Posted: May 2, 2016 in Uncategorized

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To those we know little of
Save their death and graveless exit
To those who wanted to say words
But their tongues, castrated by grief
When their kinsmen fell to the paws of bomb.

To those who loved to tell tales
Of a kingdom and its glittering boon
Of how valiant each man fought
When death clutched her talons.

To those we cannot bury
As their grenade-shredded bodies
Defied the courtesy of proper burial
After raiders up-north saw a reason to plunder.

To those who cared to watched
And failed to let fear benumb;
And the most valiant of them:
Those who swore to die for truth
And marched without swords nor caution
But returned unscathed in truth and zeal
Though lie rears its fangs of filth.

To those who cleared the endless debris
And sifted the dead from the dying;
Those dying from they, a carngae to flee
Feigned death and hid in a hoard of blood:
To them who the stink of death
Will not their thoroughness maim.

Woe betides if my lines won’t laud
The bravest in the realm:
Those who wielded weaker weapons
Yet, their mettle is short of frailty
Who would march jungles, bramble and dirt
Crawl through the belly of peril
If only death must get its due
Yes, by the sweet shrieks of slaughtered fiends
Who their cozy cribs leave behind
For the chill of cost-less trenches.

My Muse will not fail to laud them
Who bereft of learnings, learned to kill
A people opposed to their creed;
And the fence-sitters who loved only their farms
But silence exudes the best oration
And a million parable seasoned with wits
That life bests the vastest wealth or the fattest faith.

To those who traded wisdom for courage
And wore beads of explosives on their waist
To lay barns and homes to ruin and waste
For by evil, virtue is extolled
In their sheer folly yet steeped in hope
Of a better realm, obeyed the master’s voice
To those bereft of home found a home
In the corridors of null creeds that numb conscience
And emerged harbingers of Hades
Who less of teachings save the falsest of all
Have taught us to love and our lives treasure.


The Liar’s Creed.

Posted: April 8, 2016 in Uncategorized

And when I look into your eyes I see a sparkling flash of lies You’ll be ready to sear me with Much arguments lacking in wits And blame the foregoers and all, But this sceptre that the law Ma…

Source: The Liar’s Creed.

The Liar’s Creed.

Posted: April 8, 2016 in Uncategorized


And when I look into your eyes
I see a sparkling flash of lies
You’ll be ready to sear me with
Much arguments lacking in wits
And blame the foregoers and all,
But this sceptre that the law
Mangleth, potent be oh poor me!
You swear you’re here to instill
Saneness, but I shall not be fooled
Nor moved by your offer of wad or food
He who shall bestow a crown must be known
To be not hungry, like the king of a clown
So remember me before you meet me
And know how best to sting like bee
For I’ll unearth your mine of lies
When you court my vote which but a prize
be, before I tell you I remember all your lines:
A creed of liars who would want to sieze
Our sceptre, that the law no more can blight.
6:30 p.m.

I am dead

Posted: January 4, 2016 in POETRY


I am dead 
To the threat of death
So thy dread
Will not my sword sheath.

Nor your lead
Benumb my pen’s stealth
Till I’ve bled
I will bet the best
By life’s Red:
Blood that inks this zest
In times weird
When Tsar throws his jest.

I am led
From plains to the crest
So your dread
Canst suppress a poet.

Death is dead
It shan’t stand the best
Of a bard
When he weaves his Reed.

“Courage is being scared to death… and saddling up anyway”
John Wayne.
The greatest enemy to success is not failure but the courage to wave it aside. A man who lacks courage in his dictionary of virtues will never take risk, and a risk Shunner is already a failure.
Courage is not the absence of fear, but a mastery of it. A man can only be truly courageous when there’s a fear standing in front of him.
So you have a particular phobia, why not use this year to conquer that fear. You can never know you’re capable until you close your eyes to the stupefying flashes of fear and make an attempt to achieve that thing.
Indeed Ray Bradbury rightly said, “Jump, and you will find out how to unfold your wings as you fall”

Can A Poem Write Itself?

Posted: January 1, 2016 in POETRY

This song ain’t goin’ write itself” Eminem -When I’m gone.

Love will not help you love
In your slumber, heaven offers its muse
But shan’t spur your verses in motion
When each line as in your dream
Like a plot it is, fades in your head.

A poem will not scribe itself 
Though the rhythm dance merrily
Your pen, ink-rich gazes 
From a pile of poetry manuals.

A song will not sing itself 
It wants of a voice, melody and sweat.

A war cannot fight itself 
But by a pair of steel swords
And witless rage on either side
Peace will not quell its rift
It needs humble hearts
Ego bruised and seared
By the glittering scars of meekness
And arms ready to do no more harms
Though the enemy lines crumble in disarray
And the walls levelled to bramble
Lo! The White Flag needs not taboo their communal pride.

A story will not write itself
The gods give their alms of inspiration
So let your fingers wield the quill
Buried in a blanket of cobwebs and dust.

