Frankly Dedoyin

  Once upon a time in a certain village, there lived a girl named Isha. She was very beautiful and in all the lands throughout the west coast of Africa, everyone talked of what a special beauty she was.   Although she had been born to a wealthy family, she behaved humbly towards everyone. Her beauty and warm nature made the villagers fondly call her ' Priye ' meaning "a god-child.’ Priye was like a great title for someone that is loved by everyone, something royal or with a handsome beauty. Everyone loved Isha and held her in high esteem. As she grew up into a lady, she also excelled in many aspects of life from sports to work.   She was thirteen when her parents set sail on one of their sea travels, being gemstone dealers. Young Isha had been their only child and having no relatives that lived nearby, her parents entrusted the key to their highly valued estate to their daughter. The key had been made of the rarest jewels and shaped into a medallion. On

A Pill Please: A Poetic Charge    The country dailies are a cornucopia of eye-popping, ear-buzzing scandals. “How can I escape from all of these debasements?” I wondered. One day I went down to the end of town, to the most cavernous part as dark as the troubles that bring us to this part. Our powerful medicine man better known as 'baba' gave me a healing portion. The medicine had worn the semblance of super-secret charm. He said ‘it will cure all your troubles.’ and then I went my way. It was unbelievably potent at first. So effective I began functioning like an ancient alarm clock. Numb to my bland daily routine like a zombie, ready for the day. But was I really ready? I still saw the faces of these demons everywhere I turned - On television; in the radio; on the street; at prayer houses; at school; at play and even the labour camp I call work. They taunted me 'til I went from anxious to suicidal. ‘Funny I thought you had the secret weapon?’ One demon sai

PAY DAY   The people are on the march again Dotting every street corners Women, children; old and young at heart They perch at every rung of life Like ravens and vultures Whiten with staggering diseases rates, Blacken by mounting death tolls. Some say its recession; others say its corruption For the government, we wait For who's to blame? Stalls are closed Students stay home Machines go cold The workplace now a quiet hollow. Yet our struggle continues - From dawn through the dusk of our daily lives We, common people disempowered Families scattered We toil in tatters still, By the sketches of the blood and sweat along the hide of our bodies, Longing as always for payday.

These days I smile People asking me, Hot-red glow(er)ing splinters dancing in their eye, 'Do you even know suffer?' I just smile Not because I perceive the aroma of Naira notes Falling like the torrents of rain. I heave a rueful sigh at his memory And simply say 'I knew him' 'Until his death, I used to call him - Uncle' 'Farewell Old Foe' the Preacher man saluted on that day... To the memories of hunger Of penury Of dry storehouses Of morsels without the affection of a young red pepper sauce Glowing with chilly ruddy hotness My last meal with him.

LAGOS DRIVE If I were a bus, I'd be like the crouching leopard moving in the famous go-slow jungle of Lagos traffic jam. Away from the restless spirits of the running roads within the coastal land. The swinging hoops of interconnected Danfo buses. O’ hail the great spirits of the roads - GO-SLOW!!! The ones that need not be invited to a ceremony especially when the masquerade dance is in its highest spirits. They stay rooted like immutable speed breakers. Other times like fleeing phantoms, they appear and disappear before you can tell what happened. The lords of the metropolis. You can tell they do not care for your foreign or local accents: upper or low caste. They gyrate in the commotion of the big city. They are but taxmen needing no government approval, collecting toll without fail from their patriots. How great are the fields needed to cover, to hide away from the spirits of the Lagos traffic. How much rushing current of dust and fear can my bones hold before I&