Sleep

Poetry
The day my body sleeps, I would be free
I would have left this prison
That the world calls me
I would dance with the angels
I will laugh with my saviour
The day my body sleeps, I would be free

The day my body sleeps, I would be raised
From the sorrows of the world
I would be saved
I would be higher than sickness
Trials, temptations and weakness
The day my body sleeps, I would be raised

The day my body sleeps, the Comforter would be there
I may have been caring
But my God is ever the more near
To wipe your teary eyes
To comfort your scared soul
The day my body sleeps, the Comforter would be there

The day my body sleeps , I pray you understand
That you might have been seeing a body
But that was just a house
And I have packed out
So please, let happiness flood your heart
The day my body sleeps, I pray you understand

That my body was never really me.

Dusty Shirts

Naija
I waited with bated breaths
I wiped off my morning sweat
I bid the November midnight heat farewell
For a sweet Yuletide sleep was near

And so I awoke each day
With elation hoping that I would stray
Into the morning dew filling the earth
Hoping for a fierce breeze and a dusty shirt

But I saw no dry skin as 1st turned to 21st
No cracking lips and still no thirst
Still no Vaseline or a need for gloss
Like the Christmas bustle, Harmattan was lost

Then one morning after we spread love
After the celebrations about a manger and Jesus
My sweet heart returned home to me
Bringing back nostalgia and sweetened memories

Of playful mornings with little sweat
Of morning dews and dusty shirts
My lips are breaking as they form a smile
Welcome Harmattan; it's been a while.

Darkened

Poetry
Darkened. ©martisons.com

The veil tells of a darkness
Of Sambisa, a desert forest
The shadows speak, reminding
Of a simple life torn in shreds

Her forehead bears adolescent worries
Of only crushes and puberty once
But now of rape and terrorist husbands
Fighter jets, barrel bombs and RPGs

Alas, theirs is a tale the mind files
In folders to remain unopened
For it is a tale that fades away
In the midst of our mindless motions

But please remember, I pray you
Remember your daughters and sisters
For your memory and prayers remain
The only light in a darkened photoshoot

Photo Credits:JohnGreat Eziefule

Untitled

Poetry

Isolation burns deep like a heated knife
Cutting through the chains that bind
Family, friends and community
Hence, I find myself, lost with me.

Alone, separate from loud laughter
From flippant girls lacking courtesy
Vexing comrades, lacking sensitivity
My heart recoils like flowers in twilight
I fade into isolation like an ant to its tower.

My heart gently hurts
I massage it gently, it heals
But it feels the pains of times
When I ventured into community
Isolation burns deep
But the memory of hurtful words
Make isolation bearable.

Letting Go

Word!!!!
I want my dream life. I want it so bad

I want a house, four bedroom bungalow with a small lawn in front of it. I want to wake up on a Saturday morning to the sun shining on the blades of the mowed grasses and sip my cup of coffee as my children play catch in front of me.

I want a car, maybe two. I want a 4×4 truck, with dark paint and maybe an SUV to go with it. I want to be able to enjoy my good music with a good sound system while I ride into town. Yes. These are the things I want. I want them, not just for myself. I want to get them, so that I can say that "God gave me these things". After all, every thing I do is for his glory.

So I wake up every morning and get into the " hustle". I have no time to waste, no energy to spare, I need to succeed because Christians must be on top. I cannot let God down. I must hammer. For the glory of God, of course.

****

Does this sound familiar? Is this you? Do you feel the pressure of your own dreams tear at your soul every morning? Are you afraid that you'd let down your friends and family who expect so much from you? Are you afraid you'd let God down?

Well firstly, God doesn't need you to give Him glory. He is God. It's not your billions or degrees that would prove that He is God. He is God all by himself. But surprisingly , even though he doesn't need you he wants you. He doesn't need you and yet he wants you.

The moment you realize that God wants you just as you are right now, as you are, things change. The moment you realize that God has a perfect plan for you that would come to pass whether you are dedicated or not, hardworking or not, wise or foolish, you lose control. You let go and choose His plan over yours.

So let them go. Go on your knees and tell God you let go. The house, the cars, the dream. Give them up and watch the pressure fly away with them. Listen and you'd hear a sweeter calmer perfect plan for you.

Let go.

I have a song on MeTube I'd like you to listen to. It's called "Control" and I think it explains all this better. Click HERE to listen. Leave a comment okay? Let's chat over letting go. I'm waiting

Bliss

Poetry
You are my love, my Sarah
My kindred spirit, like we're one and the same
My sojourn from Haran to the Canaan plains
Will be with the beauty of beauties,
My own, my royalty.

You are my love, my Rebecca,
Every second of loneliness was a worthy wait
Like the Lord kept me still,
Kept you veiled and I knew you were for me,
Divinely orchestrated, a tale of tales.

You are my love, my Rachael,
Seven years of toil was a jiffy if I could see your smile
Seven more would suffice to see you laugh
You are the beat of my life,
My motivation, my drive.

You are my love, my Gift
Like a heavenly Christmas wrapped present,
The essence of you beckons me to new life.
I have found love, I have found peace
I have found you, I have found bliss.

Tears

Poetry
Words fail me.
When the tears come and I stare at them
Dropping thick and fast
Like the morning dew off the flower petals
My tongue ties up and my heart bleeds
For you.

I need you to know.
That it would be okay.
That death must come.
One day, you'd understand.
Dry your tears.
God is in control.

Cry to Him. Shout at Him.
Ask Him why. Vent your frustration.
Empty your pain.
Cry. Cry and cry.
It's okay to cry.

Because as I sit here typing this
I see you cry.
I see the floodgates of your soul
Emptying its grief into the ocean
From the deltas of your tear ducts
I see the tears with my mind's eye.
It ties my tongue, I don't know why.

But, when I finally find the words
I hope you'd know
That my heart bled for you.
My heart bleeds for you.
But my tongue was tied.
My heart ties my tongue.
I don't know why.

Vines

Poetry
Twisted twigs and knotted vines
Tell the story of my hurting soul
Beneath the smiling face I present
Dwells the pain of a blotted past.

Flowing fluid in a mashy clime
Clean sap channeled in vines
From roots embedded in filthy swamps
Story of my life
The blood in my veins
Sitting in the guilt of self blame; shame.

Flooded by the rainforest storm
The waters as stagnant as my progress
The thick African drops from the skies
The sandy drips from the tree barks
Reminding of blessings unused.

So I pray the adventurer comes my way
With his sharpened machete
Tearing at my filth and dismay
Untangling the twisted twigs and knotted vines
I pray the heart hunter brings hope
To this jungle that is my soul.

