Frankly Dedoyin

GO TELL IT Go tell it to the mountains, The ever-blooming spectabilis , The rivers that winds through  The cultural murals of the savanna and forest zones, Of Nigeria - The home to God’s people Heaven’s anteroom on Earth. Go tell it over the blue seas To every nation where humans congregate That this vast field was the spot in the Eden garden Where the tree of wisdom sprouted The forbidden fruit of all futuristic knowledge From the Arts to the Science Nigeria: The home to the most abundant cerebral mass in the world. Go tell it to the naysayers  Who endlessly spin bogus statistics  Professing tales of doom Of how the city of Nigeria would wilt By a million fantastical reasons under the sun Yet it defies the odd, proving in many life times. Go tell it to the nations That above all - The natural disasters, conflicts, disease or poverty; Nothing insures the collective harmony of the Nigerian people  Than working the black soil of peace and p...

I AM THE AFRICAN I am the African My skin is as black as the night  Laced with gleaming stars swimming across Like the interior of an exquisite art house,  And the moonlight is an ancient scribe  telling our juicy Africa tales for generations Beneath the endless Black African skies. I am the African My blackness is a great twirling wall  Made strong by tropical rainforests  And savannas that nourishes my kingdom. I am the African The pores of my skin, Filled with deep oases of strength Spewing melanin-thick locks  Holding countless baubles of affection  Every burst releasing sweet pleasure. I am the African The brown hue of my eye contrast  Idyllically with my nicely hewn biology, That keeps the world ogling after my godlike beauty. I am the African My limbs - They are sturdier than the red mahogany, Steady and sure as the day. Everything about me - My colour, my voice, my stride, my essence - Deliberate and una...

  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.