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I want to write a story for you, my shy muse on the park bench every Monday at 1.30pm.
I watch your eyes narrow in suspicion when I hand you the final script.
I watch the heavily-penciled brow rise as you read the first line…then pause.
You recognise your name.
You try to fight the small smile that pulls at the corner of your lips when you see the flattering description I have used on you. You keep reading, immersed in a story that would soon play out.
I am forgotten, a side show. A messenger.
It’s just you and the story.
You pause and I detect the tension in your shoulders.
You look up at me, almost angry.
“What the fuck is this shit?” You ask almost angrily and I smile.
“Finish the story” I reply gently, pointing to the papers you’re now holding tightly in your hands.
I watch you battle your curiosity, eyeing me balefully as you go back to reading.
This time, you don’t read word for word.
Your eyes skitter fast over words, as if afraid to dwell on them.
Your hands begin to tremble visibly, but this time you do not stop.
You have forgotten about my existence again.
It takes me a few seconds to realise you have not noticed the tears streaking down your well-powdered face.
My fingers itch to lean close and wipe your tears, watch them glisten on my gnarly fingers before I taste them, tongue obscenely lapping to taste the sweet, sweet, salt of your tears.
I wait, fingers clasped tightly together. Your lips tremble and my body, with it.
At that moment, I can see it happening just as I had written.
I can see it happen and it excites me too much.
“This is horrible” you whisper, suddenly throwing the papers at me.
But you do not get up to leave.
You bury your face in your palm and a great sob finds its way out of the confines of your throat.
I close my eyes, trembling, pleasure coursing through my old bones as the sound of your torn soul teases my ears.
I can almost feel it taking effect.
In my trembling, my stooped back begins to straighten. Clasped fingers begin to loosen.
I dare not open my eyes, lest I break the magic.
A moan of anguish escapes your lips and mine part, a young lover on the cusp of her first taste of pleasure.
I feel familiar tugs in me; on me.
Suddenly you stop, gasping.
My eyes pop open just as fast to catch the look of horror on your face,
You stare at your wrinkled palms in confusion.
Your eyes are drawn to me and your eyes widen…in fear?
You stop, your suddenly gnarly fingers trying to open the clasp on your bag.
Shakily, you pull out a small compact mirror and with effort, manage to open it.
I know what you see and it makes me smile.
I almost want to stroke your grey, straggly hair.
I almost want to stroke the crows feet around your electrifying grey eyes.
“What the fuck did you do to me!” You scream in indignation but the theatrics is spoilt by your now weak vocal chords suddenly wheezing.
I smile fondly at you, patting your arms as I stand.
“Keep the story” I whisper and a little laugh bubbles in my throat.
I suddenly feel the weight of your hair on my head. I run experimental fingers through them and almost sigh in pleasure at the feel.
Just as I had imagined.
I watch you wear my features and I almost feel sad.
But the energy I feel in my bones quickly dispels my sympathy.
I love your skin.
I run youthful fingers across my face, stroking my full cheeks.
Your old fingers suddenly claw on my clothes.
“What have you done! Give me back my body!”
I forcefully prise your fingers off.
“Don’t be a spoilsport” I mutter, standing away from you.
“But…I need to get back to work”
This time I cannot control the laughter.
“Not today, you don’t”
I put what I hope is a comforting arm on your bony shoulders.
“Soon. You’ll get it back soon”
I grin, your smile sitting smugly on my face before I walk off.
I’m kind enough to leave my walking stick for you beside the park bench.
You’d be needing it.

Maiden Voyage

Slowly,  they march
Bare feet on carpet of leaves
Lanterns, yellow pinpricks of light
Face whitened with nzu
Trembling lips betraying the resolute hardness in their eyes
Young chests, wrapped in red clothes, yet to feel the weight of breasts, slowly rising and falling with every breath.
Heads bald, shorn of hair.

Slowly, they march.

Alone, no guide.
Walk to the end of the path, they were told.
Branches caress bare arms, leaving traces of moisture, verdant tears.
They say nothing, silence enveloping them like cotton burial cloth.