The Thirst

Poetry
In the middle of the dark
Lies a darker heart
Searching for truth
For fulfillment evasive

Alone in the shadows
Thirsty still, tasted all
Tasting still, till the thirst
Becomes stilled

One day, we would know
Why God bothered to mould
These longing hearts
Soldered into flesh and bones

Till then we'd dwell
With grasping hands that tell
Of the emptiness that is
The futility that we live

Mogbonjubade

NYSC
A princess with bloodline royalty
Pumped by a beating heart
And a livened soul
Questing for life
With lungs insatiable
The scent of new conquests
Alluring; enticing

Eloquent and daring
Dashing; sanguine-ish
A seemingly stunning masterpiece
Erudite shining silhouette

Beneath it all, unravelling,
She lies, fluid and malleable
Nursing a mind grappling to understand
The definition of a royalty
Embellished with divinity

So patiently, she waits
With a beating heart and a livened soul
Mogbonjubade,
May you become the queen
You were born to be.
God's own.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Mogbonjubade is a Yoruba name, translated as "The one who grows to meet the crown".

The Hubby (2)

Fiction
It had been heaven since then. He called her every weekend, Friday at nine, like clockwork.  Their conversations were long, increasing as they went on, first for five minutes, then fifteen and sometimes thirty. They hardly chatted on WhatsApp, except the occasional compliment he threw her way anytime she changed her profile picture. He didn't add her on Facebook, though she knew she was within his sights. He kept her guessing and played a coy flirting game, making himself all the more interesting. Without even trying very hard, he had won her heart. In just a month, after ten random conversations with this "Chuks", she could swear that she was already in love.

Then came the waiting game. She was sure he was interested in her, but didn't know how interested he was, or if she was the only one receiving these calls. She would tell herself how Chuks would dial the next girl's number after cutting the call and then call the next one after that. She doused her tension with the imagination that he was a player, the tales about being a serious Christian were all pick up lines and that if any man was too good to be true, he was better left alone; a heartbreak waiting to happen was all that he was. Whatever was necessary to keep herself from waiting for his call with teenage butterfly glee.

Still, like a magnetic pull that combined with the hour hand of her sitting room clock, she found herself going to the bathroom at 8:30 pm, every Friday, to get ready for bed. By 8:55, her pulse would start racing and her heart would beat with fever pitch. There was the day he didn't call till 9:03 pm and those were the longest three minutes of her life, in her dramatic opinion. He called,every Friday, getting her deeper into the pool of infatuation with each call. By the second month, she stop fighting her feelings and gave herself up to the possibility of her first heart break since David.

There was one particular day that was etched in her memory, the start of their road to the altar. They had spoken for over thirty minutes and had gotten to that point in the conversation when they had nothing else to say to each other and just hung on to the phone to hear each other purr. She held on to his gentle breath over the phone and asked herself how she would get out of this if she had to. She was broken and unraveled, handing over the pieces to Chuks to hold. He was in charge of where they went from here and she hoped it was for forever.

"Oge...", she picked the stammer in his voice and her heart knotted up in anxiety, wondering if she would get her wishes granted that day," Oge, I just got to say something. I've been denying it for a while now because I didn't want to say something and get you interested and then have to break your heart". Through his rhetoric, Oge kept silent, with her emotions building up and her head calculating and computing the events in real time. " You know I care about you and I don't want to hurt you...you know right?", he danced around, over and over again and she stayed patiently mouthing mumbled replies, gently nudging him to spill the beans. "So, bottom line, I'm ready to take the risk. Oge dear, be my girlfriend. Oh...sorry...Oge, would you do me the honor of being my girlfriend?"

Those were the words she had wanted to hear for a long while now and now that they had finally been delivered, she was speechless. A million emotions ran through her head and when she tried to say something, it turned out to be gibberish. She kept the call going, to the fortieth minute now and she wondered where he got the money from. No matter, because he had handed emotional control over to her and she was in charge for as long as she liked. The only option now was to play it cool; she had rehearsed this day many times ahead.

"Chuks", she started after regaining her calm." Thanks, I'm honored at the offer". Her politeness always skyrocketed when she was in awkward situations and she asked herself if that didn't sound too formal, before reminding herself she was in control." Chuks, this is so sudden. I'd need sometime to think about it. Is that okay?", she asked with a dead coolness that hid every bit of ecstasy she felt at the moment. "No problem, Oge. Take all the time you need. I hope you'd say yes. You know we would make a lovely couple. I think I'm already too far gone. If you say no, I'd probably die. But no pressure. Good night Oge. Dream of me".

As he hung up,Oge rushed to her call log to view the call length. 51:43, it read. She stared at the phone with a blissful disbelief twinkling in her eyes wondering if that call really happened. It was well into the night,but sleep had never been further away from her eyes. It was as if her imagination was merging with reality, as the possibility of being a Mrs. Ebiye was as alluring as ever. She knew she had no choice but to say yes to Chuks, but she wanted to own the power for just a little while. She thought of him as she stared at her reflection in the wall mirror and she couldn't help but give away an evil half smile.

Love Unreal

Poetry
I love you
Not just for the times you loved me first
Not just for the five o' clock steaming amulets
Or the final tuck in of my shirt in my wee years

I love you
Not just for the cleaning of the crust from my eyes
As my sleepy kindergarten self headed out for school
Or the many more times you cared in my ignorance

I love you
For the gentle touch that complements Dad's stern hand
For the corrections in gentleness, without once raising your hand
For the blank look, rendering my mind games futile
For my learning of a lady's fickleness just by staring at you

I love you
For the standard you set on how to be a wife
For the stretching of sacrificial lengths that confound reason
For the diplomatic centre you bear to douse tension
For the smiles, laughter and simplicity you share

I love you
For the fact that you love me more
For the fact that you'd see this poem and smile
For rendering all my displays of love an insufficient repayment
For making everything I can do for you atomically tiny

I love you.
I really love you.
Happy sixtieth Mom.
You're love unreal.

The Hubby

Fiction
"Ogechi. Ogechi, don't think of it oh. Are you alright?". Stephanie sat on the thick comfy mattress of her friend's king sized bed, crossing her legs. She stared at Ogechi sitting on the bedroom floor knees touching and feet apart, with her face in her palms. She was used to seeing her friend disturbed, but never like this before. This was serious, though she was being light hearted about it.

The room was large and glowing from the uplift painting done before they moved in. There was the master's bed Oge and Chuks shared, with a large orthopedic mattress for his back ache. Then there was the wooden wardrobe  Oge was resting on adjacent to the bed and beside the entrance door. The giant mirror rested on the wall opposite the wardrobe and next to the window. Dirty clothes were overflowing  a blue laundry basket at the corner of the room, proof of Oge's distraction. On a normal day, she couldn't bear the stench of overnight sweat.

As she sat on the floor, she recalled the bliss she felt when she fell for Chuks, a year ago. They met at a friend's one year anniversary, each of them invited by the couple separately. It was a small gathering, a low key celebration, just for the fun of it and the guest list was no more than five. She noticed him on the sofa, seated quietly. It could have been the bright white collared shirt he wore, or the creamy trousers that went so perfectly with them. Or maybe it was the suit that seemed  like overkill, or the combination of the three. He didn't need to speak to get her interested, though as a lady, she tried to hide her interest as much as possible. She didn't know he noticed her until later that evening.

