​Girls Like You

Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me.

They end up with trust-fund womanizers,

Society weddings and genteel emptiness.

And when their entitled husband’s mistress,

Get dealt a bitter blow by their hands, they wonder

What has happened to the little girl

Who once tamed fire and rode winds

Of ideals and improbabilities.

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Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me.

We get to settle eventually, for and from,

Playing the familiar roles while charting

Courses for upward mobility of family.

And when vicissitudes deals a new blow,

We dig deep from the base of your memory,

Fuelled by the knowledge of this moment,

Buoyed by light of your smile.


Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me.

So allow me to be the fool for a second and dream,

Basking in the aura of your essence and being,

Wishing for a convergence of mutual feelings.

And if by chance we meet, at the airport

Or boardroom or at the next society wedding,

We nod and sigh internally at what never was,

You, me and us.

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The Pilgrim 

The grim reaper laughs at the pilgrim,

Grim-covered exterior mirror for rotten core.

The vultures laughs at the country,

Grim-covered exterior mirror for rotten core.

Fleas, flies, lice in a perpetual Christmas as

Sweat and tears beads trickle down his spine.

Jackals and Hyenas in eternal feast as

Proletariat begin again, nightly pilgrimage to fuel station.

Army of Dogs (Flash Fiction?)

Ogunkunle finished his beans and corn pottage at the mama-put quickly, taking extra care not to allow oil stain his well-starched one good shirt. He strode past his fellow free readers association comrades, calling out greetings.

He heard the first shot as he made to climb an Okada he had hailed. The anger in him grew as each bullet registered its discharge in his ear.

“Not today!” came a scream from him, as the Okada man and other bystanders fled. The gatemen of the adjacent banks were locking the gates as fast as they could even as their attached policemen with drawn AK47s cowered behind anything that could shield them.

He saw two SUVs pull into the street and saw people run towards the end of the street. The anger he felt made him turn towards the on-rushing vehicles. He then blacked out.

They said he had stepped into the middle of the street and raised his hand at the vehicles bearing down on him and the cars stopped mid-speed. They said the armed robbers got down, angry at this interference and rained bullets from their guns on him. They said he raised his right hand ✋ at the bullets which all froze mid-air, as dogs of all breeds started gathering behind him. They said of the panicked manner the robbers fled on foot and how he used his left hand ✋ to command the army of dogs to chase after them.

He read what happened with a sigh at Ikota where he fled to from Ikorodu, after coming to consciousness in his bedroom some minutes after the incident. The third since he met the old man 👴 who told him Ogun, god of Iron has chosen him…

#WCW: @HMemuna (If I was a writer)

If I was still a writer,

I would write about her.

Her svelte gracefulness as she

Knit words on my TL. Tapestries

Of Ideas, Ideals and Ideology.

If I was still a writer,

I would write about her.

Her wry smile, promising

Matriarchal-marinated mischief.

Modern Womanism fleshified.

If I was a writer,

I would write about her.

Her eyes like diamond spheres,

Glimmering globes in a sea of

Placid black lustrousness

But I’m no more a writer.

I can no longer write sonnets to,

Nor Haikus about my crush.

All I can do is stare and blush.

Thinking if I was still a writer.

Thinking if I was still a writer.

Nurture My Future

We opened CLC at Imota Ikorodu on the 20th of May and it has been a thrilling experience meeting the kids. We have a total of 150 students at our center, all of them exceptional in their own way with big dreams even though they live in a small town. We want to give them hope, all 150 children and even more. They have more stories than we know about, they yearn to learn to become better.
None of these children was born with a spoon, not even a wooden spoon. They don’t have luxuries afforded to them but they have the resilience and are ready to grow if we let them.
At different times, I found myself having a conversation with these children. Here are four interesting ones.


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Waste of Sin

Waste of sin

“How many days are we going to spend on earth that we are wearing coat of iron?” Akin’s mother remarked.

“Exactly o Kemi. That was exactly what I said o, but you know me na, I’m just looking at them. By the time I show my own fire ehn, they will know that devil’s bean plant can’t be grasped with bare hands.”

“See Comfort, you will have to be more patient. It is good to be strong but many things can only be fought by waiting”.

Akin turned again on his bed as the words of his mother and her cousin’s discussion filtered into his room. He was terribly bored. His blackberry phone laid discarded with lack of data subscription by the book he was reading and had grown weary off. He should do data subscription but his pocket money had ran out and he has maxed out his credit facility with his mother. As he adjusted his pillow, he muttered another curse at the Federal Government and the Academic Staff Union of Universities for the union’s umpteenth strike action that has confined him to his house for four months on end. Continue reading “Waste of Sin”

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