Your mouth in quick bursts
Must spit wits as an adder’s fangs
A poem will not fight for the commons
If each lines in trenches lie
Signalling, “we’re but civilians”
But then, without wait, I’ll shoot my words
Clean and fair, with youth and zeal
A bunch of fingers on either arms
And that question friend, is
Will your poem write itself?


So it’s a new year. Most of our failures arise out of inactions and rarely out of our actions. Imagine if Wole Soyinka upon being inspired failed to rouse himself from slumber and write great poems like Abiku, Telephone Conversation, Civilian and Soldier and the likes.
Or if Shakespeare expected one magnanimous God to write the globally acclaimed works of Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, Othello or Merchant of Venice. Or if Bill Gates didn’t take a decisive action to found Microsoft. The possibility is endless as well as dreadful.
The best way to mediocrity is to fold your hands and do nothing. This year 2016 should inspire you to take charge of your life and do something that will continue to resonate through the centuries yet unborn. 
Indeed Benjamin Franklin rightly said “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” 
So comrades, are you gonna write that poem, invent that thing, make that discovery or let mediocrity get the better part of you. Yes, you’ll fail, that I assure you. But you’ll learn and become better with each try.

I miss you

Posted: December 19, 2015 in POETRY

It’s been long I last held you
Your scent fills my head
With nostalgia and grace.

It’s been long
I caressed you
When your milk I sap
Till your hue is low.

It’s been long
I last saw you
I hear tales
I hear gossips
Of how daily you pray I come home
Rhoda said you won’t utter a word
Until you’re in my grasp
It’s been long
Your wit whelms me with awe.

But it’s I
That have broken the rites of scribing
And the vows we made
I broke at the first dusk
Lit by the glow
Of grandpa’s old lantern.

I pricked my thumb with your tip
And yours I pulled
When I unsealed your guts
From the tube, Oh Pen
The mover of words!

Alms of Solace

Posted: November 25, 2015 in My Prose Works.

The still lakes of my tears rippled with tremor
When the fair dame on the street who I did adore
Morphed into a lifeless scatter of meat and blood
I’ll give my alms when agony becomes a flood
That swept Paris, Yola and Kano off their feet
The almsgiving of words to soothe the casualties
As hasty grim-reapers nip their buds in the prime
Hurling down their sturdy souls honourless
Without caskets to kill the arctic chill
Down the craters of their mass graves
With no fabric of skin or cushion of ample flesh
To adorn them as their spirits whizz through the air
So I will sing of how Audu fought bravely with death
At the government clinic that was sick itself
I will give my alms
But my arms ache to do
In the clime of less of grace but much of misery
I will remember the child that wept for breastmilk
She’d no more suck off her mother’s teats
But I’ll give my alms of solace to the farmers
Whose barns the raiders razed
In the orgy of their madness and craze
As they hastened their pact with devil who swore
To crowd their beds with 72 virgins!
I’ll remember Jane that was caught in the blast
On her way home after her ‘youth service’ (on
I’ll tell her aged grandma of how bravely she served
Before the sons of hell roasted her by a piece of

Strike O Quill

Posted: November 12, 2015 in POETRY

“Start with passion or don’t at all. Continue with hardwork or dare to fall” Agbaakin O. Jeremiah~

If your voice is too weak to cry against the unjust

Let your pen strike keen like a freshly-carved peg

If your pen is faint and the ink is fading

Let your lips be swords that fence with deft in the den of words

If quill and tongue are mugged by a million fetters

Let your soul be a reservoir of rightness

Truly the lie boasts and dances to its own swiftness

Like the daffodils swaying to the erotical breeze

But the truth, slow but steady

Like a cub with a pace of grace

Slowly roaming the labyrinth of bulwarks of bush

As it trails the deer that races across the savannah

So doth pen trails the sword that orphaned the sons of Lady Justice

Once shy, but now a vicious gladiator in the arena of logic

Slowly enduring the pangs of the opponent’s ruthless blows

Till by a sleight of hand truth administers his venom!

Source: Ella’s Diary: Unwanted But Invited

I killed a poet

Posted: October 28, 2015 in POETRY

I killed a poet
When I sware I need
Something to stir this wheel of muse
Into one slow whirl;
Or a beau to tap my soul
In mirth or by a steeped mire.

And I killed a poet
When opportunity beckons
To spill the ink
With one deft strike of a dusty quill
For a truth musty with age and rust.

I slay the poet in me
As poetry intoxicates
But I swear sane am I!
‘Tis but madness to vault the truth
Through fence-sitting, the ancestor of all lie!

I killed the poet
When fairer gifts I envy
And bury then this lone pearl
In loams of static sleep
No one veils the rays of the sun
Pleads the seed I bury
It wept and daily bleeds
With no sprout a recompense
For these earthed fetters neck-deep
But a faint yelp
Mugged by the fierce foes in her new home
Worms and termites burrow her.

I killed the poet
When sleep numbs my fingers
And fear quivers my guts and gumption
But I shall bring the kiss of life
From the Pierian spring
Whence meanders a pool of faith
And shall bore in me
A well of water squirting eternally
With a gust and gut renewed
Then I shall beslay death,
Thief of all who crawl the earth!