She was drop dead gorgeous, though she didn't really believe it, her confidence had always been average. She had a trim figure, with a light chocolate coloured skin that glowed from the skin product pampering that had gone on for years. Her head was oval, with her forehead protruding slightly, shadowing two squinted Asian looking eyes. That day, she wore a firm green gown that ended just above her knees and knitted black easy wear shoes to go with them. Her make up was light but ravishing, enough to get a 9:00 pm phone call from a smitten gentleman.

"Hello. This is Oge right?", he asked with a baritone voice far beyond his age. She paused and delayed her reply, wondering if she was dreaming. She composed herself before replying, not wanting to let out her elation. "Yes. This is Oge. Please, who is this?", she replied, feigning ignorance. He then introduced himself and told her how he got the number. He had stayed back after the party and pressured his friend's wife for her number, "the girl in green" as he put it specifically. He apologized on her behalf for the breach of privacy, insisting she had no choice, as he would not take no for an answer. It was the stuff of dreams and she couldn't imagine that she could get his attention, let alone his interest. But he was the same guy she met at the party, now on the other end of the call.
.
.
.

To be continued next week.

Dream Girl

Poetry

You're my dream girl.
Yes you are.
But you don't get it.
You're the girl I see, in my dreams.
My dream girl.

It's the same picture though sometimes it comes by day.
Dreams come in the night but vision flashes show up when I meditate.
You're my height, though taller on heels.
You're smart, you catch me in my words when we speak.
You're funny, witty, like Chimamanda meets Princess.
Our jokes are incomprehensible, like me talking to me in you.
Everybody stares at us like buffoons, they don't have a clue.

I get mad when my alarm clock beeps
Or when my friends tap me back from wonderland.
Or maybe that was reality, making my life the nightmare.

There's a snag to the dream.
I can see everything, even our attires.
I see our kids, though I don't know their names.
One boy, two years and a girl on my shoulders.
We're grown up, but couldn't feel any younger.

The dream is so clear, that it has me working daily.
I know you like poetry, so I get better at composing.
I know you need money, so I got myself a job.
Even my grooming, I do to keep you pleased.
I can see everything, but one thing remains...

The dream is so clear,
But it always excludes your face.
The haze of snooze ville shields you from my eyes.
So when I wake this time,
When I snap out of this recurring vision today,
I'd stretch, bow my knees and pray to the God that gives dreams.
I'd say,

"Hey God.
I hope you don't mind
That I'm in love with a stranger.
So, God please grant me this one thing.
Let my dream girl,
The one I see in my dreams,
Finally become a person,
With an engagement ring.
Sitting right next to me".

God, Please Pick Up

Naija
Photo Credits: Green News


Hey guys. So, here I am having a haircut at my favorite barber shop in Port Harcourt, Nigeria-and it is a cool place, with towel warmers and clipper sterilizer boxes and all. Anyway, there's music playing loud on the speakers. Then all of a sudden, the next music video rolls in. The song is called "Pick Up" and it is quite frankly one of the most popular songs in Nigeria right now.

The thing about the song is that most of the track is in Yoruba and I do not understand Yoruba. But that evening, having my hair cut, I got to watch the video. I have heard that song a million times before, but I didn't really know exactly what he was saying. But the video was pretty clear. The song "Pick Up" is about the life of a young Nigerian dreamer. He was basically driving around town, hoping for all the good things we want in life. He wished for a beautiful wife, a quality ride, a great house and...to be on the cover of Forbes magazine. We all have those dreams, don't we?
Photo Credits: Green News 

When you walk along the streets of Nigeria and everywhere else, you see hustlers. You see men, that hustle hard to finally one day...make it. I guess that's why the song is such a hit; he appeals to the pain and prayer of the average Nigerian man, hustling on the streets. I walked passed a boutique owner one day and he said, "This guy music go sell for Nigeria sha. See as im dey beg God" (Translation below). It struck me. I understand why the song is so popular among the locals. We all want God to pick up our call.

So. What if God says today to you, that yes...today, he will pick up your call? He has seen His phone ringing and He wants to pick up. What if?
Photo Credits: Tuale Naija

Well I read a verse in the Bible where God actually said, "Call Me and I will answer". In clear terms, He said it in Jer. 33:3. "Call Me and I will pick up your call". You see the verse says, "Call me and I will answer you and show you GREAT and MIGHTY THINGS that you do not know". Great and mighty things. You see, there is a condition. What are you calling God about?

Well, I guess God will pick up your call when you wanna talk about what He wants to talk about. I think your conversations and demands from God are important to you. But, I think He would give you the beautiful wife, posh car, beautiful house when you stop calling Him for these things. So, next time you call God, pause and ask Him for once, "What are the great and mighty things you wanna show me? What do you want to talk about?".

He has promised when you ask Him for great and mighty things, He would pick up your call. He also promised that every other thing you're asking for would be yours. So, let's change the request from the things of this world and move on to ask for great and mighty things that we do not know. Let's learn more about what God wants to teach us rather than calling with a list of "Things to Buy". God has promised; He would pick up the phone.

TRANSLATION:
His song will actually go viral. He's really pleading with God.

The Power of Alert

Naija
"The Power of Alert"

The sweetness of the double beep
As my screen displays the fireworks
Of a lightened background
My desperation put on hold

My heart catapulted to its zenith, by Zenith
As I see two zeros next to one ninety eight
Today I smile, and tomorrow I'd smile again.
Sharing the bliss of corp members scattered wide

We have been alerted, our accounts padded
Today, we shall teach with boisterous nuances
We shall save the curses for another time
Blessings be on NYSC



Nineteen Eight

Naija

Me, in camp, looking bored, as usual


"Nineteen Eight"

We were the elite
The hope of a dying nation
Our shoulders built up for her pains
Her last chance for survival
Bearing the saving grace nomenclature

We read and wrote
Studied and burnt candles
The minute waxes that remained
Proof of our midnight struggles
We ran out supreme
Fastened to the saddle
Riding on to the sunset
We heard we were conquerors
Knights of pure breed, they said

Now, we queue for mere food
Living out the hunger games
Princes become frogs
Fearing the kiss of the soldier's wrath
Hopping from hostels to parades
And everywhere in between

Fists are clenched
Shaken at faces marking vexed souls
Disorder reigns supreme
Threats and insults lord over the subjects
Scrambles for crumbs of penury
Have become our day
Savages we have become
Maybe we have been all along
For nineteen eight
For the love of nineteen eight

It Rains in Northern Nigeria

Naija




Today, the rains fell and they fell hard. The lightning colored up the skies at dispersed intervals and the thunder echoed in the distance. Earlier as I turned over and tussled under my covers half asleep, I weighed the severity of the corp anthem. "Under the sun or in the rain". I contemplated if the soldiers would enforce our daily oaths. Would they come marching into our hostels like they did in the dry days with their shrill whistles as early as five in the morning? Would their dripping camouflage draw more vile towards our lazy sleepiness as they cause us to roll in the muddy waters for daring to skip parade, even in the stormiest of mornings. I envisaged in my wildest imagination, doing frog jumps in rain water puddles and standing in my bare white Ts as the cold current of the morning gust flows across my chest. Whatever way I imagined it, today would be a different day.

