Different Shades of Blur - Obirin Abiye

Old age does not save one from punches. That was something he could have thought of before he decided to go settling issues that was not any of his business. The fist tightened, fingers embracing themselves; bracing up for the wonderment that was about to happen. The man watched with fascination as the fist landed on his cheeks, he felt its tingling after-effects. His eyes bulged out involuntarily. Could it be that he was imagining things? His mind would not give way to thinking one thought. It raced in different directions. Another hit brought him back to life. He staggered backwards and he was able to understand that he had just been hit on the face. Not once but twice and that was that. Pathetic. He could do nothing as far as his body was concerned. It had lost all its youthfulness embedded with impatience. It was the young man's time now but he had disrespected him. "Ah! Agbalagba!" the young lady had said. "Baba!" She later remembered his face as the man who used to praise her. She did not understand a single word from his several chants which he titled "oriki". "This is how we praise you in your home" he would say. She did not understand the movements of his mouth quivering in strange tones embalmed in strange words. She just smiled and pretended to understand. He would tell her stories of the old. One story caught her attention. She never forgot the song he sang about oluronbi. She immediately learned it. "Olukaluku jeje ewure ewure ewure Olukaluku jeje aguntan aguntan aguntan Oluronbi jeje omo re omo re apon bi epo". His hands and body moving simultaneously to the song that came out of his mouth. She did not understand why Oluronbi would have to give back his daughter to the god Iroko. "Iroko join join!" It was later she realized that Oluronbi had made a foolish mistake by promising to sacrifice what was given to him rather than other things of which she assumed, he deeply regretted. When he made a not so funny face, she laughed as hard as possible. She was grateful to him, but she did not feel he needed to stress himself that much. And after sixteen years she did not like the way her eyes welcomed Baba; the man who came once in a while to their house. The bright-eyed peacemaker. She would have expected that her eyes smile along with her but her face decided to abandon her today; in fact all of her body. She ran towards Baba who had already lost his balance again. This was an urban setting where there was little or no regard for an elder. At least he should not have wanted to make peace with two "Agberos". They were as crazy as louts should be. His eyes stared intently at hers. He remembered her, quite alright. She was the little girl he once knew. He murmured his blessings to her and ordered that she left him alone. She moved a bit backwards and watched in horror as the man metamorphoses into a yeti; a thing alternating spirituality and the physical realm. His long fingers and long teeth shined in the sun. And all smoke bellowed from his head. He made a movement which she could not fathom. It was a walk or a run of some sort which he made towards the two louts. His body vibrated on the floor and people who were once spectators where seen running for dear life. The young lady stood amazed. He tore the two men apart, in peace and in pieces. Their body parts were seen sprawling in the air as Baba stared at the already petrified young lady, panting and staring. Baba was tired of the disrespect he had received in the world. He looked round to see people running to safety screaming "Iwin! Iwin! " . He drew near to her and said his last oriki to her and disappeared into thin air; nothingness. She never stopped staring.

Different Shades of Blur (The Dress Code)

I cannot recall the day, week, month or year I started to hate choir uniforms. Always ensuring that they wore a color on black; pink on black, yellow on black, blue on black, black on black, white on black, green on black, all shades of colors on black, black, Back!. I would in turn wonder what would happen if they perhaps wore dinner outfits and looked tidy. It would be an everyday sunday breakfast event with God( since church services are held in the mornings) The berets, the ties and the shoes. I wondered if they got bored with the traditional choir gown adorned with such beauty so that uniformity becomes beautiful. Yet another suit and an unequal distribution of ironed and un-ironed dresses. A mishmash of emotions I'd say. I wondered if wearing traditional wears almost every week would kill, or what do I know? Restrictions, Restrictions, rules? Or the intense eye service and unwillingness on the part of some choristers. Would I love to join the choir? Of course Yes! Would I want to wear the same cloth with every other choir member? Okay I change my mind NO. Restrictions, restrictions from expressing self. But we are all different. So why do we have to dress the same? I remember a band wouldn't wear the same colors, but then something beautiful. I don't want to get bored while staring at a chorister's dress, or give a disgusted look at the site of their wears. Then I ask myself this question. Does christianity have to be this way? Different shades of blue on faded black or bright black. It kills me! When I have to admire the dresses of the outside world and yet wonder why the family would wish to stick to antique thoughts. And skirts! oh skirts! Why cant we wear gowns to save our souls even if most churches believe in trousers not being biblical. Peace untold peace. It all balls down to this, I believe, God is happiest when you do things from the heart and dress in a way befitting to see and be in the presence of a king. And then I wonder whether this is how one would dress if one wants to see a king and especially when it has to do with celebrations. It cannot kill to be different. Perhaps experiences of untold heat emerging from over-sized choir shirts and long skirts have repelled me from embarking into such activities. Then I ask another question - is it scriptural to dress this way? And then it puts me off, dressing simultaneously like school children who wish to try something new and dress casually but responsibly with a sense of fashion to class. I never liked school uniforms. I doubt if my dislike for choir uniforms will toll down a bit it either. But then, does being a christian and a chorister in the vineyard of God makes us dress shabbily and forget that God himself is fashionable? Yet we would dress our best for outside events. Things dedicated for God are beautiful. There is perfection is simplicity.

