A Street in a City

Men. Raping grown babies
Using ladies as mistresses.
Tumbling dice
Cups filled to the brim
Eyes on sacks of crack.

Women. Forgotten.
Lengthened hate
From earth to quasars.
Prime target: other females.

Children. will. imitate.

Still

I don't want to be seen on the news for having a fight with a grizzly bear nor do I want to be a carcass growing slowly in the forest; that's the reason I ate my porridge earlier than most folks. My latest motto reads: 'grabbing LIFE by the horns.' Actually, it's not as easy as it seems. I peeped through a wall hole and saw it was bursting at the seams as everyone was present doing nothing and something. First, I wore a mask which matched the crowd's; seconded by playing the fool and this time, it had me crowded out of the crowd. It lasted for 1260 days. Coincidentally, it is the same time frame I decided to quit acting and started seeing LIFE as a dry run. Incredibly, something new happened: I got engaged to LIFE. Yes, you're permitted to call it a double entendre.

She's one heck of a shy lady whose heart is always in her mouth, more like on pins and needles. A funny one, too. When with her, Script is my sobriquet. She claimed to be an island because she is a lady. Also, she denied having a younger sister. This, I know, is a lie. I know her younger sister lives, and the cultural experience engulfed therein creates thoughts of treason! The good news is, I'm with LIFE, and I'll continually stick to my LIFE's Script like paper clips (hands) and coffee stains (flaws). We'll get through times.

Still enervated, though.

I recalled being trapped in a maze like a lab rat – the labyrinthine corridors. It developed to a burning feeling in my soul. I’m (a) human(e) which means I could have generated heat-->steel-->(insert here). Instead, I got smitten by mom’s maxim which says my hate shouldn’t be heavier than a war plane. Now I’m all about building a stone castle out of thin dry-wall.

On or completing a task is never a feather in my cap, for there’s more to life. Having written that, I'm still not enrolled in any materialistic course, of course; and never will I allow it be a locust causing hocus-pocus, pulling side-might just to make me lose focus. All that thomases is welcomed. I was one, having a matched-up DNA. It's a new switch, easy to differentiate between day and night, two subjects that are few and far between; and I intend to keep that way.

Tough Decipherment..

Like some Nas', Talib Kweli's, Mos Def's among other great MCs' songs, I'm yet to decipher the entire meaning entailed in this unfinished song titled, "Dimethyltryptamine" by Jay Electronica.. And yes, I'm going to go whole hog, and know every meaning..

My Pre-Inception

I'm yet to grow a wisdom tooth. Call it what you want, but my mind's eye calls it "My Pre-inception"- which plays an immense role in my life. Funnily, I haven't even gotten to the third stage; yet, I feel as though I'm carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. All hails to my friends and foes. My concern happened to be yours in a way or two. Honestly, I was at my wit's end when the ache was first felt. I'm a brave black young man with short hair but the pain, in a way, curled my hair. Of course, I had a sickening solution, one that has no good effect after all. For some reasons beyond by ken, the solution to the problem always flies in the face of common knowledge. Yep, I ignore it like a billion times in a second. And to say I'm not going to advance to the third stage hangs by a hair. I mean, at least I have the presence of mind to indulge honesty before embarking on the next stage.

An intimidating scene: having a mind like a steel trap - trapped in a jealous gaol - much like a bravura, crazy-crowned from laymen's perspective; and having bats in my belfry from contemporary intellectuals' perspective.

Currently, I'm in a positive frame of mind as everything is semi-okay. 'Keeping a cool head' and 'Letting my brain enjoy its vacation' are my long mottoes. So, when next you see me knit my brow, feel free to think it's due to the sun's rays or act as an unpaid intern liaison with modern-day thinkers. For I know you will never know what I know about you, let alone know a thing about me. In essence, you don't know me, I doubt if you would in the foreseen future, and I'm wrapped in the mood of optimism that until you know you, you'll never know me. If this doesn't make sense, at least know that our minds cannot have a meeting. Not now.