But it turned out, no military officer came around. There were no whistles-only crickets- and we were granted extra sleep time courtesy of the morning storm. Time enough for me to transfer games into my iNote Prime. Time enough to go say hi to my friends back at the camp radio studio. Time enough to sit and think back at how much my perspective on Northern Nigeria and Islam had changed in just a week.

I thought about the first day I met my roommate. At the bus park, I wrote him off as a half educated Hausa graduate, the type I thought were churned out of their biased universities because no one could ever actually be good enough to graduate. He was everything that was wrong with the Nigerian system, another incompetent man in the system. But, firstly to my surprise, when we spoke, I noticed a distinct tongue, more complex than the plain speeches surrounding the region. He was Taroak, not Hausa, by tribal origin, one of the hundreds of ethnicities in Jos, located in North Central Nigeria. Still I pardoned my misconception. The misconceptions however became unforgivable when he told me he was a doctor, poet and professional rapper, the kind that organizes talent shows for upcoming artists. Reading through his book of poems and hearing tales of how his audiences sometimes demand for en cour, I was humbled in my narrow mindedness. Who would have thought?

My views of Islam have also dramatically changed since I arrived the camp. I've learned that Sharia justice can only apply to Muslims. Another scholar roommate of mine patiently educated me out of my stereotypic understanding. It is against Islam to carry out judgment on any person. He vowed that if I were to blaspheme against the Prophet, I would go scot free.
I was dumbfounded when he expounded to me how the Charlie Hebdo killings in France were unIslamic in their gruesomeness and such capital punishment should only apply to a Muslim and only after a competent Sharia court had found him guilty. Shocking the level of wanton destruction and death that happens when religion and ignorance come together.

He was asked about child marriages. He explained with passionate analysis how girls were only allowed to marry after developing womanly features. More; the veto power to give out a girl child rested solely on her parents, whose word was final on the matter, irrespective of the views of any Imam. Child marriages were therefore a result of poverty minded fathers and rich, perverted men having business transactions over the lives of innocent adolescent girls. The religion could not be blamed for the insensitivity of the uninformed who gallantly defend it.

I cannot categorically assert to his words, or that majority of Muslims would agree with all of them. Yet, the benefit of doubt that is my life view tends to think they are true. What I am sure of though is that, contrary to major opinions down South, rain does fall in the North. A lot. It rains so hard that you would dream you were home. It rains in Jigawa as hard as it rains in Benin. So, yes; I can personally verify that, with images to back up my claim. It rains in Northern Nigeria, among other things I was ignorant about, I now know. It rains in Northern Nigeria.

Poetry Week

Hey guys. In line with #theevolution Martison's is introducing it's first ever Poetry Week.

So here's your chance to tell me your opinion. What was your favorite poem this week? Which did you enjoy best? Why did you like it? Check them out at your own pace. Read them all at once, or one a day. It's your choice. You're in charge.
Leave your comments below and at the end of the week, we'd announce the winner. Okay. Leggo!

"Nostalgia"
(A poem about the joys of our childhood. If you miss your kid days, you should read this).

"Terrible Love"
(No matter how loving you are, people would always see criticism as wrong. I don't even like it)

"Dreamy Nuptial"
(Marriage should be honored by all, the bed undefiled)

"Escape"
(When life gets hard, there is a way to run away. A way to escape the difficulties, even if for a while).

"Jump!"
(Sometimes, you need to take the leap. What is God whispering in your ear, that you need to do? Jump).

"Clouds"
(A lovely photograph by Kingsley Obaseki. I hope the poem comes close in quality).

"Afterwards"
(A poem about the achievements of life. I guess I'm wondering, what the point really is).

All can be checked out in the Poetry tab, or by clicking HERE

So, let me know what you think. Awaiting your comments when you're done reading.

Nostalgia

Poetry
We miss the days when life was fun
When we ran like deers
Prancing across the overgrown grassland
Playing hide and seek
Thoughts only for the moment
Joy overflowing
Socks in patches of brown

We miss the days of yore
When our future was a mystery
Not even known or considered
When hormones were non existent
Restraint redundant

We miss the days
When we didn't have to plan
When mothers tucked us in
The day spent of energy
Eyes heavy from slumber

Now all we do is ponder
About the future but sometimes
We wonder about the past
'Tis a satire so named
The futility of advancement
A truth left untold
A melody yet unsung

So, today I speak the truth
I miss the days of yore
Before the rat race began
Before the rainstorm of denial
I miss the days when life was fun
Our socks in patches of brown

Terrible Love

Poetry
We would fight as I question your morals
Your mind would get vexed against me
I'd stay silent as you rant on in anger
It's what I've grown to expect
From me. From you. From this tango.

Today, I questioned your beliefs
I ran a railroad across your faith
I scattered your judgment, providing alternative reasoning
You didn't like it. I doubt you ever will.

So, may I become judgmental,
I wish it on my self.
May I defy reasonable behavior
As I cause commotion in our lives.
But one label I'm free from is the one that shuts the lips
A tape of nonchalance that everyone around you
Applies over their voice

So I pray we fight as you question my morals
I hope you repay the favor and keep me in check
But to stay silent? No. I can't do that.
I'll keep questioning, querying, offering alternative reason
For if I stay silent, I would miss the biggest label of all

I pray it stamped on my back
I'd carry it everywhere I go, my head hung high
That I was brave enough to say you are wrong
Even though my words make it hard to get along

May the tag state, "I LOVED YOU TERRIBLY".
Because I do, really love you terribly.
Beyond all our fights and my seemingly harsh words
I hope you see love. Terrible, terrible love.

Dreamy Nuptial

Poetry
Photo Credits: Gionee M5 Mini
Fingers clenched together in harmony
Underneath the blanket of the light autumn gust
The skies watch with goo-goo eyes
Grasses dance in admiration of harmonious bliss

The drops of the threatening rain become freckled scented florals
Each on her face sings of the perfection of nature
I take her under my arms, smirkingly flavoured with glee
The blonde that lightened the strands of my heart

Sweetened melodies of her soothing speech loosen my soul
Purity of wedding whiteness pale to her glow
Each step of our singular cotillion empties my thoughts
Save the distant grandfather's chime of the twelfth hour

We dance to the tune of fantasied minstrels
Adulating our unison with envious strokes of harp strings
Deepened melodies of gladness swell within us
An orchestra of bubbly sentiments stilling the seconds

The sun yawns a reminder of honeymoon night
The petals close with my chapter of singleness
We stand apart, or I, to capture a retinal album
Watching my bride elegant, a view till my eyelids forever close

***

Because marriage is a beautiful thing.