Different Shades of Blur Open Up the Door (The Muse wants in)

She inspired me to begin a little story; that woman in her 80's singing beautifully and standing there youthfully. I watched her as she sang with all of what she had; calmly,steadily, beautifully. In her christian voice she looked pristine, without blemish. Without any care in the world. "Open up the door" she sang with her eyes bright beaming with happiness. I feared that she might fall, she looked so fragile, too fragile to be doing anything in particular. But there she was, the rarest of the rare Nigerian Woman. I imagined her being the Choir Mistress at a very young age. I imagined her being a newly recruited choir member who wanted to be away from loneliness. I imagined her experiences. I couldn't go too far for I could not picture totally her experiences. It was massive, like the world itself, like space. Vast in every way immeasurable Perhaps a lot of happiness in her life, maybe a lot more sadness. One thing was sure, she was not willing to let time tell on her. She inspired me as she sang "oh Happy Dayl" along with the choir. Only her was whom I could see and that was immortality to me. Such youthfulness in an old body. She clapped with grace, such poise in her walking I could not fathom; without a hand to help her, without walking sticks. She was almost perfect and that was beyond beautiful. She inspired me, she inspired my thinking. That was God manifesting his glory in her life. Death would by no means be her end. For she has cheated Death and life immeasurably. Oh Happy day! I found her. What could I tell. She was a one in forever. I hope not to forget her. She was one of the blessings I had received in church; I didn't leave empty handed after all. 29th of November 2014, 3:30am. The muse.

Different Shades of Blur - This is Me. (The Denial of The Obvious)

Emotion is human and it is a weakling. Tunde would never have thought he could cry when he was rejected from the employment office. People change, don't they? He was also able to maintain his stance as he walked rather absurdly, rather fast to the bus stop. "This is Tunde! This is Tunde... Comport yourself, you were not like this and you will never be like this". His voice told him silently, almost in a whisper, as if trying to sympathize with him. His voice was shaky too. It didn't blurt out the courage it was insinuating. Yes it was Tunde, the guy who had been the King of women in the University. Counting women like money, they flocked around him and he was, as they said, a "cheerful giver". By this time, his eyes were red, like a smoker who had just finished four wraps of Marijuana. His mouth quivering as if they were unhappy with the redness of his eyes. By the time he entered his room, they were tear-stained. Who told you a man doesn't cry? Tunde took his credentials and dropped it carefully on the bed like an egg. He sat on the bare floor and wept out all his unhappiness, hopes, disappointments. Several thoughts came into his mind, those thoughts had a way of entering into his head. Yes... This is Tunde, it could not have been anyone else.

Different Shades of Blur (The Fiery Tale).

Hi everyone, its a new month and a long time away from you... I must admit, I have missed everyone. October opens with bouts of sarcasm, love, happiness, sober reflections, and of course whatever feelings you would call it. And so I'd be writing with the Title " Different Shades of Blur" for this month and the remaining months. Happy October beginnings and endings.




    " And you my love have gone
      Into my deepest of moods alone
      And have taken me out
      of the deep abyss which i
      Gave a name - Depression."  


  My sleep was not distorted, in fact I did not sleep at all. I watched as it all happened, all I could do was watch. I did not know how to move, I did not know whether screaming could help with the thousands of waning echoes I heard. I watched as people ran in their hundreds and I stood there, only being pushed from time to time by girls afraid of death, afraid of being afraid, dying in fear. I stood watching, like in a trance, petrified, frozen deep within my spines. I watched as some flew from the third floor, I watched a stampede. I watched the girl screaming in the loudest of tones,loud as it were, her voice was drowned in the fearful ecstasy. She was trampled upon severally and she screamed helplessly, continuously. There was no camaraderie this time, everyman was for himself. "Fire! Fire! Fire!" became the anthem of the wee hours as people scurried like rats out of the hostel. And there I still was confused, my brains were not working fine this time. I could not tell why. I closed my eyes and my nose opened up to the smell of the smoke. The walls of the hostel as if afraid too, shuddered in heat and bruised my skin. "I dunno! I dunno" my silence spoke in my petrified state, tears welled up in my eyes. It could have been the fire. It could have been the emotions that I denied. The emotions that told the truth. I did not also want to die. Death could be painless, could be the end of a beginning or the beginning of an end. Perhaps the beginning of beginnings. But I was not up for such philosophies. I did not want to die. I could not move. Only my eyes moved, observing every bit of everything. I watched from the corridor gates Sodeinde boys running with all enthusiasm. It was a romantic site. They ran with all their heart, with all of their ego hidden. They ran to save them; the ones they will never get to date. They ran with the innocence of love; like a lover running to save his love from the cold grip of death. They ran in their hundreds into the hostel. They ran to save them; the ones who had a crush on them, the ones who broke their hearts, the ones whose heart they thought they had broken which turned out to be a lie, the ones who would insult them at their back. They ran to save the ones who would say "I can never date a Unilag boy". But there was nothing wrong with being a Unilag boy; there was everything wrong with being flawless in this part of the world. They ran into a law that had prohibited boys from entering girls hostels and broke into it. They broke the law and their lovers received them in a warm embrace, with full gratitude as the fire was gradually being quenched. I heard the wailing again, but with a tear stained smile. It sounded more like the cooing of doves. I closed my eyes and fell to the ground. I did not know why I had done that, I only woke up the next day on the sickly hospital bed. It was 3am.