The forest is silent.
Figures flit in the tall, tall trees.
A cold finger strokes a scalp.
A flinch but nothing is said.
Omu tightly clamped between teeth.

Deeper they go.
Until it is the end of the path.
A tall tree in the middle of a clearing.
They kneel at the foot of an orji tree, hands grasping its hard bark

It comes down.
They hear the slithering first.
Rustling branches, breaking the silence like a thunder crack.
Long nails scratching on rough bark.
Something wet falls on a bald head.
Then the smell.
Prime smell of virgin earth.
Eyes are tightly shut.
Fingers like twigs touch their heads.
A blessing.
One word: Umu m
My children.
Slowly, they rise.
Step back.
Mist gathers at their feet.
Out of the mists, things rise.
Shapes, forms.
Long limbed.
Long limbs encircling.
Pulling them to their spots.
Feet sink slowly into suddenly mushy earth.
Arms are pulled,  till they are stretched apart.
Like crosses.

Slowly, root tendrils burrow into feet,
Tearing into skin, sinking into bones.
Mouths open to scream
Yet, silence.


Where stood girls
Now stand trees.

She lost her children
Madness drove her
To the dark Ohia
Every year, she calls to them.
Every year, they answer.

Ore to Benin

Be born again, be born again, the Preacher kept screaming into her ears, standing directly in front of her. She rolled her eyes and went back to reading her book.
His voice kept filtering into her thoughts and soon she found herself grinding her teeth to hide her irritation. It did not help that the woman sitting near her kept shouting AMEN! to everything he said.
Why couldn’t he carry his preaching to a church and let everyone travel in peace,  she wondered peevishly. She raised her head and using her fingers, combed her weave where resting it on the headboard of the chair had matted it.
As if looking for a target,  he pounced on her singular movement.
“Some girls of today! They worship the devil with their hair and nails! Queens of the coast! Agbara Persia! May their powers be destroyed in Jesus name!”
The woman sitting next to her directed her loud amen to her, staring at her as if waiting to be confronted.
The girl snorted under her breath, ignoring them.
“I cast and bind the Devil laughing at our prayers in Jesus name!”
The amens were so loud, it woke up the snoring man seated on the opposite row. He banged his head, startled and with an annoyed shouted asked the Preacher to shut up.
“Watch and Pray so that you will not fall! Stop sleeping!” the Preacher shouted,  to roars of laughter and Amens.
The man hissed, eyeing the short man clutching a tattered bible to his chest, clad in a suit two sizes too big, a sweating, preaching caricature.
Deciding he wasn’t worth his time, he closed his eyes and promptly went back to sleep.
She groaned inwardly, swearing to herself never to transport her goods via Chisco ever again.
The hallelujahs continued and Amens followed until he mentioned donation and suddenly the woman sitting beside her went quiet, suddenly absorbed by the rolling scenery outside.
Unable to help herself, she turned. “Shey you no go donate? Una wey sabi scream AMEN. Oya na!”
The woman eyed her, hissing theatrically as she mumbled about girls who didn’t know have respect for their elders.
Finally, the bus rolled to a stop and eager to be on her way,  she jumped down and with help, pulled her box out of the carriage.
Good riddance.
Soon, she was home and eager to look through her purchases, she opened her box.
And screamed.
Lined neatly, were heads of three children, each in a clear bag.

He got home and eager to check his purchases, he opened his box.
Lined neatly were bundles and bundles of weaves.
The Preacher looked at the box in confusion.