Escape

Poetry
Photo Credits: Unsplash
Destitute clutches of a broken soul
Torn between eternity and mortality
Constrained by the daily bread
But longing for the afterlife

Who can rescue me?
From this limbo of flipflop nuances
Today wanting to escape the boredom of existence
Tomorrow willing to conquer it all
Today intrigued by His concealing
Yesterday frustrated by the same

It's a twisted love affair
I wish I had known better
Maybe I wouldn't have leaped
Into this maze of uncharted desire
With the benefit of blissful ignorance

But since I'm stuck already,
Let's drive off into the sunset
If not for forever, at least for today
I call shotgun as you take the wheels in my life
So we'd chat and laugh, or sit and stare

Everything would be okay
As I kneel down and drive off in prayer
And maybe just for today,
I would escape this tunnel
Between eternity and mortality

Jump

Poetry
Photo Credits: Amazing Pictures
Look around you.
Catch a vision of the world that surrounds.
Peek, glare, glance or stare
But take a mental picture
Of where you stand and ask yourself
"Should I be here?"

Rustle the comfy covers that keep you warm
In the king sized nest you have made for yourself.
Get up, rest your back and ask,
"What am I doing?"

Spring to your feet and view the horizon.
Sip your coffee and spend an extra five minutes in your dining chair.
Query your world view and test your wisdom
Before you go on circling in this tree top world you know as everything there is.
Ask yourself. Really, ask yourself, "Is this really everything there is?"

I did that and it had an effect.
I realized that life was pointless and I needed God.
I folded the sheets and laced my boots.
I said goodbye to the tree squirrel and my blue bird friends.
I said farewell to everyone that said something was wrong with my head.

I took the leap and searched for Him.
There was no middle ground, only free fall.
I thought I would end up with nothing to show for it
With the world mocking as my head splatters on the pavement.
I took a chance and guess what I found?

I found love, I found peace and I found joy.
Fulfillment flew across my face with the evening breeze.
So, I plead. Step out of your fears of failure and unworthiness
The same fears of persecution, of hate that shackled me.
You know you want to. You know you have to.

The treetop of your simple life should not be all you experience.
God has so much in store for you.
So don't just perch, sitting there.
Spread your wings, catch the wave.
Your Father is calling you to greater things.
Answer the call. It's time to fly.
Jump.

Clouds

Poetry
Photo Credits: KingObas
Stare at them standing there
Under the gathering clouds of a southern storm
Pause and meditate
On the complex simplicity they make of their lives
Watch the girl, watch the boy
Watch the lad and lass professing love behind them
Look. Rather, see
How minute they may seem.

The rains would drop down heavy
They would go scampering like roaches
To the abode they call theirs
Alone, together; pause and ponder.
Hostels cramping personal burdens tightly
Each to hold closely his load on his shoulders.
Stare at the image and tell me what you see
I see clouds, grass, yes.
But I see a people burdened within

If I had the chance, like I always say I don't
To the lady in red, whose mum lies sick in bed
I'd tell her about the healing Christ bought in her stead
For the young man groaning in debt
I'd shout, "Look to the Lord for provision instead"
For the eighteen year old grappling with drugs
Talk to the Father, he'd hold you up
To the woman struggling to survive with her wares
I'd hold her hand and pray for blessings from Him.

So, look once again; scroll up
Stare at them standing there
Under the gathering clouds of a southern storm
Pause and meditate
On the complex simplicity they make of their lives
Ask yourself of their problems
Ponder on their pain
Then wonder if the solution
Would flow to them with the rain
If you don't reach out, or if you don't believe in Jesus
The one antidote to the world's problems
To the complex simplicities we make of our lives

Watch the girl, watch the boy
Look. Rather, see
That these people deserve to be free
Because Jesus died for ever single one of them
And yes. They need to know exactly what that means
No matter how minute they may seem

Afterwards

Poetry

Today I wrote another poem that tingled your senses
She closed another deal that swelled her assets immensely
He bought a new car, a Navy Blue Bentley
It's still just another week and another follows shortly.

Tomorrow is another day
The earth would rotate the very same way
Billions of men would flood the streets
The world continually in repeat.

I take a glance at it all
From a vantage point, hopefully tall
Enough to see that enough to fill the thirst
Is a goal never reached.

For we are a people mindlessly toiling
Cursed and boasting over sweat, feeding through suffering
Gratification accorded to the one who slaves harder
To get less time with his family and more pills
Nothing could be sadder.

So today I step out of the rat race
I promise to work hard, but purely on God's grace
Because one day, today would be tomorrow's distant past
By then, it'd all have fallen into place.

And afterwards?
I hope when we lay on our aged beds or rocking chairs
We would look at each other with smiles linking our ears
That we spent the days seeking His face

Wondering what everyone else did with their lives
Then we'd pass away fulfilled,
Knowing we found that elusive peace on earth.
And afterwards, peace forevermore.

The Evolution

Hey guys. It's been a while. It's really been a while. But for good reason.

You see, in life, retreats are always important. No, not the kumbaya, earth-loving kind of retreat, where we go to reaffirm our love for Mother Nature. Not the ones that we go to lock ourselves up in a no-technology prayer camp with a wide lawn and camper bedrooms. My idea of a retreat is much different from that. My retreat has yeilded fruit.

I'm talking about a mental retreat. One that keeps you in the vicinity of the ones you love. The one where you flash sweet smiles to everyone that passes you by and when you tune the TV for Mother to watch. The kind of retreat that no one notices you are on. The one you use to network your dreams for the future with the achievements of the past. Yeah. The kind where you hide your mind from the excesses of daily living.

I've been on this for a while. I wake up at home as normal as the day before. But, I am silent throughout, meditating and praying and working my head off. Checking my goals and seeing if they're still worth it. Reassessing the essence of life. Questioning everything you believe in, everything you see as important; taking a break and asking yourself the most important question you need to, at least once in your life. "What's the point?"

So, yeah. I advise you. Go for a mental retreat. Go to work. Go to church. Go for Friday prayers at the Central Mosque. Kiss the priest's ring after a weekend confession. But seriously, ask yourself why you do what you do. Why you believe in your prophet. Why you believe God exists or doesn't exist. Doubt. Question. Ponder. You'd be amazed what would arise out of it.

"If you're scared of questioning your beliefs, you aren't really sure about them". That's an actual quote. By me though, so...you can attach martisons.com on the side. There's gonna be a whole lot of new stuff here. Some more Nigerian content to appeal to my country people, also to market us to the world. Definitely more poetry; I have a whole lot of those written somewhere. Sweet, sweet, fiction and articles, I hope. And...wait for it...wait... Art and Photography.