Being a student of The English Language

Sometimes I would question myself about the course I chose. Could it be the baritone voice of Azumurana that did it? Or the ever confused teaching of Daramola?. Maybe it's the sincerity and craziness oozing out of Alimi's lips or the secret loudness in the voice of Aribisala. Maduabuchi in his silent almost whispering voice would say King Oedipus had to do what he did. Whereas the novel of ideas lecturer(wonder why his name never sticks to my head) aha! Patrick Oloko! would in a permanent smile wink sarcastically at students in class. Anyaokwu adjusting his glasses and his usual "that's just the wayridiz" would keep reminding us of China Achebe's beautiful book; Things Fall Apart. Maybe Afolayan and her jovial drama self or maybe the Adeoye, Anyagbua and Shodipe would have preferred teaching another course rather than Language, Phonetics or Drama. Is it the beautiful essay lecturer with a Ghananian intonation or Adedeji the ever confused lecturer? Could it be the cool character of Austin Nwagbara? Or the constant reminder we get to add a title to their names; Professor, Doctor, Chief... Is it the strange looking glasses of Pearce or the uncertain nature of Sir Kofoworola. Or maybe the beauty of the students in class. The inquisitive Tobi or the quiet Samuels. Maybe it is the little beautiful eyes of Rahman the class rep or the general mischief makers. Could it be my newly discovered male cliques?Patrick, Kunle, Taiwo, David, Joseph, Funbi?. Patrick's hustle-bad boy/ innocent beneath all that camouflage look? Funbi's big round poking eyeballs?, David's beautiful gap tooth?, Kunle's smile leaving one breathless? Joseph's dark beautiful skin? Or Taiwo's pink lips?. Could it be Ruth and Seun with their unending cravings for cake and music? Or Cynthia's oppressive boobs Frontal Protuberance I might add or Emmanuel's intimidating shortness. Maybe its Uzomma's "I'm not even here" look or Ifeoma's constant pulling of my hair. Perhaps its Kunbi and Deji, crazy in their strange ways. Could it be Giwa with her troublesome character or Ayobami's tightening hugs?. Oh maybe its laura's voice. Perhaps its Tosan's gesticulations and the "really" words. Innocent's ever present shades makes me wonder whether it has a life of its own. Could it be the silent ones in class or the two class representatives of English Education? I may not ever get to know, I'm pretty sure some people might get upset if their names are not here, let me assure you that I recognise you, I just have a problem with names. I guess that's what the department has turned me into. And for some reasons I may never know why I chose English Arts even though Adedun can decide to peep from his glasses, telling me how he can see me lying through my nose. Alright, Alright. In the end, (oh its ending now) I am a student of The English Language because of my personal interest and because you all have made it worthwhile. Big ups to God for being so nice. Muah!

Being a student of The English Language

Sometimes I would question myself about the course I chose. Could it be the baritone voice of Azumurana that did it? Or the ever confused teaching of Daramola?. Maybe it's the sincerity and craziness oozing out of Alimi's lips or the secret loudness in the voice of Aribisala. Maduabuchi in his silent almost whispering voice would say King Oedipus had to do what he did. Whereas the novel of ideas lecturer(wonder why his name never sticks to my head) aha! Patrick Oloko! would in a permanent smile wink sarcastically at students in class. Anyaokwu adjusting his glasses and his usual "that's just the wayridiz" would keep reminding us of China Achebe's beautiful book; Things Fall Apart. Maybe Afolayan and her jovial drama self or maybe the Adeoye, Anyagbua and Shodipe would have preferred teaching another course rather than Language, Phonetics or Drama. Is it the beautiful essay lecturer with a Ghananian intonation or Adeoye the ever confused lecturer? Could it be the cool character of Austin Nwagbara? Or the constant reminder we get to add a title to their names; Professor, Doctor, Chief... Is it the strange looking glasses of Pearce or the uncertain nature of Sir Kofoworola. Or maybe the beauty of the students in class. The inquisitive Tobi or the quiet Samuels. Maybe it is the little beautiful eyes of Rahman the class rep or the general mischief makers. Could it be my newly discovered male cliques?Patrick, Kunle, Taiwo, David, Joseph, Funbi?. Patrick's hustle-bad boy/ innocent beneath all that camouflage look? Funbi's big round poking eyeballs?, David's beautiful gap tooth?, Kunle's smile leaving one breathless? Joseph's dark beautiful skin? Or Taiwo's pink lips?. Could it be Ruth and Seun with their unending cravings for cake and music? Or Cynthia's oppressive boobs or Emmanuel's intimidating shortness. Maybe its Uzomma's "I'm not even here" look or Ifeoma's constant pulling of my hair. Perhaps its Kunbi and Deji, crazy in their strange ways. Could it be Giwa with her troublesome character or Ayobami's tightening hugs?. Oh maybe its laura's voice. Could it be the silent ones in class or the two class representatives of English Education. I may not ever get to know, I'm pretty sure some people might get upset if their names are not here, let me assure you that I recognise you, I just have a problem with names. I guess that's what the department has turned me into. And for some reasons I may never know why I chose English Arts even though Adedun can decide to peep from his glasses, telling me how he can see me lying through my nose. Alright, Alright. In the end, (oh its ending now) I am a student of The English Language because of my personal interest and because you all have made it worthwhile. Big ups to God for being so nice. Muah!