Voyeurs of Death

The sawing and spraying of dust was punctuated by the laughter of the boys sitting at a corner, heads bent down in gossip. The Master had just left with an irate customer whose gesticulation made me giggle internally as I watched the sharp-tongued tyrant reduced to mumbling and apologies.
“Haaay! I saw one that his head was just open yakata!” one of the boys at the corner shouted, spreading his arms to buttress his point. I frowned. What were they talking about today? The clique always had a topic of discussion; the last one being the voluptuous girl that sold oranges along the street. Lade, the oldest of the bunch had managed to successfully convince the boys that he had licked her orange most vigorously, several times. The other boys had looked at him with admiration so undisguised, i snorted with laughter.
“Wetin?” Lade had asked me, as they all turned to regard me, the odd, silent apprentice
Memories of seeing the particular orange girl slap the lust out of Lade because of his attempted buttocks grabbing flashed in my head and for a second I had toyed with exposing him for the liar that he was.
“Nothing” I had murmured as an afterthought, facing my work, the small smile never leaving my lips.
“Blood just full everywhere yakpaaaaa!”
Another exclamation brought me out of my reverie.
Curiosity getting the better of me, I sidled up to them, temporarily abandoning my work.
“Ah! E get one man wey Army shoot for my front! Him belle burst open! All him stomach just commot, dey drag for floor. He no die o. He just dey pack all him belle back inside!”
I saw the fascination written boldly on the faces of the listeners; eyes glinting bright, bodies quivering with an almost erotic feeling of anticipation. I could have sworn I saw one of the new boys lick his dry lips, as if waiting to eat a particularly appetizing dish.
Repulsion and fascination held me to my position, as the story teller continued to recount of the man he saw who died by disembowelment.
“Ah! Hin get one wey i see for Warri when i still small!” quipped another boy, a wide grin on his face, glad to be the sudden center of attention. “He just tie rope for ceiling tie rope for hin neck come dey do like fish wey dem don commot for wata! If you see him face ehn! E come swell like bread wey dem put inside tea! Tongue come turn black like snake. Blood just dey everywhere”
The boys all snapped their fingers, Lade spitting out on the sandy floor and roughly covering it up with sawdust.
“Na wa o…”
“People fit die anyhow”
Although they murmured platitudes, I saw the secret shine of enjoyment in their eyes; their morbid curiosity egged on by the mystery of Death. I cleared my throat.
“I don see person die”
Suddenly all attention turned to me and for a second, i regretted opening my mouth. I was silent suddenly repulsed by the hungry look in their eyes as they collectively looked at me like the Messiah.
“Talk na!” one of the urged and I swallowed.
Taking my hesitation as a sign of the heaviness and morbidity of my disclosure, they drew even closer, necks craning like vultures waiting for a dying animal to give up its final breath before swooping in for a feast.
“For Aba where I dey stay I see one man wey just fall for road…” I paused
“Ehen ehen…wetin come happen?” One of them urged, gesticulating wildly, his fingers slightly trembling with the need to know.
I looked at them in confusion. “He fall. Hin come die. Dem talk say na heart attack. Just like that o”
There was a sudden change of atmosphere, like air being let out of a balloon. A look of what would have best been described as utter disgust marred their faces and for a second, I felt the need to be in fear for my life,their anger translating to bunched fists and sneering mouths.
Lade let out a loud hiss, diffusing the sudden tension, prompting other boys to turn away from me.
“I think say na beta tin he wan talk sef” I heard one of them mutter.
“Idiot pikin”
“Omo Igbo. Olodo nonsense. Omo ale jati jati”
They sniggered while I watched their backs in amusement.
Without another word, I went back to work, musing on just what they found so exciting about Death’s mysteries.
I guess it’s ‘sweeter’ when you’re looking in from the outside.
Sometimes, I imagine taking a saw to Lade’s neck ever so slowly while they watch, drenched to the bone in his blood, incapable of doing anything else.
Would they find Death so exciting then? Probably not.
A small smile pulls at the corners of my lips as I saw another piece of wood.
I just may. I chuckle softly to myself.
After all, I’m no stranger to Death.
I’ve administered it before.



So, I haven’t been here in what feels like A MILLENIUM!
A lot of things really… but no excuses. GOMEN!
Although my schedule is unforgiving i’ll be trying my best to write one a week (or two weeks)
No promises. 😦

Till then,



The hills sit and wait for us
Like old men,  their backs bent
Under the weight of age, 
Time immemorial.
Their beards,  dense foliage
Of hubris-like greenery
Cover their near nakedness

They sit and watch as we climb
Our weary feet, wet
With our tears.
Black, with our sins.
They bleed.
Red, a testament
To our frailty.
And yet, we climb.
Naked as we came. 
Pendulous breasts hanging
Shrunked penises like forgotten stubs.
The unformed.
We’re Adam and Eve.
We do not notice.
Our only aim is to climb.
Some of us have forgotten
Why we climb.
Lost in the madness of scrambles
And brambles.
It can be said we have no purpose
Yet our instincts push us
And we go on our mad dashes.