Oh yeah! That reminds me. The first result of my retreat is what I tagged "The Evolution". Goodnight Godly Intellectual. Say hello to Martison's. 

Penny For Your Thoughts

Poetry

I wonder...
Would you let me get in your head?
Tell me for this one moment,
Can I know what's going on in there?

Are you scared of the future,
Terrified of the present
Do all the gifts of today
Seem less glorious than you dreamed yesterday?

Tell me, do you feel the morning breeze
Calling you to be discontent with your achievements
For you know you can be better
Than the existence that is stayed in place
Do you think about the creator?
And when you're alone, do you chat with Him?
Do you think your deepest darkest secrets
Would drive Him further away
And you'd be lost in the tunnel
Searching for your best friend
Who's tired of your lust.

Tell me, are you in love?
Does it consume you like the most thirsty of fires
Does she care about you, or is she still unknown
Do you plan for the future, wife, kids and a home,
Are you a hopeless romantic, writing love notes
Buying teddies with chocolate flavored sweets?
Seeking a rib to draw ever so close.

Tell me, does your mind wander like mine does?
Do your thoughts resonate through your brain
Your actions erratic, their effects making you lost for words?
Are you tired? Are you broken?
Do you seek a retreat, to soothe out pains unspoken?

I wish you would
But rather you stare
And your thoughts remain distant
And I'm left to wonder
If we are bothered by the same fears
If they induce the same tears
And if we both crave a neighbor to draw near

Because the less we feel weird
The more we see clearly
That you and I are exactly alike
I wish you would tell me
But rather, you stare

Zombies Reborn

Poetry
Fragile broken beings, trailing a leader to the source. He claims he knows where restoration is...better yet, he turns and faces us with a gentle smile temporarily stilling our thirsts. He says, rather unbelievably, that He...yes He is the source.

Our look of bewilderment undergird our unbelief as we stay motionless contemplating the possibility of ecstasy so free. He opens up His palms and lets us see the endless flow of our desired flavor; red thick viscous blood. Our vampire souls tear across our chests and though we held onto our broken lives for too long, today we know that our destinies lay in sucking and we would become as infant babes.

So with the last bit of life left in us, we drag our beaten up bag of bones drowsily and fall at His feet. As our knees shake the earth beneath us, we wonder if our heads will splatter on the hard rocks we've been accustomed to tilling. But no! He stretches forth his fountain piercings and bliss is enacted as our desperate teeth pierce through his nail stricken veins and we suck with our last breaths the one thing that would give us life.

He smiles with an air of satisfaction, for this was the reason he came down to us. As we look up with tears of gratitude clouding our now clear visioned eyes, he wipes off the drops of blood on our lips and urges us to stand up straight. And as we search ourselves, we understand. That we no longer have to draw from Him as we have tasted of a one-off dish never to be devoured again. As we feel the blood of this Man run through our system, all guilt and sin become paled and obliterated as He reminds us we are now like Him...we are now gods.

But the glorying must be delayed as the power within us pours a responsibility upon us. For though our souls crave a permanent uniting with our King and though we yearn to walk side by side with Him, we turn our eyes to the rest of our brothers meandering across the suburbs and cities, hinterlands and settlements draped in dazzling attires or rugged clothes; in flashy cars or bicycles, dwelling in skyscrapers or underneath bridges. Our clear visioned eyes see them with fresh perspective, for we have known their thirst and we know the cure. So we turn to bid our master to permit us to tarry a while, but we realize that this was his plan all along and He remains with us to see the job through.

Now, we stand by the roadsides, with gramophones and keyboards, in the market places and bus stops, virtually or by word of mouth. We scream, implore, entreat, plead, beg and refused to be silenced. We have tasted of a heavenly glass and we beckon on the living dead to come taste of this. We are mocked at, derided for breaking out from the norm, the trapped claim to be free and the chained point and mock at the freedom we have received, they so blindly see as shackles. We fend off persecution and hatred, our pain only bested by a desire to see freedom reign in our ethos. To see the walking pile of bones become a mighty army for the Lord.

For we know your emptiness. We've walked your shoes.

We are the Christians. We are the Zombies Reborn.

Happy Wives

Word!!!!

So I guess you're wondering what this is all about. Yes, it's another relationship post; there have been a lot of those lately. I'm talking about how to keep a woman happy. Throughout married life. Sounds tiring already.

You know I noticed something in the Bible about the elders of faith. I'd like to think their wives were secure. Maybe not always happy (I mean can a woman always be happy with all those emotions running ravage) but at least they felt secure. You know...safe. Free from worries about the things married women fret over. Free from insecurities. I'm not sure that's how they felt, but I'd like to think they were secure.

So I got to thinking, "One day I'd get married to a beautiful charming damsel. She would spend the rest of my life with me and for that very fact, I'd love to give her an awesome life in return". So I was wondering, "How do I do that?". So, by chance, I pitched it to some of my lady friends. I'll tell you what they had to say, but I must warn you...you might not like the answer.

So the ladies reached their verdict. To become a befitting suitor, you don't need to be the richest man in the world, but at least you should have a plan on how you want to become the richest man in the world. They weren't very blunt but I have learned to read between the lines. The logical conclusion is that for any lady to look your way today- whether she sings in the choir or not- you gotta have a business plan; a huge money making scheme that would guarantee her a life free of suffering. Then and then only would she be willing to take the risk of marrying you. Nowadays you gotta back up your "potential" with a full fledged money making idea.

But I wonder, why were the "wives of the elders" happy with their men. I wonder...why did Rebekah jump on that camel and scream "Take me to Isaac!" (Pardon my lucid imagination). Why was Noah's wife calm when her husband decided to dedicate his time and resources to building a boat? I mean ladies, would you marry a man who just wants to build a boat? To keep animals?

You see, my point is simple. Those ladies were secure because they knew their husbands were good pals with God. I think-of course I could be wrong- that those women were calm knowing that their husbands could hear directly from the creator of the world. They were steadfast, because their men were rolling with true power, the highest power in the land and the skies for that matter. So to answer my question. How do I plan on keeping my wife happy, or even getting her to marry me in the first place? I would have to convince her that I too roll with the power-that-is and I can hear Him give me instructions. I have to actually spend time honing my listening skills till I am very much in tune with the Father. Because at the end of the day, that's the only security I can offer her. I can't promise I'd always be rich, famous, smart, handsome or the talk of the town. But I can promise that I would always follow God's leading and I would show her clear evidence of the beauty of following God's leading in my life. If that's not enough for her, then...err...you know what comes next.

So people, that's my grand proposal plan and I'm feeling pretty confident about it. So before you go, if you're a guy, let me know your proposal plan. If you're a girl, let me know the grand proposal plan worthy of your hand in marriage. I would love to know your views. Let me know. What should make a happy wife?