Being a student of The English Language

Sometimes I would question myself about the course I chose. Could it be the baritone voice of Azumurana that did it? Or the ever confused teaching of Daramola?. Maybe it's the sincerity and craziness oozing out of Alimi's lips or the secret loudness in the voice of Aribisala. Maduabuchi in his silent almost whispering voice would say King Oedipus had to do what he did. Whereas the novel of ideas lecturer(wonder why his name never sticks to my head) aha! Patrick Oloko! would in a permanent smile wink sarcastically at students in class. Anyaokwu adjusting his glasses and his usual "that's just the wayridiz" would keep reminding us of China Achebe's beautiful book; Things Fall Apart. Maybe Afolayan and her jovial drama self or maybe the Adeoye, Anyagbua and Shodipe would have preferred teaching another course rather than Language, Phonetics or Drama. Is it the beautiful essay lecturer with a Ghananian intonation or Adeoye the ever confused lecturer? Could it be the cool character of Austin Nwagbara? Or the constant reminder we get to add a title to their names; Professor, Doctor, Chief... Is it the strange looking glasses of Pearce or the uncertain nature of Sir Kofoworola. Or maybe the beauty of the students in class. The inquisitive Tobi or the quiet Samuels. Maybe it is the little beautiful eyes of Rahman the class rep or the general mischief makers. Could it be my newly discovered male cliques?Patrick, Kunle, Taiwo, David, Joseph, Funbi?. Patrick's hustle-bad boy/ innocent beneath all that camouflage look? Funbi's big round poking eyeballs?, David's beautiful gap tooth?, Kunle's smile leaving one breathless? Joseph's dark beautiful skin? Or Taiwo's pink lips?. Could it be Ruth and Seun with their unending cravings for cake and music? Or Cynthia's oppressive boobs or Emmanuel's intimidating shortness. Maybe its Uzomma's "I'm not even here" look or Ifeoma's constant pulling of my hair. Perhaps its Kunbi and Deji, crazy in their strange ways. Could it be Giwa with her troublesome character or Ayobami's tightening hugs?. Oh maybe its laura's voice. Could it be the silent ones in class or the two class representatives of English Education. I may not ever get to know, I'm pretty sure some people might get upset if their names are not here, let me assure you that I recognise you, I just have a problem with names. I guess that's what the department has turned me into. And for some reasons I may never know why I chose English Arts even though Adedun can decide to peep from his glasses, telling me how he can see me lying through my nose. Alright, Alright. In the end, (oh its ending now) I am a student of The English Language because of my personal interest and because you all have made it worthwhile. Big ups to God for being so nice. Muah!

THIS THNG...THIS THING

To begin these series of idle thoughts, I read a certain letter written to me by a friend about imagining if falling in love was capable of killing people. Love like HIV/AIDS or Cancer would kill slowly until full blown, leading to an untimely demise. Or worse, killing almost immediately like Ebola or a terrible poison. I pondered on this imagination for a while, and came to the conclusion that half the world, if not all, would have died from this terrible disease called Love. I let my mind run through several other imaginations. For instance, every social media would tell everyone to beware of the deadly disease called Love. I imagined people going everyday to a Brainwashing Center to have their brain washed from any symptoms of love. I imagined people dying from cardiac arrests caused by love. People with love symptoms would immediately be quarantined. I imagined people finding a means to erase every single memory of the person they love. I imagined how the heart would stop immediately it noticed that it was opening up for some 'human'. In a bid to shake it off, it would stop beating, making the person convulse perhaps, shake uncontrollably perhaps, and eventually, die. But don't people who fall in love die everyday? The heart sometimes misses a beat especially when one is with that special person. It is better this way, I thought. Love would have amounted to being a terrible disease. And so, these series of thoughts lead me to a story; my muse was and is God in addition to this letter written by my friend, they walked me to this story... "If love fit kill person, everybody go don die finish" A normal human setting as we have it. This place captured the hearts and souls of those who went there. It was Ibadan. The love disease had spread to every nook and corner of the world in less than a week. Everyone was dying every single minute. That morning Joseph watched his parents slumber on the floor after they had kissed. He could hear the echo in his own voice as he kept on screaming their names. The floor in the house seemed too moist and his face blurred. He had lost them. The people to whom he owed it all. He started to run. He ran as fast as he could because that was the only thing that came to his mind to do. In his confused state, he ran without stopping, without thinking, without looking back and reconsidering. If at all there was something to consider. Could it be?... He blotted out this thought. Thoughts, they said, would lead to more thoughts, and more thoughts would lead to love, and love, instant death. It was unfair. The world was never fair anyway. He had to stop schooling because of this. Maybe if the Universities had not been shut down for multiple deaths he would have continued. He had felt he was safe, but there was no more safety. Safety had become a big risk. He kept on running, running as fast as his legs could carry him. And as he ran, he saw people slumbering. There were thousands and countless continuous wails, and an instant silence after the wails all going into his head. He could hear them, then he could hear them no more. Every minute a person wailed, they died off. He decided to shut himself from all of this... From all of these things. His legs suddenly stopped, and his face was signified by a surprise. He stopped only when he saw her. The girl to whom he had written so many poems, but did not have the courage to give them to her. The girl who had charmed his very soul of existence. The girl who had given him a kiss that sent him into bouts of strange feelings. A feeling that he had never felt before. A feeling he could never ever fathom. A feeling he could never explain. He called it this thing... This thing. It was a thing, it was a beautiful thing. It was a beautiful feeling. He saw her, the girl he loved. She stood right outside her house which was a few kilometres from his with a sad face. He walked slowly towards her, his hand reaching desperately for her face. He touched her cheeks and stared at her sad eyes. It lingered for almost eternity. "I love you so much", he confessed. Something he had never confessed to her. All this time he had been too shy to say it. All this time, it had been "this thing". He felt his heart tearing away from his chest, and he kissed her the second time. The last time. He went on his knees and smiled at her. He died smiling.