Love and Hate

I missed you
Once.
Your absence docked
like a spaceship on a new planet
Voyager is what I was

Not anymore

Used to be the wannasee before my eyes
Now
You are:

(Like the thousands of bacteria in a drop of water;
Like the somethingorother in a speck of blood;
Like the million and one living things in the air around me)

Invisible and Irritating.

I read:
When we love the earth,
we are able to love ourselves more fully.

Until now, I used to believe this.

Water; Blood; Air
These, you represent.
I loved you, and then I hate you.
Now I love you

Selfishly and unfaithfully

My Body and Mind's Soliloquies

Hands shaking
Paralyzed handwriting

Pause.. Wait..

Yesterday, half a decade gone
Yes, but..
Hush!
Prior sacrifice disregarded
Time flies; I flew (within)
Shame.. please, no eye contact
But we are one
Smartass, count me out

Almost midnight, half a decade's prologue
Good luck!

A Friend I Had

I met him on solid ground.
A funny, focused, and ridiculous clown.
Deep to Davy Jones’ locker,
an ardent follower of street soccer;
balls present when he is.
And his body type,
one of a kind
putting you to a quiz.

Gnome.

Like a visualized quay,
We were boats tightly tied
hoping we’d make history
and put an adage to sleep
"20 kids can't be together for 20 years"
It was progressing..
Although times were hard,
we had transparent destinies.
Very vivid,
like being in a sun lounge.

Then he died.

Oje's Enigmatic Encounter

It was a time of yet another excitement. Although Oje had slept in snatches, half an hour at most; the fatigue was doing tricks with his vision. He’d always relished the idea of getting up early so he dragged himself up. He read already, his paper was ready to be turned in, in every breast captured the lifestyle of a partial student-hood; a book-bag comprised two pens, two handouts, a notebook, a textbook, and a novel.

At 5:45am he grabbed his bag, fortified himself with a quick drink and stepped out. The outside possessed light air with accomplishing feeling, like the electricity of a storm which just burst. The wind sighed; birds twittered; the trees stretched their leaves for good morning hugs; and every other promise hovering the air of a delicious Thursday morning was in effect. Except one thing: he wore a summer garb. Like many previous days, the weather wronged the weatherman who left him hanging his head and accepting the notion that the entire day was going to be hot.

With arms akimbo, he squinted up at the sky to calculate the leftover night. A vague exposure revealed the clouds scudding westward. Clutching himself, leaning forward against the wind, he walked down the street, and halfway was a woman making sure her children's seat-belts were fastened; and a couple of blocks, a swarthy lady wearing jewelries [not gaudy] made of beads in beautiful and colorful combination. Both had one thing in common - a green-white-green bumper sticker stuck to their respective automobiles.

Ravishing people, he thought and cracked a smile.

He glanced at his wrist watch and murmured, “Damn! I’m dead!” He ran for some couple of seconds, sometimes trotted, cautious of the foggy and ghostly gray atmosphere. He stopped and started walking again, though, in a faster pace. Suddenly, he felt something sour in his throat, a faint sourdough bread taste. “I hope I make it on time.. ain’t got time for Dr. B’s drama.”

He finally made it to class. He was three minutes late. Gently, he opened the door and made an impatient motion with his eyes which swept toward the class. His teeth were gnashing, shoulders twitching, bearing same level as his ears thereby making him seemed as though he had no neck. A success, he thought, but not for long as the reversal wasn’t. The door made an irritating sound.

Dr. B. curiously stared at him. The squeaking door had distracted his teaching. A little fury covered his face: nostrils raised, and forehead wiggled. "Okay?"

Oje chanted, half moaning his words, not speaking them. His breath came in quick, short gasps, with an indrawn “umn!” between each rapid word. “What had happened was-”

“What?!”