When we’re near,
The hills would sing to us
And welcome us.
Cold, aged arms embrace,
Guide us.
And we shall lay on the altars,
A living sacrifice.
Our eyelids fluttering to a close with relief
Our dry, mud blood-caked lips expelling
Last breath.
Lying there,
As we surrender
Under piles of bones
That are our brothers.

The Journey through Life
It is called by many.

I’ve been missing. I know.
Long story.
I write something every week but I’m never sure if I like it.
So I have a piling draft section.

It’s Halloween month and from next week Thursday, leading up to 31st, I’d be doing a lil somn somn.
Not a rewrite like last year.
But I’d be providing stories.

I do hope you’d stick around.

Have a lovely weekend!


Nana Yei motions for the midwife and points at the child.
The midwife takes the baby away from the nursing bosom of Ndana who protests weakly as the child’s mouth is removed from her pendulous breasts. Perhaps too tired from the pushing and groaning that brought forth the child, she does nothing more asides struggle to sit up and watch her baby given to the old woman in apprehension written all over her face.
Nana sits in front of the hearth, the heat warming her gnarled hands, highlighting the grim look on her etched, aged face. The midwife presents the baby and she accepts, cradling her head gently.
“Ah…” she whispers immediately, eyebrows knitted. “You again…”
She pokes the child in several places with bony fingers.
“Nana what is it?” Ndana whispers softly to her grand mother, her eyes fixed on the child illuminated by the fire.
The sense of foreboding in the room thickens and curdles, turning the room chilly, causing her to shiver.
Nana moves away from the fire, her chair scraping on the floor as she turns to Ndana. Her face is hidden in the shadows, inscrutable.
“Kill her or be killed” she croaks with such finality, Ndana and the midwife are jolted.
Ndana gasps, as the first trickle of many tears to come begin to form at the corner of her eyes.
“If only it were easy to dump her into this fire” Nana mumbles to herself, still cradling the baby, staring intently at the guileless face of the slumbering child.
Shaking, Ndana stands up. “No…”
Her face contours into a mask of pain momentatily, a reminder of the ordeal she had just done through bringing the child Nana just condemned to die, into the world.
Gritting her teeth, she takes tentative steps till reaches Nana and with jerky movement, snatches the baby away from her.
The baby kicks in protest, toothless mouth opening the beginning of a cry. Ndana cradles her, murmuring softly and stroking the soft cheeks until the baby quietens down, tiny fist grabbing at her thumb.
Ndana smiles as teardrops fall on the child’s forehead as if in anointing, running down into her thick head of hair.
All this while, Nana turns her scrutiny back to the fire, fingers fiddling restlessly against each other.
“She has to go” she whispers sadly.
Ndana looks up, her coffee brown eyes flashing. “Over my dead body! Not this one! No!”
“Over her dead body she says” Nana gestures at the fire as if in conversation, chuckling softly. “Then she will die. By that child’s hand. And it would really be over her dead body”
Ndana walks back to bed, choking on a small cry as her arms shake, holding the child to her chest as if to protect it.
“You’re wrong” she whispers fiercely to her Nana, the seer. “You’re wrong”
Nana sighs.
“If only it were that easy. I want to be wrong, Ndana. If only I can unravel the threads, de-tangle it maybe? Undo what has been done? Set it straight? No. Words spit out like saliva cannot be swallowed. I have said it as I have seen…”

Nana’s words would ring in her ears even hours after she’s left.
She would forget them but they would ring in her ears again, moments before her death.
Ndana would smile up at the face of her wild-eyed daughter, wielding a knife.
“You came seven times” she would whisper. “But seven times, I killed you. Nana would have made it eight but…”
The knife would plunge into her repeatedly.
She would gasp at the pain. “I had to…have you. You would…kill me but…ah…I had… to hav-…”