THE TALE OF THE SINGLE STAR

   
   

       There was nothing to be said as she watched the stars smear the sky like a beautiful painting. she waited until they appeared in their countless numbers, the moon smiling at her surprised look. It had been a long time since she had seen the stars fill the sky,such a long time. She had lost account of time. Too busy was she with her earthly activities that she had forgotten who she had been and the stars shining brightly above reminded her of her past. She cherished it, wished for it again, to lay at its bosom, to grasp it and this night, unlike any other night wished she could lay under the watchful eyes of the stars. On the chair where she rested, the stars entertained her eyes forming different shapes and sizes. She would laugh when she mistake satellites for big stars...It reminded her of her childhood and how she had said in her little mind that it was her star. Or when she had imagined a big house in the full moon with Jesus in it. Such innocence, she had missed that feeling. The smiling moon stayed firm telling her of its unchangeable state despite countless pressure. She wept after this silent talk, how greatly she had changed and laughed again when a shooting star came across. Then a star tired of standing in the skies fell down. It fell very fast. It fell deep down, it fell beyond imagination into an endless deep abyss.

THE LITTLE MEMORY BOOK

    During the times I entered airplanes, I had wished to be in it with a friend or perhaps see one. it would just be as fun if  I could make one in it. I was unlucky because I had to sit beside older people who were most times usually quiet. I noticed another thing too. People kept to themselves, trying to pretend like rich people who did not enjoy the company of strangers. Although, I loved staring at the sky, I preferred staring at it when I was on the ground. This sort of misty nothingness became boring to me. I had missed the road transports. I could see so many things and even make new friends. People in the bus were usually very friendly. I also had the chance to stop and eat at strange looking restaurants and keep looking out to make sure the bus had not left. I had missed the times where there would be no time to stop to eat anything and your mind will create 'imageries' of food. Other times you might keep your eyes open, sleep and wake up to the reality that one was still inside the bus. So as I carried my luggage, I did a silent prayer hoping perhaps I found someone worth the flight. The old man had sat beside me reading a newspaper. I concluded my luck was useless this time. I watched carefully as each passenger looked for his seat. As the young man approached the next seat beside me, I hoped he had come to stay. After walking forward a bit with a rather confused face, he finally sat beside me. As i stared painfully at the seats in front of me, I tried to figure out how to talk to him. The old man who had wanted to start a conversation with me could not because we both knew there was nothing to say to each other. The time difference was too glaring and obviously both generations would have a different taste. Finally, the cold from the air conditioner incited a speech from me. 'Are you cold?' I asked the young man. The forty minutes left became a memorable one. A memory which he was unaware that he had created. Sitting in the middle, I chatted long and hard with him. After the flight, i concluded that prayers were always being answered. He became a chapter in my memory book.

Letters to my Daughter (When we thought of You) 2

Invitation cards were flying everywhere, wild publicity was made. It promised to be the best teenage birthday party ever. Segun Da-Costa, the son of Nigeria's top business mogul was making expensive preparations towards his forthcoming birthday bash. With the look of things one needed no soothsayers to foresee that the party was strictly for the children of the big names in the top business sectors and the ruling class of the country. Sweetheart, we only knew Segun Da-Costa because our parents were working for his parents. We were never allowed to be friends with Segun or his siblings because of the differences in our financial lives. But, we wanted to attend this party and we decided to persuade our parents. It took my mother, the cook of the Da-Costas about four days to succumb, while your mom's father Otunba Da-Costa driver could not bear the frequent begging from his only child and gave in just barely two hours after. The party was beautiful and full of well-to-do children. Segun (the celebrant) and his sisters were dressed in glamorous outfits. Their friends were not exempted from this setting. When the party commenced, the boys took their female partners to the dance floor. I, took your mum as we danced vigorously to the thump-thump beats of Wande Coal, D'banj, Patoranking and the rest. Soon enough, your Mum complained of. slight headache and body pain. I assumed it was perhaps because she was unaccustomed to this sort of life; parties and all. We decided to walk back to our part of the Mansion; the boys quarters so she could rest. Her room was locked because we realised soon enough that her father had forgotten to leave the keys with her and had driven Chief Da-Costa to the office. I suggested that she rests in my room since she felt her temperature would increase again if she went back to the party. After a few minutes of talking intimately,our wall of self control of many years crumbled before our own eyes. It was almost six weeks before your mother realised she was pregnant. I was dumbfounded on hearing the news. We practically did not know what step to take but we were certain that telling or making our parents find out was not an option at all. After much deliberation and critical thinking, we departed having concluded on what step to take next Your Mum and Dad. To be continued...

On account of being Idle

Sitting here has brought a lot of things; things which I have promised to remind myself. Away from the busy roads of Lagos and the haughty looks of Lagosians. Away from overtly conscious look of the bus driver and the ever threatening eyes of the conductor. I sit here with my idle pen writing; always submitting to my every call. Away from the taunts of the ojuelegba conductor who had ridiculed his driver because he used a Nokia phone when the whole world had moved on to Blackberries and Android phones. "B B laye nlo" he said to the driver who had been enjoying the music he played on his phone. Away from the unafraid looks of the passengers in a moving bus without a driver. Away from the series and series of speedy accidents and dead bodies lying quiet on the floor without the major concern of the people. Away from the porsche lives of city Men and Women. Away from the university boys and girls who take the pains in looking extra good or trying so hard to "feel among". Away from the boys who size a lady up and argue whether or not she should be asked out- or argue about her physical prowess. Away from the girls who have nothing to say but talk about their love life and their constant emotional purgations. Away from the madness of okada riders and the lone talks of the mentally impaired. Away from the very annoying passenger who had been making calls every minute using words like "wazzap!" In a very local intonation. Here I am with my pen writing about a lot of things. A fresh start to every new thing and a beautiful entry to every invitation. I am Opeyemi Ojatula and this is my Idle Pen.