Lost in his thought, he mumbled, “huh.h”

“Excuse me?!”

"I mean nothing." He was conscious of his own voice, the tone and language.

“Good.” He picked up a marker. The man didn't play that. He was a strict guy who loved to see his students thumb out beads of sweat from their foreheads even in cold temperature. Occasionally, Oje had [silently] mimicked him when he repeated phrases like “Don’t bother to show up when you’re five minutes late; otherwise, you’re a mere scarecrow taking up space.”

Oje spotted a seat in the middle of the class, sat down and sighed, almost simultaneously. He had no sooner understood the discussion than he had started wandering. He’d heard the professor mentioned Nigeria. With captured wrinkle in his face, he sat gazing into space, trying to inventory the event unfolding in his stomach. “Nigeria was mentioned? Negatively or..," he muttered.

“Okay,” he said. He cleared his throat and picked up a ballpoint pen. He was a tall, healthy man in his early fifties; his hair freely sprinkled with gray, dressed in navy corduroy trousers, a white collar shirt and slipped on pair of half-moon reading glasses. "So, this is what we experience today. American Literature since 1865 has been this way."

"Is it just here in the States or other countries of the world?” a student asked.

"I'd say almost every country,” he said. He adjusted his glasses and gazed at Oje as though he’d wrongly done something. Well, yes, he thought. “Like I was saying before interrupted I know Nigeria to be one of the few countries" he stressed, "There, you're most likely to witness world renowned playwrights and griots like Wole Soyinka."

This smote the class. Oje, on his part, was overcome with a feeling akin to awe. He was at peace. Not just peace. No more wandering. He removed his left hand that had been cupping his belly and freed his right hand that had been carrying his jaw.

Oje figured it'd feel good hearing it again. He grunted under his breath and pretended not to have heard him clearly. “I’m sorry. What country? Nige-”

“-Yes. Exactly,” he said sharply. He lifted his chin, his eyes semi-closed, and immediately, widely opened when he noticed a gleam of happiness on Oje’s face. He turned to him. “What’s funny?"

“Oh me?” he asked surprisingly.

“No, me” he scoffed.

“Well then.” He stood, snickering. He was ignorant of even the most fundamental rule, which defined his rights and responsibilities as well as established system of procedures for dealing with students charged with violations of such rules. Much of the impetus for this act came from a silence after his mind had gone back and forth to the time when he saw the Nigerian women; the green-white-green bumper stickers; and jewelries. And now this, he thought. “What a coincidence! Today is Nigeria’s Independence Day anniversary” he stressed, “It's a good feeling to see Nigeria acknowledged for a job well done, even though in countless amount her heart has been torn by foreigners with grief feelings and selfish interests. And stereotypes. And a torrent of criticism” he stuttered, “And-”

“-Go on,” he said sharply. His wrinkled eyebrows were upwards. “This is the reason we’re all here.” Meanwhile, majority of the students in the class were stunned. They’d never seen Oje expressed himself that way. Dr. B., Oje thought, was cool at least that time.

“Nigeria is a woman. A real woman. Although born in October, she should be treated like a November cotton flower - with respect. Nigeria is a woman. She’s no white elephant. She has potentials. Yes, I said potentials.” He looked at him and grinned. “I think I’m done.”

“Well said.” He smiled. One student clapped, and then others joined. He looked at the other students and then him. “Well said”

“Thank you.” He wasn't wearing his smiley face at that point in time. He was serious and at the same time nodding his head, showing appreciation. He sat down, sighed, shut his eyes and escorted his mind to another realm of thought. This time he pictured Nigeria as a woman. He sensed her pride for him. He saw her wept for very pleasure when she felt his little arms clasping her; his hard, ruddy cheeks pressed against her own glowing cheeks; and the look into his face with hungry eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. He opened his eyes, cracked a smile and said within him, “Good job but this doesn't mean I'll stick to complacency. I’ve got more work to do.”