The eight year old girl would wake up on her feet,wondering why her fingers are wrapped tight around the handle of a knife.
She would stare with incomprehension at the bed and in seconds a blood curdling scream would crawl its way out of her throat as she realizes the soaking mass of blood and flesh on the bed is wearing her mother’s clothes.
“I told you not to kill her!” she would scream.
“Fate, my child. She was fated to die as her mother died. Just as you will die…” a voice, only she can hear, would whisper.
“Why! Why! Mama! Why!”
“A son. Get a son…”
The girl would drop the knife, falling to her knees.
“Alas, it is a cruel game the gods play with your family. Demand a son and yet, cause the daughters to kill the mothers. Unless the mothers kill the daughters first… Cruel game of the gods…”


This story was originally posted up on If you follow me on twitter, (@Weird_oo), you’d have noticed the links that pop up every morning that are not from here. Lol.
Musedminds is a literary blog and liking the idea, i decided to join the partnership with other amazing people.
Whenever you have the time (i.e now) do pop in there and give it a look about eh?

That being said, do have a lovely weekend.



The world ended and we didn’t notice.

It wasn’t as the prophets had said; with trumpeting blasts and floating bodies in the skies, raptured.

If it had ended that way,  wouldn’t we have been better off?

Our world fell apart around our ears and we never noticed.

Earthquakes, droughts, famine and we never noticed.

It wasn’t happening to us; We forgot about it.

The Earth sagged in fatigue and yawned.

Her gaping mouth swallowed remote cities.

Sinkholes. Floods.

Japan was far away.  Apparently, ChristChurch wasn’t even a name of a church!

It didn’t matter anyway because they were far away.

Wars intensified;  tribal, religious.

We sat in our moral couches, condemning acts of violence;

Forgetting everything the next day.

It didn’t matter. What is Yemen anyway? An Asian cuisine?

The Earth’s knee got weak and she shook, unsteady.

Buildings collapsed in China; In Bangladesh.

They’re populous. They’d get by. Life moves on.

We woke up to news of tornadoes and tsunamis.

We did our Samaritan duties and donated.

We thank whatever deity we wanted for our safety.

We forgot about it.

The Earth was weak and her waters were poisoned.

Some drank and died inside; moral decadence

School shootings; Drive-by shootings; Cinema hall shootings.

We watched on tv, from the safety of our homes,

The wide, deranged eyes of the deadened.

Their frothing mouths as they spewed hate.

We blamed it on Something; Race. Religion. Video Games.

We forgot about it.

Then it came to our streets.

Our neighbor was shot by a man who didn’t like Pakistanis.

We were shocked.

The next day saw revenge butcherings in broad daylight light.

We stood outside for the first time and gazed at ourselves in dismay.

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned”

The world ended a long time ago and we never noticed.

We hid our heads in sand, believing ourselves to be safe.

The Earth died and is decaying.

She falls apart piece by piece and more cities disappear.

The wonders of our modern worlds are going.

The Leaning Tower at Pisa finally fell.

The Pyramids disappeared.

Whatever happened to our Lady Liberty?

The World ended long ago; how come we never noticed?

The Earth is dead and with her, we die.

Now, we wait for our turn on the guillotine.

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned”


(Image culled from The Princess In Another Castle)


This strayed into my head some hours ago, due to recent events.
Decided to write as the words came so pardon the rambling.
I’ve always loved the poem The Second Coming by WB Yeats so couldn’t resist throwing it in.
Wanna know something funny?
I think the World ended a long time ago.


Day 10

Hey! Today, I’ve got @coolprincee in the house with some of his poetry. Been having a lot of poetry here eh? Lol.
Anyway, READ!



I stare at him.

I see the reflection of a broken man,

scars on his face,

cuts deep into his soul.

Pale looking face,

seemingly emotionally frigid,

but I can tell he’s hurting deep inside.

His lips trying to move.