Call for Entries: Write Poem on Death

If you have written, or wish to write a poem on the theme of death, you can send your poem(s) for this anthology.

The title of the anthology is The Rape of Death. Opeyemi Ojatula, Samuel Oluwatobi Olatunji, and Melody Kuku will be the editors. The trio are students of the Department of English, University of Lagos, Nigeria.

We seek poems in any format, but ensure to stick to the central theme of death. Send up to 6 poems of not more than 50 lines each in a single word file (.doc/docx).

Please send your submission to any of the emails below: Celestinatargui@gmail.com Poetic.sam01@gmail.com melodykuku@gmail.com Subject of the email: Title of poem(s), separated by a comma if more than one; full name; and country of residence.

All poems must be in English, Times New Roman, point 12. Send a short bio, written in the third-person pronoun, of not more than hundred words in the body of your email, but your poems should be attached to the email. Deadline: 31/08/2014

REMINISCING HER CHAPTER ONE (AN ELERGY FOR STEPHANIE) SAMUEL OLUWATOBI OLATUNJI

 Reality rips our hearts
 Like thunder tearing the sky apart
 Unveiling the shards of a mirror
 A mirror of memorable moments.


We never imagined that your name
 Will equate a darkened dawn so soon.
 Memories of you have become
 Sprawling ashes in the shape of your
 footsteps
 On the beach of our hearts


We cannot let go of these memories
 Because somewhere between our
 conversation
 A comma or more brings back your voice
 Some periods reminds us of your fine face
 Every punctuation is pregnant with your presence


 Iku has successfully stolen a sparrow
 Under the blue-white garment of God
 Leaving us puzzled with questions
 Questions whose answers hide In the cubicle of God's heart.


 Although all i have is a poem, a farewell poem
 Share this elegaic communion with me
 As we await the breaking of the virginity of God's silence...

REMINISCING HER

On a count of one to three, there isn't much to say. July 6 had been a day filled with tragic events leading to the death of a course-mate. Although, i am not much of her friend to her, death sometimes brings everyone close together. Reminding us that we have only one life. Reminding us that we have only one fragile life. And so, the next write-ups, articles and poems shall be written for a life not so long. Perhaps for a year. Goodnight Adinde Stephanie.

The Magical Thoughts Part Five- The Awakening

And her mind kept going in circles. Deeper and deeper. That same voice that told her she was not in love with him spoke again. This time loudly "He's never going to come back" it echoed through her mind. It hurt, it hurt bad. But it was the truth and so it was good, although it did not feel good. It was good because now she knew she did not have to wait for someone that was not worth waiting for. She had met her ex Isaac on a saturday morning and he spoke to her in volumes. Not the one who broke her heart, but one of those she had dated before. She never had any emotional attachments to him. That was why they were still friends, good admirable friends. In his words she found the truth, he spoke the truth, although it was bare, sudden, intense, it was the truth. The voice kept on telling her "he's not going to come back". A voice whispered "even if he does come back to apologise to you, what would you do?.... Whatever you do make sure you make the right decision. Yes you loved him... But he might not be the best for you" the voice whispered immediately after she had left Isaac. She remembered his words about this new person in her life "he might be the best for you". Her mind shifted to him, the one who she had sat down with to watch the tree cage the moon. She smiled. This smile perhaps was meant not to last long. In a couple of days she started to have second thoughts about it all. Maybe she could not stand the controversies surrounding this boy, maybe it was too early for the feelings. She was not sure. She stared at him one day and tried to decipher what she felt for him. She felt she had betrayed him because she could not love him enough even after hearing so many stories about him from people. She knew true love knew no bounds, this she was sure of. If truly she was working to fall in love with him, she would turn deaf ears to people. But she did not know why she couldn't stand those words. She tried to find the answers to her uncertainties but they only brought uncertain answers. Maybe she was not ready to commit. Her mind wanted freedom, she was not ready, perhaps, to keep thinking of someone. She was not ready for denial, rejection, betrayal, a little love, distrust. She was not ready for the pain in gaining. She was not ready... She was not ready. THE END.

Magical Thoughts Four (a semi - awakening)

Days had passed, clinging with the months as they went past the year like two star-crossed lovers. She would have thought she had known him all her life, but as she looked at his eyes; the one she had come to admire a lot, her mind told her he was still a stranger and she needed time. Her heart and her mind went into unscrupulous disagreements; the heart asking the mind vigorously whether she had all the time in the world or whether he would wait so long. She sat in the midst of her friends envisaging a life worth living. Perhaps, a life worth living with someone whom her mind doubted and her heart had little issues with. "You're just so indecisive" her mind told her heart "all this would not have happened if you did not over trust!". Her heart raced as if trying to run to where her mind was and slap it "oh really!" It said "you coward! You're not near a risk taker. You cower at the sight of risk and avoid anything that might be of good use to us both!" She recalled the three words he said to her " I love you". Those words sounded ordinary, very ordinary. It was devoid of feelings, even though he expressed it the best way he could. It was devoid of the reactions she would have had if she had heard those words from the one whom her heart he broke. She became scared, maybe her heart was hardening, she could not figure out why she did not smile when he said it, why she did not feel relieved or special. She felt nothingness in those words, a complete sense of obscenity crawling inside of her. She hated her mind, she hated her heart, she tried to see if being comfortable with him meant she loved him. But yes she did, she loved him, but No she was not in love with him. That was the answer she got from a voice different from that of her heart and her mind. She paused. She was not in love with him...

