with a knack for short stories, inspirational articles and poems. He is a great thinker, creative and dexterous young man who does not only believe in excellence but also extols the tenets of discipline, hard work and effectiveness. He is an award-winning individual who is multifaceted and consistently measures success by effective impact.

He is a writer per excellence with articles published on VAVANE AFRICA, THE SCOOPNG, KONNECT AFRICA, Paarapo and Home zone media. He co-founded THE COURTROOM in 2012 with Tijani Mayowa. He is the founder of KREATIVE DIADEM, a new initiative which kicked off on March 1, 2015.
He is an inspirational young man who is addicted to going an extra mile in all facets of life. He is also a lover of football, tennis and boxing. You can follow him on Twitter with the handle: @inisamosho.

 

 

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KALRILS – THE GOD OF THE BLACKS

KALRILS – THE GOD OF THE BLACKS

Kalrils -The god of the blacks

The air around your shrine
Has developed talons,

Piercing through our nostrils
Risen from the smoldering skulls and gong
Your shrine feeds on silence
The incantations are on exile
These spirits sovereign,

Yet deaf their ears linger to distress calls

 

Re-incarnation born this melancholy
Like fire the rage in their eyes
The disdain on him,

The rubble whimper
Dawn rivers of frost thoughts for god of the blacks
Desecration and disdain of your SKULLS and OFO
The fallen faces out of men
The lies the sands refute
Prompt this voyage to an eclipse

 

Kalrils

Kalrils

Unripe fruits,

the taste protruding through my words
Massacre of spirits
From the shrine where deities sought strength
Have you not heard of mother goddess?
Her words are painted in defeat
We await your return Kalrils
These candles I lit fear
I see the despair in their eyes
The whirl whose teeth snarl
Near the burning candles
On the fence,the feet of these candles cling
Forgive… let this shrine be rebuilt
So rubble can breath and save our cold hearts

 

P.S.: Kalrils…a deified person (representing a state-Nigeria)
Ofo…sacred staff of a traditionalist(Igbo land)

 

About the Author

Awa Chigozie is a Nigerian. A student and resident of Abia State in Nigeria. He is a prolific writer whose keen interest is in poetry and fictional works. He has poems which have been published in anthologies and other media. He describes his works as a mirror to man’s act. Presently working towards releasing his first poetry collection.

 

 

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THE NOMAD

THE NOMAD

The NOMAD

In Four years, I have moved thrice. But I’m not a nomad.
In my country the Fulani bororoje are nomads. They are the cattle rearers that wander from one place to another seeking green and water for their cattle. Dictionary says nomads are people who move seasonally from place to place to search for food and water or pasture for their livestock – wanderers.

So, I am no nomad. I’m just a city boy with hopes of a bright future. And the pursuit of meaning has made me move thrice in four years.

 

First – away from my parents’ home.

 

It was a great relief for me when I received the mail I had been selected to study Neuroscience, a pre-med course in the United States of America. Mummy was exhilarated and she gave a testimony in church the next Sunday. But I didn’t tell her I selected a minor in creative writing. She would almost tear me apart. That was an unserious adventure for which I could not convince her of the benefits.

 

I would face the long hours of creative thinking. I might live at the back seat of my car or be rejected a number of times by big-name publishers. There was uncertainty in the horizon, and the only light flickering on was the passion torching within me. To Write. It refused to go out since the ignition many years ago when I was in primary 5. But then, mummy wanted me to bring money home. So I kept the news away.

 

I moved from Ibadan, Nigeria to Rosenberg, Texas. The pasture was greener there though, and everything seemed big. I had struck one. Still I’m not a nomad.  I only entered College.

nomad 2

The Nomads

 

College went past like a breeze. Not without swaying me farther from my dreams. I got enthused with Pre-Med and topped the class, graduating summa cum laude and was offered a placement at a prestigious Medical school. Meanwhile my box of unfinished novels and articles lay stacked under my dorm bed. When I listened to their intermittent screams, I managed to send in a few articles to here and there magazines anyway.

 

On the night of graduation, I moved again. I REJECTED the offer and instead proceeded for a Masters in Creative Writing. Mummy didn’t know anything. Just that I was sending money home – from the three day jobs I juggled at Kroger, Wal-Mart Store and McDonald café. I didn’t have much money – just me my car and my apartment room – but I reckoned that as long as I lived fulfilled, I’ll keep moving.
I am not a nomad. I just moved.

 

Three – I met a girl.
Now you’re thinking I fell in love. Not really.

 

I churned out my first work – a short story collection on what mattered to my publishers. It sold really big, but I felt I was in a parched land. Six book signings and a mini nationwide tour later, I still felt thirsty and hungry for green land. They wanted me to write what came to mind – what sold in the main stream market – like Sci-fi, romance, thrillers or suspense novels.  I wrote it for them and I got paid for it.