The Dream Life

Poetry


In awe of the dream life
Flashy cars beaming flashing lights
With dark blue tinted windshields
Flashing lights

Hazy figments
Of pale yellow champagne glasses
Of blazers and pointed shoes
With marble floors and corner offices
Dream houses and trim wives
Multi millions and pleading managers
Flirty marketers supplicating for investments
Top of the world, stilling the moment
Stealing the moment
Still in the moment.

Reality check, dream trimming time
Time to rewire ambition
Chiselling out the car fleet
Leave the Tundra, status befitting.
Status permitting
To help a youngster go through school
With mum chilling, extended family cool
Just one house; a bungalow behind a lawn
White picket fence overlooking the sunset
Rested head on sweetheart's chest as you yawn
Kids playing away; two maybe three
But definitely not four
Still a dream to die for.

Reality check and ten years are gone
Your perfect horizon torn
Left wondering what went wrong
Random John Doe living your dream
Fact replaces fantasy
Dragging on with rags and wear
No flashy cars or pale yellow drinks
Only thoughts that torture and scream
At the failure you see within
Fantasy land is washed away
Reality is bleak, no asylum in view.

Time's up for dreamers
Dreamers, wake up
The world offers no retreat
To the ones who build dreams on quicksand
Reality check; time to wake up
Sow dreams worth living for
Fruitful dreams, birthed by God
Only then does reality becomes dreamland.
When reality supersedes dreams.
Surrender to the beautiful scenery
Painted by the King
Doling out the dream life
A never ending dream...life.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I did promise a Part 2 for my last post... which actually got the most views ever on this blog!. It'd come eventually. But for now, let me know. Comments on the poem. Comment, comment, comment.

(Photo credits: Tecno Mobile).

Hey, pretty (1)

Word!!!!


DISCLAIMER: Before I begin, I would have to state that I am actually relatively inexperienced in the art of hitting on a lady, so I'll have to plead with the seasoned experts to fill in the gaps and flaws in my lame attempt at simulating a wooing-in-play. Now, I begin.

Ladies-beautiful, beautiful ladies- how does it feel being hit on? I mean, I really can only imagine, being terrible at it. So help me out here. I envisage a handsome looking gentleman (like myself *wink*) walking up to you, innocently strutting down the street. He most likely would beckon on you to slow down as he rushes to catch up with you. Then in those two, three seconds, I'm sure you'd assess if the wait is worth it, because you most likely know what's coming next. He's gonna tell you how he saw you and realized you were the most beautiful thing he's ever set his eyes on. He'll then complement your skin, beautiful eyes, your figure and if he's getting you more interested, would hit the nail on the head, catching your half smile and mild blush and picking on them for some extra serenade points. Yeah, that's how I imagine it going down in my head. At least, if I were to walk up to a random pretty lady walking down the street, that's the line I'd tow. How good is it? Ladies? Guys? Anybody? Okay...fill me in when you get to the comments section. For now, I continue my scenario-painting.

So, you get flattered by his sugar-laden words and intrigued by his larger than life mysterious demeanor. He definitely would make a good catch but if you just granted him full access there and then, he may consider you loose and not worth the chase. So you tell yourself to play hard to get. Maybe he gets your number right then. Maybe you want him to work harder. Anyway, let's fast forward to the part when he calls you up late at night and leaves your mind awash with the baritone-voiced half-hunk just calling to check up on you. The random calls and broken conversations continue until you finally are left in suspense, awaiting the day he would eventually free you from this brief emotional prison, and finally...finally...ask you out on a date.
He does. You agree. He sets the venue. You concur, not wanting to seem too picky and scare him off. He'd pick you up at 5-ish. You can't wait. He's elated. You're flattered that's he's elated. He's elated that you're flattered by his elation. You're...okay, I got carried away. Back to the script.

Your date ends up being the most beautiful you've experienced, or maybe it's the first you've ever been on. Either way, it was plotted magically and you feel on cloud nine, treated as a queen should be...like royalty. Before letting you get back inside, he pops the question. He's single...alone...plus it's easier talking to you than most girls. He needs company; a friend he can confide in. Long story short: "Can you be my girlfriend?". Your heart screams yes!!! But wait...that would seem too hasty and you definitely have to be consistent with the hard-to-get act. So you say,"I'll think about it". He bids you goodnight and you have trouble falling asleep because you keep replaying the time of your life over and over again in your head. Before diving into REM, you mark out one week of begging for him. If by then, he continues his advances, you'd put him out of his misery and grant him his request. Then you'd be officially...in a relationship.
Fair enough? I think I've done a good enough job so far. But still, the screenplay rolls on.

Now you're dating, but you're insecure. He calls you fairly frequently and you go out on dates every other Saturday. Still, you're not at peace, because every where you go, other beautiful girls have their eyes on your boyfriend. You can't scare them off and you're not so good at cat fighting. So after every date, you go home and lie on your bed with your eyes aimlessly scanning the ceiling boards, asking yourself if he's gonna cheat on you or worse still-you decide which is worse- dump you. Or maybe that waiter he flashed a smile at was not him being a gentleman...maybe he collected her number when you went to powder your nose. You know men can't be trusted. Your marriage perspective painting you've designed in your mind, with the two of you wearing matching native attires and your two year old son playing on his strong left arm is cracking at the edges but you patch it up with your self reassurance. Surely he won't break your heart. Surely, he's yours forever...or is he? Is he?

Hey pretty, I got questions for you. But... this post is already way too long  and the eyes of my lovely readers need a break.  Our chat is gonna pause here,  but I'm sure gonna continue soon. So look out for "Hey Pretty (2)". For now,I take my leave.  Catchya later,  pretty lady. 

Mascara and Lipstick

Poetry

I like you and you like me too,
But in two different ways,
Yes; in too different ways.
Cause you're attracted to me,
You're attractive; I see,
But the person I want to be,
Is not the type that falls for thrills.

It may work for the others,
But I'd like to think I'm different.
They may like your tight gripping clothes,
But I hate the inference
That you're available, single and searching;
That you are no more than a body offered for tempting;
I look beyond the show of confidence
And see a girl lacking self esteem;
Seeing herself as a peasant,
While all I see is a queen.

I like you, but not the you on display
I'm more intrigued by the words you don't want to say
I lean in close to steal a peek at your brain
I want to hear your heart's thoughts,
And the contemplation underneath
Not to fixate on lips smudged with gloss
Or to stare at your dazzling white teeth
With the all too little smudge of gloss
Defeat intertwined in layers of deceit.

I want to know your thoughts, I'll love to know your pain
Not to chat around emptiness, playing an all too familiar flirting game
Because I know you have more to offer
You're far more than the pretty face gracing magazine covers
There's the woman formed perfect and stainless
Not the version you've accepted,
YOLO loving and aimless
Clinging to futility; chasing nothingness.

I like you, but not in the way you think
I love you, but not in the way that you want
I want you happy, with a loving husband and kids
Clinging to God, breaking boundaries
The whole of the town, in awe of your deeds
I like you, but not in the way you think
Because I just want to be the one to pull you back from the brink
And pull the virtuous woman out of the sink
And hopefully chisel out the star
Hiding beneath the mascara and lipstick,
Defeat intertwined in layers of deceit.