LETTERS TO MY DAUGHTER

April surrounds itself with different ideologies, different schools of thought roaming like the stubborn children finding comfort in disturbing the peace of the neighborhood- while I sit in the comfort of my room to write this. And so, my April begins with series of thoughts, thoughts that have been formed into words, words that have become the very soul of existence- that have become life. And so, April begins with Kunbi Black. Sweetheart, we do not know so much but here is one thing that we are certain of; we know you can see us. And we know you are listening to the echoes of our emotions, which in all sincerity have become deep beyond my imagination. I cannot on my own explain how deep these emotions are, only that they have clouded me and brought me to you. I must say that I am deeply hurt to hear that you cry and nag all the time at Angel Michael, telling him that we do not love you. Telling him that we do not want you. Heaven sees my heart. And I say this in all honesty that your mother and I do love you. But sweetheart I wish for many things, things that are impossible on this earth. I wish I could fast-forward time. I wish your mother was not sixteen. I wish I was not a few years older. We talk about you each day of our lives and sometimes we get so engrossed that we are almost a meter close to bringing you down. But then we stop and ask ourselves what the hell are we getting into? We are not ready to set you free and then watch you suffer Sweetheart, my eyes cannot behold it. We love you too much to take you away from Angel Michael, where you get to eat almost every time, to a world where your chances of eating once a day are very slim. For Christ’s sake child, we are but mere students who have grandparents, uncles and aunties looking up to us. Looking forward to a life better than theirs, a life where with our first class at hand, we get a good job, get married and then, bring you home. Bringing you into this cruel world now will simply shatter all of their dreams, hopes and aspirations for us. So my darling daughter, I want you to know that we do love you so much and sincerely wish to have you. However, there are rules that must be followed, there are conditions that must be met and above all, is a supreme being that must not turn his back on us all. We love you and extremely look forward to that day you would come home finally, thank you so much dear because we believe that you have understood these words. Mum and Dad.

The Magical thoughts three

"A penny for your thoughts" he said, looking at her with those emotional uncertain eyes she had gotten to know him with. There was no beginning or ending to those thoughts mixed with uncertainties, pain, happiness, and a dying need to find answers, answers which were not forthcoming and if there ever was any, it was unsatisfactory. She blinked for a while and smiled, that smile that had captured his heart... That smile that made him melt, it was amazing how he will light up when she smiled . It just gave him this unexplained joy to see her brighten up because of him. But it was different this time, she was avoiding his questions again, he just wished she could give him the chance to show her that she was safe with him. So he looked on uncertain, hoping perhaps she will change her mind and tell him this time, surprise him this time... "You're mature... You're very mature... I love that. Its beautiful". He did not want to upset her, those words were beautiful too, she was perfect with that. She had a way of making him forget anger and questions too with those words that will make him feel fulfilled farther than he could think. The moon had left the caress of the tree now... But it had left its mark; this view became somewhat supernatural, heavenly. It became something that might define the remaining part of their lives for all eternity.

something worth penning down...

That tuesday afternoon was not busy; it was not as if it was ever busy. The roads from amadi gardens to Garrison and Rumuola, infact most of the roads in portharcourt seemed small, all choked up. The old GRA, the one car bridge would have been bigger if it was well planned,it was just unlike Lagos, less bigger than Lagos, less stressful than Lagos. It was also, quite dry unlike Lagos where you get to see drama Kings and Queens displaying all sorts of un dignified talents on the roads. As a cab stopped by, I plunged my head inside the window calling out Amadi . He waved his hand in approval and I entered imagining I had entered a kidnapper's cab even though it was painted in the state's white and blue colour. "One in front two at the back! Don't enter!" Sis said continuously,now those words rang in my ears everytime I took a cab. I hoped I would find something interesting enough for me to write down, something different from the dryness attached to Portharcourt . I got down from the cab and entered another cab going to Garrison; the front seat designed for only one person occupied two persons, me included. At that moment, I regretted sitting in front. I turned back to see a beautiful lady, light skinned very little makeup, her eyes enchanted me but I did not look too long so that I could avoid her giving me an inquisitive look. I tried to interest myself with my phone looking and looking at the few sign boards that were on the streets while a man was making a phone call; his voice progressed from low to high after which at his highest pitch, he says "Why she no dey even dey pik call sef! No be say she even fine sef! Na one wo wo tin like that o!... You think say I dey chase you ni!". His voice rang like an alarm in my ears, but everyone in the cab cared less, we all chuckled. He was in the spotlight now, the celebrity of the day, he had done that which violated the boring normalcy of portharcourt. He had cleared the stench boredom air and the saucy memory of him even after he shouted at the driver for not dropping him and turning back to get fuel stuck in my mind.