 

Until I met Marsha – the thirteen year old without a home though she lived in her parents’ house. There was constant fighting daily and she had no one to teach her the rudiments of a good life. She moved out at thirteen and in with her boyfriend. Few months later, I met her at a life Clinic where I volunteered for two months. She wanted to have an abortion. I almost missed her if not that I looked up from my laptop as her feet shuffled and the entrance bell dinged.

 

There and then I moved. My writing passions shifted from the mainstream genres to… well I don’t know what it’s called. My publishers couldn’t give a name for the kind of story I wrote, so they let me go, not before stealthily stealing the right to my first book success. But I didn’t mind.

 

There may be no mane for it yet. But what I write now touches the heart of teenagers. It helps them view life from a different perspective now. My sales are not in the big digits, but I reach one teen at a time – at teen camps, support centres and Clinics like the one in which I met Marsha.

The Nomads

The Nimads

 

I am not a nomad, but I moved out of the rat race. From a well-worn path into a green-fresh one – where my soul leaps for joy every waking day.

 

I say “I’m not a nomad”. I am only moving away from the status quo, the expectation of people about my life; into purpose. I’m only aspiring to get better at it every day. And to fulfil my call.  If it takes me to move daily, I will reach for the greens.

 

But isn’t that what nomads do?

 

Anchor text: I pursue as my goal the prize promised by God’s heavenly call in Christ Jesus.
Philippians 3:14 [HCSB]
If moviemakers use behind-the-scenes, then I would use between-the-pages, right?

(Article ends here)

P.S.: I wrote this article on February 11, 2014, as my entry for an online magazine. The editors liked it, but didn’t use it, but I love it because this is actually an alter ego of the story of my life

 

 

About the Author

Joshua Toluwanimi Babarinde is a writer, graphic designer and physician in training. He has worked on numerous projects that reflect his passion for creativity and his desire to see young people connect to God early and begin to live the adventure-filled life of fulfillment that God calls them to live, on the uncharted terrain of their individual lives.
He has four words that ring in his ears daily: Connect, Learn, Grow and Shine.

His first book, “Donut,” an interactive non-fiction, was released in December 2014.

                                                                                                                                       Learn more insights and imaginations from from his blog on www.heirwalk.wordpress.com.

 

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DID IT HAVE TO BE YOU?

DID IT HAVE TO BE YOU?

DID IT HAVE TO BE YOU?

I never believed in love
Till I saw a smile on your face
A voice spoke inside of me
“Go for it young man
It is your moment”

Did it have to be you
Who would reveal the malediction
In trusting a human being
For the words you said
Were never true

Did it have to be you
Who would change the outward
Perception of relationships
By those insults you showered
At my face for involving a third party, your father
“Stay the hell away” said your brother
Was I not your lover?

Did it have to be you
Who would extend pretense
To cyberspace
Trigger my broken heart into a love race
I just had to block your permeation

Did it have to be you
Who would embody the unfaithfulness
Of today’s generation, it’s girls
With looks so innocent
But reciprocates the drama
In strange places not in public domain

When rejection comes, what next?

When rejection comes, what next?

Did it have to be you
Who would make me feel stupid
For thinking that love would love me back
“It comes and goes
Only leaving behind flaws”

Did it have to be you
Who would dash my hopes on the ground
Toss my feelings, thunderous heartbeats
At the sight of your countenance

Did it have to be you
Who would make me hate
The bed at night
for I cannot sleep on it
Failing to come to terms
Why you had to leave
When I needed you the most

My heart dearly loves you
But what point is there
In keeping a friend you no longer can sustain
Adieu! I said..it was time for moving

I gave you all the chances
That perhaps you could realize
How much you meant to me
That I had forgiven you
By those calls I did respond
The messages I but replied
Plus those words I uttered with a sigh

But lovelorn I still remained
You had deceived me
The pictures uploaded on cyberspace
Were enough for my mourning
Never did I inquire of them
Nor did you attempt to let the truth be known in time
You were happy hurting me
I was not

Just too late for you, Tom! I am taken

Just too late for you, Tom! I am taken

Today as I write this verse
Am reminded of the memories we shared
Whilst in the comfort of each other’s arms
Those promises

How am I supposed to forget
All we’ve been through together
The thick and the thin
I will miss you my love

Of the man you now have
Take good care of him
For I will be shy
To let you back in my arms again

“When boys quarrel
Girls do fight”

I will forget the late night calls
Remember not the mad curses
You lambasted me with
I will soldier on nonetheless
Indeed I will let go
Albeit so afraid of what the future
Might hold

so as the tears remain
I promise to inculcate my heart
To remain conscious, composed
And much more concealed

“And one sunny day
I will forget all this
And think of you, no more”

(By me…The God Centered Poet)

 

About the Author

Wisdom Henry Magomero Uledi Studied Law at Staff Development Institute in Blantyre, Malawi. He is now The Publicity Secretary for the Church of Central Africa Presbyterian Youth Urban Ministry (CCAPYUM) resident in Malawi’s Capital, Lilongwe. The Spoken Word Poet is sobriqueted as “The God Centered Poet” For His recitals do the linking of souls by bringing them to Christ, in heavens wing.

 

 

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