Grateful

Poetry
Grateful,
For I've paid my dues.
Grateful,
My loyalty to the earth emptied; disused.
I'm free from this accursed existence
Eternal robes of glory,
My new clothing consistent.
My joy inexplicable, sadness nonexistent,
The struggles of "life",
In a horizon distant.

A slave to the sickness,
A servant to the sin,
The curse of the land made manifest,
In the dust woven apparel I dwelled in,
But now I'm free.
Resurrection from the dead
Is still the decree.
For I was a living dead,
But now, I'm free to really live.

One man made from dust
Transfigured into pure glory,
The stench of the earth,
Is now a forgotten story.
My kinsmen weep for me,
My own tears drier than the desert,
For now all pain and suffering,
I've left in the trash, repugnant.

I'm free, death was supposed to be a bad thing.
But I find myself overjoyed at his coming,
For death has set me free,
The loss of breath has granted me bliss,
Death had always been intertwined in me,
But today,
I truly take off that engagement ring.

A man of dust I have clearly been,
But now I shine with the glory of divinity.
O Death, where is your sting?
O Hades, where is your victory?

Welcome death, you kept me waiting.
PS: The question was rhetorical;
You really have lost your sting.

Iyawo Potiphar...

Naija

Iyawo Potiphar, I'm trying to live my life as calmly as possible. Please let me be.

It's not my fault that your husband granted me such authority. I know men that resist become more irresistible, ...and of all the men that you tempt, it's only for me you refuse to desist. Please, I don't want any of the loving you offer or the seduction that you cough out. Iyawo Potiphar, I am a man of honor, not a toy to quench your boredom. Madam, fi mi le. I'm holding on to God. Let me be.

If I grant you your request, you have your fifteen minutes of pleasure,which my flesh would enjoy, what would be left of my treasure? My dreams, my hopes, my aspirations, my blessings in a strange nation, of all the promises to which I cling, which will I see? For my success is staked on my Lord and Master. Now you want me to sin against the one person that has caused me to prosper. Never! Iyawo Potiphar, gather your matter, comot for my domot before you cause my life to shatter. I am a man of integrity. I'm afraid I'll lose everything. Iyawo Potiphar...let me be.

My mind begins to reason and the devil in me comes out like mango in its due season. He tells me it's just for once. I say to me, I would never get this chance again, for a beautiful woman to lay herself at me for the taking. You say, it's now or never; of course God's mercies endure forever, God would forever accept me After all, I sin all the time. I have thought of doing this once in a while. I'm just a man with blood flowing through my veins. There would be grace to wash away the stains. Why should this be any different? Why you dey shame?

Then I see you and your eyes speak to me. You say you're harmless; you just wanna be around me. You don't know why you're drawn to me more than most, or why my words soothe your soul. You want me close, thirsty for another dose; being under the same roof is not enough, now we must wear the same clothes! Every guy wants you near, you taunt them like an African trap to a deer...they want you so bad, its so very clear. Me? Babe, I don't freaking care.

Because when we wake up we'll be lost. I'll be fallen, from the zenith to the gutters. The glory would leave, and you'll be on to the next guy. I don't want. You have your man, let him grant you the pleasures you desire. Leave me in my singleness; call me stubborn, too serious, too legalistic...whatever you call me, I don't care. If you say I'm not a gentleman, I don't compliment your beauty, I don't know how to treat a lady, no problem. I'm okay. Just stay away from me. Iyawo Potiphar, let me be.

For you would come many more times, desiring the same stuff. I refuse to sell my life in your inner chambers. I refuse to leave my God for momentary pleasures of fleshly gains...it's hard but you know I'm speaking the truth. No smiling, no gisting, no play play. I have to stay on track. I have to catch my destiny.

Iyawo Potiphar, I am a child of God. Please, let me be.

TRANSLATIONS:

Iyawo- Wife
Fi me le- Leave me alone
Gather your matter, comot for my domot- Take your baggage off my doorstep
Why you dey shame?- Why are you ashamed?
Play play-  Playful gestures

The Man in the Mirror

Poetry

I see my reflection and I don't like what I see; because what I see is defeat and that defeated one is me. I see my frail self, cracked and broken, with a million reasons why I failed and not one why I could thrive or "make it". The man in the mirror is me; I don't like what I see.

I didn't get out of school, or maybe I'm an orphan. My parents left me when I was just a toddler or abused and talked me down just for fun. Maybe I made it out of school but with a poor result. All chances of success elude me. The man in the mirror is a failure and that failure is me.

Don't tell me to pick myself up, you don't know where I've been or what I've been. True. You don't have a clue what I've been through. Don't judge me because I with drew from all the awesome conversations about the future pictures of ourselves we drew. That was fantasy. This is reality. I'm less than mediocre; I'm slow I'm a retard...not as smart as the rest. So please let me rest on this bed I've made of my shame. The mirror on the wall says it all: I am a failure left in the gutters never to stand tall. Lame is my middle name. I'm poor.


***


And just by chance or happenstance, I glance in another mirror and an ember of hope is rekindled, glowing from a distance . I fear this reflection because he looks like me but with far more glory. He seems to know my pain and as for my struggles, my reflection is found wearing them. And then, he seems just as weary from the long walks I've undergone but yet he is accomplished and my pathetic self pales in comparison with his awesomeness. Now I look like a shadow, I feel my skin to confirm that I am real and not an image. Yes, I can't place this but the man in the mirror...I fear him. Not because he is great, but because he is me!

He walks to me and shows me the truth. The fact that I didn't get out of school is so that people like me could. I suffered their pains so I could understand their bruise and provide comforting words not some lines from corny blues. My parents left me so I could feel for orphans; so when I become great I could relate and stretch out a helping hand. I look again at my self- my actual self- and break my poor mirror, its reflection is weak, because a mirror is meant to tell you the facts, but all it gave me was deceit.

I drag the seat closer to sit, for the sheer revelation of the truth has made me faint. I now see clearly the lies that false images paint. Now I know the truth and I definitely know fake. Because the seller lied to me that that mirror was authentic and I paid so much for it, not in coins and credit. My life has been spent looking at the wrong reflection because once I changed my perspective I saw in a new dimension. I am great not because I said so but because I have seen so. I have seen so many people look to the wrong picture and I cannot be so stupid to repeat their intro into lies.

I see my reflection and I don't just like what I see, because now I see how unlimited I can be. But I see two images merging into one, mine growing greater and transforming into the greatest image of all time: the image of the Son. I wonder the mirror you look into, check if its reflection says you are less or more. The one given by the Devil or the one brighter than the sun? Because my image is in the Bible it tells me I am great and there's no need to debate; that is the image I'm rooting for.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
2 Corinthians 3:18
But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as by the Spirit of the Lord.

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