by KREATIVE DIADEM | Mar 9, 2015 | POEMS
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
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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by KREATIVE DIADEM | Mar 7, 2015 | POEMS
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
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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by KREATIVE DIADEM | Mar 6, 2015 | INSPIRATIONALS
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.
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 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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by KREATIVE DIADEM | Mar 6, 2015 | POEMS
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?
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
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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by KREATIVE DIADEM | Mar 5, 2015 | SHORT STORIES
CRUEL LOVE
Thursday, January 15, 1970
6:00pm, Umuahia, Eastern Nigeria
The crackling sound emanating from buildings engulfed in flames and the cacophony of distraught voices was the background orchestra of the tragic scene which symbolized the leftovers of a vicious war. The Mother Earth got drunk after taking gulps of fratricidal blood shed by brothers and friends now turned foes. The war started with a subtle conflict amidst citizens of a country who gave themselves over to the fleeting deceits of hate and sentiments rather than the inundating comfort of love and reality. The silent grumblings in the heart of men crawled to the public square of callousness until it formed a gigantic mound of war which almost tore the nation into shreds. Now that the war was over, the survivors can only count themselves lucky and fortunate not to have been a victim.
Inside Ojukwu’s bunker, a feminine but confident voice fills the room; an old rickety radio on a wooden table produced the voice of Evelyn Okafor, a renowned newscaster for Radio Nigeria as she talks about the proclamation of Gen. Yakubu Gowon: “No Victor, No vanquished”.
The Biafra Republic just died before their very eyes, everything happened too fast for them to believe or digest; the audacious commando, Ojukwu already in exile, Philip Effiong just officially surrendered in Lagos. The unbelief, the disappointment and the defeat was well mapped out on the faces of the beleaguered soldiers. The Federal Republic of Nigeria won the 32 months of a bloody Civil War, it was as simple as that and thinking of what will become of their future was a pure induction into the Hall of dilemma.
Captain Christopher Adeagbo, a tall handsome fair-complexioned broad-chested soldier, one of the very few Yoruba soldiers who fought for Biafra, he had lived all his life in the East and speaks Igbo language fluently; he schooled at the Government College Umuahia where he became the Head boy due to his contagious brilliance.
Chris stretched his legs and hands on his sick bed as he tried to change the position of his aching body; his fair yellow skin was decorated with blisters and scars from different injuries sustained during the war. He had for the past one week being hospitalized right here after he sustained a major injury from a Molotov cocktail blast which should have killed him. Nurses Jane and Amarachi had no doubt given their best to ensure that Chris was in a good condition.
“The Junior Commando” as he was fondly called by his friends was once a student of Political Science at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and it was in his sophomore year that he had the uncontrollable urge to join the Army though it was against the wish of his parents who were University Professors. His parents fled to the Ibadan at the moment when the fiery furnace of the war started brewing. His second fallout with his parents was when he told them that he would like to marry the lady of his dreams; the ravishing beauty with an angelic voice, Ngozi Okeke. The wedding became the talk of the town as he eventually tied knots with the Enugu-born lady, one of the beautiful cousins of Ojukwu. His parents were strongly dispassionate with the marriage as they wanted him to marry a lady from their tribe (Yoruba). Truly Chris was no longer in the good books of his parents but he had earlier sent a letter to them that he would like to come back to Ibadan and settle down, he pleaded with them to allow him come over with his injured wife who lost her left leg to the war. He wished that they would be merciful enough to accept him and his wife especially at this moment when they both needed help. Every time he remembered the pains of his decisions, the thoughts of his dogged, strict and no-nonsense parents would always flood his mind. He had lived with them long enough to have memories of their unforgiving spirit and harshness to neighbors.
Despite the arguments going on amidst the able-bodied soldiers in the bunker, Chris was lost in the loch of his overwhelming thoughts; he wanted a new life for himself at least to start his family since it was barely a week he got married to Ngozi that the war commenced on a full scale.
The gentle tap of Nurse Amarachi brought Chris back to the Bunker as he let out a weary smile to mask the wrinkles of his depressing thoughts. As a soldier he had learnt always to be strong and to exude a high morale.
“I hope your body is finally taking shape as we await the arrival of Dr. Donga for the authorization of your discharge today.” Amarachi said softly with a caring gesture.
Chris scratches his bald head with his bandaged hand and replied in his baritone voice; “I am better. Thanks a lot, Amarachi for your care and concerns.”
“I have got a letter for you from Ibadan, it came in few hours after the war ended” said Amarachi as she handed the letter to him and catwalked her way back to the Nurses’ Station.
Chris gently opened the letter; he uncovered its contents with his heart racing like a deer in search of a brook. He fed his eyes with the content of the letter time again and again until streams of tears flowed than his eyes. He quickly wiped the tears, he needed to sleep to reset his dramatic day; the pills of Valium V tumbled down his throat and he was soon fast asleep snoring like a tired Elephant. Until his heart…
Saturday, January 18, 1970
7:00pm, Ibadan, Western Nigeria
Not all families could afford a radio set talk less a television set. It was seen as a luxury of the wealthy by many especially at a moment like this when the war just ended. Professor Lucas Adeagbo, an erudite professor of archaeology and a proud grandfather in his early sixties was seated on the same sofa with his wife in their spacious living room. They paid rapt attention to the Black and White television set right in front of them. It was time for the 7’O’clock news on Western Nigerian Television (WNTV) and it was a daily ritual for them to watch.
“And that is the news at 7:00pm, but before I leave, I would like to inform the general public about the dead bodies of the following Biafran soldiers which are yet to be recovered;
Col. James Ruskins
Capt. Nicky Ajayi
Maj. Gen. Yunus Dauda
Capt. Gregory Abajo
Col. Kalu Alkali
.
.
.
.
Capt. Christopher Olamide Adeagbo
Gen. Frederick Dende.
If you know any of them please inform the General Officer Commander (GOC) of the nearest barracks to you,… ”
Professor Grace Adeagbo let out a deafening scream before the completion of the news. The death of Chris came as a shock to both of them.
Screaming at her bewildered husband amidst streams of tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks:
“Yeeeeee!!! My son is gone, Baba Chris, my Captain is dead, this is so painful. What could have killed my brave son? But we pleaded with him to come back home but only that he should not come here with that his Igbo wife.”
They were soon in their Peugeot 404 as the driver sped off to Odogbo Barracks with the parents of Captain Chris in the backseat.
They later found out that Chris committed suicide after receiving their letter on his sick bed. The contents of the letter talked expressly about the hatred of the parents for the wife of Christopher, they never wanted her to come along with Christopher talk less of a wife without a left leg. It was an eyesore for their exalted state.
Unknown to them, the letter of Chris was a ploy to test their love. He lost his wife to the war and his left leg was amputated after he was rescued by the whiskers from last week’s blast. He concluded that if HIS PARENTS DO NOT LOVE HIM ENOUGH TO LOVE HIS “ONE-LEGGED” WIFE THEN THEY CAN NEVER LOVE A ONE-LEGGED CHRIS.
***Fiction inspired by the Nigerian Civil War (May 1967 – January 1970).
P.S.: Love those who cannot reciprocate the love. This in itself is LOVE. I love this quote from 1989 Nobel Peace Prize Winner, Dalai Lama: “Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them humanity cannot survive.”
© 2015 by Osho Samuel Adetunji
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 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
Click here for your new site
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