in seven years we fell

As a kid, we would be caned for breaking plates, we were expected to be careful with plates and hold them carefully, and when it gets broken, ears were deafened to 'it was a mistake' there was simply no mistake in you breaking plates. It was the rule they had laid down, the system that has been brought to open, that which you must obey, if broken, you get spanked till you cried and sulked. Most times, we would hide the broken plates from older siblings and parents, our eyes blinking incessantly, hearts beating at a fast rate, hands shaking; bribing younger ones not to tell, most times secrets are revealed and judgements are passed. As an adult, I realised I could break plates without fear not even a shaking finger, this time rules were different. It would be considered as a "mistake" because you have "grown" to be "careful". Everyone would simply look on like nothing happened. Everyday as we face life's issues, we would find those who are rare through their reactions to such issues. And so today my story begins with a deep respect for human feelings and need... To those who make promises and keep them, to those whose hearts are still soft and red beating in beautiful thumps, to those who would never give up on something they once believed in and to those who would never let the most valuable thing go because they have lost that which is less valuable... In seven years we fall.. As she stood in the darkness, she reminisced the past; the memories were fresh like a ripe fruit, it flashed in front of her eyes like the sun did when one came out of the dark. She paced up and down the room with thoughts en circling her; thoughts of what would have been, she imagined for what seemed like eternity what life would have been if she had married ike. He seemed rare, spotless and unimaginably not one of the so-called "men" who would do unbelievably ruthless and most times stupid things in a relationship. That was why they had dated for seven years in a hope that they would eventually get married someday or, perhaps she had that impression that she would marry him, but the last encounter with him did not seem so 'realistic'. She would not dare to think that Ike would call her one particular night and call out her name. It sounded flat, It felt awkward saying her real name. There were no sweet words like honey sweetheart, "Tomisin" just sounded strange, ordinary and unpleasantly annoying. It was unlike someone you have gotten used to to call you that... It was just one of the rules of a serious relationship. She knew why he was calling, but there was nothing to be said at that moment or at any time for that matter, her tongue was twisted; twisted out of words until her silence made him drop the phone. It was unfathomable, there was nothing to question either, it was rather puzzling why Ike would keep a secret for such a long time. Her world collapsed like a pack of cards when she figured out he had gotten married two days ago. She went from being numb, to shivering, to having a heart palpitation. It was all too heavy on her, she could not bring herself to dialling his number and questioning him. It was of no use now, he was MARRIED , there was no way out. Her silent sobs did not matter to him, all he did was find excuses and problems which he blamed her on. He said he was sorry even though he did not mean those words, she still found it hard to talk. She felt her heart break in all manners as she held on to her chest hoping it would not fall out of her body... She had thought she would die that day, she had also given up on love if it existed it was unimaginable... In seven years she had seen worse than she bargained, she was fighting a lost war, she was working to build up something that was not hers... Everything now was just a blur in her world now, she had other things to do, her children to attend to, her husband to love now because he saved her from the darkness she found in love just as he called out "ife" from the dark room she found herself in... How the heart creates space for someone else is somewhat miraculous.

magical thoughts two

In finding the things we want, we go the extra mile; jumping through un imaginable hoops, fighting fears and walking through heavy storms. But when we finally get that which we want, we suddenly lose interest and turn it away until we lose it... Sometimes if we realise that its worth it, we go through even much greater risk, other times we just let it go and suffer the consequences... 

As he glanced at her he could tell she had seen a lot, gone through a lot, suffered a lot. The pain was glaring right in her eyes even when she laughed heartily. He knew this because he had been there and even gone through worse, he wished to end her deep pain, he wished also that he could be relieved from the confusion she had brought upon him. So because she stared at the moon he stared too 'its beautiful...you're beautiful' he said with wide eyes; eyes that told a love tale. She could see it but she did not fall for it. She felt uneasy, hate boiling up inside, that was the last thing she needed, 'why are men so selfish' she thought. She concluded she would not involve herself with any man until she forgot completely. She was not ready and one of the things he loved while sitting there on that night, the breeze gently caressing their faces, the night lit with the stars was the fact that they were together silently watching the moon enclose its body in the warm caresses of the tree... 

the magical thoughts

In silence and in hope I saw the sparks, the sparks in the eyes of this little child shining like a clear crystal under the grip of the sun. It was the moon that did it, the moon caught in the arms of a tree. She looked hoping to find something more surprising but what more beauty is it can she ever think of asides such. For a while, she thought the tree was selfish; making the moon stay in its warm caress but it brought such unfathomable happiness to her. This past few days had not been pretty good for her, perhaps an unexpected heartbreak made her sink into deep thoughts; deeper than Hades and Gehena itself, she had hoped for it but not expected it. It was all too coincidental, all too unimaginable all too soon. Perhaps she had trusted more than she bargained, perhaps she was not willing to look forward to see deeper and better things, perhaps her life had been so used to having him around and curling up in his arms like a shivering child. But no more, it was gone like a light and like the absence of light, she was left in total darkness, total abandon and though she was not alone she was lonely. As she watched the moon leave the caressing grip of the tree, she thought to herself if she wanted more if she wanted to love again, but like a faulty car that would not start, she just could not bring herself into that form anymore. Perhaps she hoped the future would decide what would become of her and the thought of dating again or getting married nauseated her. Her world of falling in love was closing in, her wisdom now more than before grew and even greater was her experience.
‘ peace to peace to peace to unending peace to unending inner peace to…what exactly am I saying? what am I who am I why do I know so much why do I allow these to bother me? To peace to inner peace to unending victorious peace. We can never be best of friends again it is just impossible’ thoughts circled round her head like the many men that came around circling her with promises she never believed. Her heart raised unexpectedly again and she paused looking at the boy beside her. He, just like her was overwhelmed with this magical tree... Glancing once in a while at her and being quiet to savour the spirit that came with that night.

Being  here with my thoughts, I realised I had missed a lot of small things simple things, things that made up the real definition of life. I will be writing an unending story hopefully you all enjoy it. Happy new year