I hear the stories of painful past.

l stare into his dark eyes;

there’s a darkness in his soul.

his nostrils drawing in air,

life is suffocating.

I connect with him;

his pain is too much to feel.

I empathise with him.

Transfer aggression,

I can feel his rage clenched in my fists.

Impulsively, I throw a punch.

He shatters into a thousand pieces.

All I now feel is my blood soaked knuckle.

I see him in broken pieces,

In the broken MIRROR.


Life’s a Bitch.
She defiled me in my young innocence, held tight her hand on my mouth so I couldn’t scream. I tried to struggle but she was way stronger than me, effortless she ripped my clothes apart and in the process, tore my flesh with her nails, leaving scars of her lustful violence on my skin and mind.
I lay there weak and helplessly watching as she stripped to reveal her nakedness.
Pounced heavily on my small body she did, as she moaned loudly, her sounds of ecstasy.
I struggled beneath just so I could breathe.
Between my legs, I felt the her warmth as trickles of love juice spilled on my groin. A brief pause and large exhale signalled her sadomasochistic orgasm.
The evil deed has been done.
The smirk on her face soon changes to a mean look of disgust as she stares at a weak me, panting heavily and totally exhausted from her sinful act.

Tired, weak, aching and half naked, I’m thrown into a the cold world.
I fear no evil other than the one I just encountered for that which didn’t kill me only made me stronger.
I have become stronger from the force of craving vengeance, my blood embittered and thirsty for sweet revenge.
Over the years,  I’ve grown into a worthy adversary with matching strength to confront my sworn enemy.

Behold the hour of vengeance which I have sought after has finally come.

I have come face to face with Life again.
I clench my already drawn sword, ready to draw blood and my veins, visible swollen and ready to bleed. My face is painted with the dark colours of anger.
Just before I let down my sword down to strike like a lighting bolt to the ground, I9 realise within the space of two heart beats there’s still a part of the once young innocent one in me.
The look in her eyes is an attempt to conceal pity and remorse within her soul. She has seen the monster she made of me.
One forgiveness and I have ceased to become to monster in me.
Overwhelmed, a paroxysm of emotions rushing to my heart, I loose grip of my sword as I drop down on my knees and loosen my heavy armour to lighten my burden.

It is time to move on.
I’m heading down a new path, where the sun is brighter; where flowers blooms through each seasons and where the wind whistles so it can whisper to my soul.


Hope you liked that! Do let @coolprincee know what you think!

I’ll see you tomorrow!

Onwu Nwata

Today is Wednesday! (Just in case you tend to forget what day it is like me) and today, we have another writer gracing this blog.
Larries and genrumen, Say hello to @Achi_va.
Hope you enjoy!


They smiled while we cried.
We went hungry, they laughed at us starve.
Our needs fed their egos; we were lead out like errant sheep to the fields.
They butchered us like rams; we were after all less human.

‘Bring the infidels here, let their skin crawl.
Let us gaze upon their diseased skulls.’

I long for the days of joy, and nights when we watched the stars flicker.

To the emptiness we were condemned.
Fields of hate cultivated in our hearts.
They must never see my tears.
Carrying artillery twice my fragile frame,
Thrust in the path of blood, I saw the devil eye to eye.
He was black, clad in uniform and wore camouflage just like me.

Oh ye son of Solomon, where art thou riches?
Where art thou maidens?
Where art thou crown?
I was scared beyond measure, shivering where I stood.
Could he be talking to me?
Was I the object of his scorn?
Bastard child of the most high,
Thee have lost thy place.
Cast away from father’s presence;
Ye are nothing but gentile to him now.

My feet were sore, my soul frightened.
We were children forced to fight the war of men.
The battlefield was stained with the blood of children.
I heard war cries in the distance.
‘Screeches of pain’ he groaned in the sand.
One leg gone, one arm gone and yet he could still smile.
His name was Ikenna; ‘I will be a doctor one day’ he’d once told me.
He dreamed of a life beyond the war; I saw the life drain from his eyes.

