Short Story: Confession

As Grace opened the curtains to the bright morning, its streak casting a glow across the room, illuminated the once dark space as if to expose the secret that lurked. Nothing that could pass for a humiliating confession or a lengthy penance.  Or not? This memory brought a smile as she remembered how she knew someone had been a bad Christian by the hours spent kneeling after seeing the priest for confession. 

The Law

They want to prosecute me every time
I break the law of gravity
They say stay down girl...nothing for you up there
But one thing they forgot...the view
For that I don't mind being a repeated offender

2016: Year of clapback, snapchat and slaying

In Nigeria, we got our lives, our destiny back on the 1st of Jan. It was officially declared open season and shots were fired. I mean Canon-fired. Clap back is here to stay cos silence didn't make cross over service. Folks don't even wanna act mature cos everyone is in dem feelings. And we all here having the time of our lives.

 Instagram, scoot over to the side cos the spotlight don left you. Snapchat is the cool kid who got transferred to your school and everyone is fighting for attention. They try to out do each other but no one does it better than the Queen Slayer herself. OLUWABEYONCE OGHENESLAYER KNOWLES.

Mindng my business and I was given a ticket

I hate planes.  And no, I'm not claustrophobic.  I can live in a closet and still go about my business. I've heard people say that they know it only goes one way, no Air force 1 bullshit. That is what I hate the most about planes. I fear my body will never be found if it crashes. So for every travel I've had to make I take the bus. I know some are saying what's the difference? Well, imagine maintaining a size, doing exercises to lose the fat that stubbornly refuses to disappear, and then to top it all, not having people cry over my body. Over my dead my. Uh-uh. No thank you.

Moral Code

In my country, we live by a code.

We are often told to pray, that it is the ray

to light our way

and when we open our mouths, vowels form

 volcanic sounds erupting with

thunderous rumbling consonants that emit from our bellies

foreign languages as we strain to hear the still voice amidst the noise.

We are told to believe everything will work out

Chant verses to subdue any avarice,

Cos to be poor is to be the richest man alive.

But cursed are the meek in spirit, for in their silence

they’ve built an asylum that house refugees with utter disregard

of our beliefs

sealing the fate of generations to come in concrete and wiping out humanity.

As we lay our moral six feet under the ground, the final prayer on their

lips will be the proclamation of a God, they say never existed.

Can I bribe my Tribe to take me in?

I was up all night watching Black Girls Rock.  I’ve consistently followed the show and I wasn’t going to let not having my antenna installed stop me- thank goodness for internet. The highlight for me was Michelle Obama’s speech.  Michelle Obama is the type I’d luvv to call my first lady. She was eloquent, exquisite, and egoistic in the right way. Being Black shouldn’t define you. She said (can’t remember the exact line) “rewrite the tired old script”.  Well, don’t know if racist comments, behavior, attitude can and will ever be rewritten and boy, hate came with refill, as there wasn’t a dry spell on the absurdity of people celebrating coloured girls. The cup they drank from overflowed. White twitter had no chile. 

I'm a fake!!

It has taken me twenty-six days to publish my first post. I forget that my blog is not only for poetry, but for me to share my experience; blogging forces me to be introspective. All I write comes from personal views and then some fictions.

Gosh, now this minute,I'm intimidated by the letters on my keyboard, almost don't know what to write ( been out of practice) and I'm floundering; deleting, rewriting and brainstorming. I've come to a conclusion that I am a fake. Yea.how do I explain the loss of words and work as an excuse?

2014: My Terrible year

*beep* rushing quickly to grab my phone from heaven knows where I put it. Frantically searching now, my heart pounding, hoping and praying that when I eventually find the damn phone, the message will soften the harsh lines on my forehead.

This basically summarises the first six months in 2014. What I never told anyone is how I scrapped to survive those months. But how can you be inspired if I  don't share the whole story... here, lemme begin

The brown boys

Feeling helpless isn't having
a disease play Judas to your skin
with a deathly kiss of friendship as
only kins do, stroking your hair.
This fear; a wet nurse to the brown boys
milked them of chances to grow to
become men who would one-day wear the 
title "father" but two-day these boys will 
be remembered as brother, son, friend, boyfriend
This feeling of dread walks freely on the streets
aiding bodies rid itself of carbon dioxide and 
using up the oxygen to burn the putrid skin
cos how does one explain their death?
or the shitty- yucky-self ideal called (sys)tem
shooting blanks and expecting results when 
it is clearly a selfish act.
This is for the brown boys 
who were shot at sight by blind men
dumb enough not to ask questions but
served sentence of death by the colour of skin
not by guilt of your offense.
This is for the brown boys
who were used as dummy practice for thrills by
trigger happy men who led open season
for coloured men, 
This is for the black who lack justice 
just because reasons are not enough to 
black out laws made to suit and tie the 
rich with power while skirt around the real issue.
This for the Till, Brown,Rice and others that will come along
innocent yet guilty by no design of their own other than
the pigment of their skin.

Don't...

Don't equate stupidity with my melanie
or think I must smoke pot cos I have dreads
locked in obscurity to think that I cannot be smart
coming from a country called "Africa".
Oh, by the way - I'm light skinned and
yellow is not the botanical name for pawpaw.
and if you think you are not a racist, then
the next time you see me, please don't go
"you must be Igbo".
Yes, I curse because it helps the course
of my action and it allows me shock you
seeing as you have stereotyped me to behave
as a proper well brought up African child
whose bloodlines reeks of respect and her kneels
isn't ashamed to kiss the ground in adoration.
but it gets me when elders abuse their position
shamelessly courting condemnation with their actions
and no, I will not obey the saying that a child should
be quiet when elders talk.
call me unruly, a disgrace, but isn't time a race
we are all running from, greasing death with creams so
you might appear younger and I'm tired of answering
your question " so what cream do you use"
you should go ask my mum if she chewed carrots and drank
fanta by the gallons before she had me.
I might not have a big butt but I have a big mouth
and I'm not afraid to work it cos it is an invaluable asset
that will never depreciated or run out of demand and
even though I don't run it every time you see me,
don't mistake my being quiet for being proud.