‘Amobi get under the bed, whatever happens, don’t come out’
I watched as they slid into her, one, two, three and four.
I counted them as they took turns, I could see her and she me.
I saw it in her eyes, emotions words couldn’t convey.
She whispered; I couldn’t hear her feeble attempts at speech.
They left and took her eyes with them, those of her heart and those on her face.
She no longer looked upon the world; she saw the world for what it truly was.
She died in my arms.
It was then I decided I would die for BIAFRA.

We fought for freedom they said,
For they butchered our brothers and raped our sisters till they bled air.
They fed our mothers to dogs and the phallus of father to son.
All will be well; we just have to kill our enemies.
The world is our oyster; we can fuck it up however we please.
I am the voice of an ignorant generation.
We are one they say,
But can unity be forged on the blood of infants?
I am man now, but I will never forget.


Ramblings of a sedated eunuch,
The rants of the evil godmother,
The ideas that come to my mind when heart is asleep.

Tread carefully child for the path is one of poisonous thorns and sinking sand.
The purple berries, though shining bright in the morning, will turn venomous serpents at night.
My heart needs succour and my soul respite.

The paranoia eases to the surface, I am terrified by things I cannot see.
I inhale hope and yet puke uncertainty.

I see obscenities in my sleep; they’re why I never go to bed.
For I see most clearly when my eyes are shut.
I hate me with menacing rage.

My anger will destroy me; you will be there to see it.
My self-pity will engulf my senses, yes I know it.
I keep looking over my shoulder; my senses are such a mess.
I touch when I want to smell.
See when I want to hear.
Hear when I need to touch.
I see enemy and call friend.
I tried to get a whiff of the gunpowder and found myself here.


I recently read Chimamanda’s ‘HALF OF A YELLOW SUN’. I know I know; my last is epic shey? Hold your horses’ people. These are excerpts of some of the thoughts that filtered through the pages of the book while I read. I am Yoruba by the way, not that it matters.
Rise above the shackles of ethnicity.


Decided to add the disclaimer that came with the story because I liked it. Lol.
Hope you enjoyed that!
Some sad news people! Phantom Pages didn’t win the Best Writing blog at the Nigerian Blog Awards. Lol.
Better luck next year!
Congratulations to all the winners! The Sarcastic Centre that gave me reasons to laugh this year, I love you guys running it. Bless your souls for the deserved win!

Might not be writing anything till January. Well not stories anyway.
Was going to do a series for December but decided to shelve the thought.
For December, I’ll probably do a 30 days challenge. People tell me what they want me to talk about everyday and I’ll write on it.
They’ll be my views of course.
If you want me to rant, give me rant topics!
Anyway, I will let you all know when the time comes.

Sick. Got the flu. 😦
Anybody wanna come over with chicken soup?
Tee *sneeze*Hee


Special Announcement

How are we doing today? Moody?
Good good.
I’ve got great news for you!
(No, you’re still not HIV negative. -_-)
Phantom Pages has been nominated under the Best Book, Poetry or Writing blog!
I’ll give an early thanks to everyone who brought us this far!
Now, the real voting begins and as usual, I need your help!
*Insert cute smiley*
If you feel Phantom Pages deserves this ‘award’, please go to ->
2. Enter your name and email.
3. Vote for Phantom Pages under the Best Writing section. Vote for others too!
(Sarcastic Centre for Humour!)
4. Send this off and you’ll receive an email asking for confirmation.
5. PLEASE PLEASE click on the link or your vote won’t be counted!

I’ll really appreciate it if you could pass this on every one you know.
*insert another cute smiley*

But wait o.
This award sef sef. What are the winners  getting?
I vote for a year’s supply of small chops. (puff puff, lamb chops, samosa, mince pies, chicken bites)
I know, I am a foodie. -.-

Going to be late for work.
Yay! \(^.^)/
Please don’t forget to vote for Phantom Pages!
Also, a story is coming up on Wednesday; my Poe journey.
If you haven’t, read the former post Red Eye and comment!

Thank you very much for your time.
P.S: I am looking for a houseboy. Must serve Mr breakfast in bed.
Apply Within. (Seshuaaaaa)

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