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Category Archives: Literature/Writing

ANOTHER SMOKY TALE

ANOTHER SMOKY TALE

Darkness descends faster around here, so fast you’re left wondering where the day went. It’s beautiful really, almost poetic. As the curtain is drawn and you glimpse the fading sunset, brutally honest thinking is required. The darkness asks for it…demands it even. When the darkness descends, man is left alone with his demons. No more running. It’s fight or flight bitch!

Stone approaches the kitchen door, confident that he shall find what he seeks inside. He can hear the voices already and as he opens it, the thick aromatic fragrance rushes to embrace him. Clouds everywhere help provide a veil for the activities going on inside, but to the initiated eye, the clouds are only a sign of better things to come. He approaches the kitchen counter and there they are: the council of elders. The Knights of the Templar. The Brotherhood of Cruise. The Brethren.

Pappy, standing across from Mamba, putting his hands and lips to good use. Xray, going through Instagram or something on his tablet, and finally Liberty, arms folded and waiting for Pappy to light up the blessings. Stone takes his position on top the ledge closest to the window, and The Brethren is gathered once again, let the deliberations begin. 

“Guy, where’d you buy this cruise from?” Stone asks.

Liberty laughs and there are conspiratorial grins from the others. 

“Just enjoy it” Pappy responds “forget about its origin”.

The fog gets thicker, as more resources are brought forward. All from the same headquarters which leads them to another discussion on just how much cheese Junior is making off of their continued patronage. The memes from social media are the next topic to be addressed. Then politics, history, the politics of history, the real and fake, the genuinely confusing…almost everything is touched. There have been disagreements and conflicts of opinion. Negotiation has been employed as well as other less savory tactics. Momentary truces and alliances have been formed and the council might be adjourning soon.

“How far that Yemisi babe na?” Pappy asks.

Stone pretends not to hear him. X-ray taps him on the shoulder repeatedly until he’s forced to address the issue on ground. Laughter is stifled as the boys give him the floor.

“She dey na” he replies “Shey she dey owe you money?

Nothing is held back this time as hearty laughter rings across the kitchen. Stone has shown that he’s not intimidated by their number. 

“How she go owe dey owe me money?” Pappy continues in his rich baritone voice “Oga will you answer me joor!”

More laughter.

“Ormoh! I had to free her matter. She has too much wahala” Stone says in mock irritation, at the same time pulling out his phone and sending ‘hey baby’, with the appropriate emoji, via text to the female in question.

Mamba quickly chips in “Ehn! Why she no go get wahala, you don collect wetin you dey find na, so she must surely get wahala”.

Sarcasm eagerly drips from his words, and the light is passed from hand to hand.

The Yemisi situation is quite complicated and explaining would be a chore, so Stone is content to sit and let them guffaw to their hearts content. X-ray smiles intently at his tab, the goofiest of smiles. Instantly attention is diverted to his market.

“See as he’s smiling” Pappy tackles him “very soon now you go dey chase person away cos you wan use room”

The light flickers as everyone joins in the joke. X-ray only smiles at his tab when he’s expecting company. Liberty looks around and asks for a status update. He is duly informed by Mamba that the ceremony must be discontinued because all the trees had been set ablaze.

Liberty walks to the door, pauses and turns to bring up what might possibly be the last two matters arising.

“How far chow? And when we dey go jack?”

Exams are in less than a week. Asuu had scammed them. So much school work to cover, so little time. All five of them ask themselves why they hadn’t stuck to their beginning of semester plans of reading everyday. Again, there are no answers. The light finally flickers off permanently and only then are our heroes reminded that darkness has truly descended.

Plans are made regarding food and education. Stone’s phone vibrates with the full force of Yemisi’s reply. Encouraged by her unique choice of words he continues the conversation, as they all file out of the kitchen.

They make their way with confident steps and firm faces, walking to the tune of the different songs playing in their different heads. Some times however, the song is the same across all platforms and those are the truly special moments.

Upon reaching the main road, the council has one finale debate on the particular order the next three to four hours would take. Let the records show that this particular decision was reached through absolute consensus, amid several highly favorable comments.

Just as the journey is about to begin, Stone brings forth another option.

“Why don’t we go buy another bag instead?”

Side eyes all around.

They size him up like one would regard a madman and he laughs and repeats the question.

The opposition is strong and thorough but he stands his ground.

Three minutes later, the plan has changed.

Stone walks in front, now completely engaged in the conversation with Yemisi. She’s typing things that would excite even a Priest. Our boy is anything but a Reverend, so he replies with gusto.

X-ray is to his left, still focused on his tab as he considers the fastest way to clear the room.

Pappy walks behind, already thinking about going back for his pink pills.

Beside him is Liberty who is eyeing a group of females so hard it’s almost like he’s trying to rip their clothes off with his gaze.

Mamba brings up the rear, his mind occupied with his digital bet slip and the possibility that tonight just might be the night his ancestors listen to his pleas.

Five men, directing their singular energies towards the fulfilment of a common objective.

Five men working with time.

Five men united by the flame.

Darkness has completely engulfed the earth and the night is ripe for adventure. The Brethren shall reconvene.
Great Opara

 

AUGUST VISITORS

AUGUST VISITORS

AUGUST VISITORS

It was a quiet, beautiful Lagos Saturday afternoon in the life of a certain bachelor. For this bachelor, everything was chilled. He was home alone with Hennessey and his Internet was rubbing shoulders with Barry Allen. He knew Lagos Saturdays were largely characterised by Owambe, but to him, Friday turn ups were enough. He couldn’t imagine himself slugging it out as a consultant for five hectic days, only to stress his anti-social self by attending weekend functions, where all he ever cared about was the Item 7 and how quickly to ex from the event after relishing to his fill. He was done feeding his guilt. At the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to genuinely care about someone’s happiness.

Not that he was a Punisherlevel sadist, anyway.

Speaking of food, Chuka realised that his beloved microwave had been beeping for seconds. He was there in a jiffy, and as fate would have it, his solitude was about to be terminated by the arrival of unexpected company. Cursing under his breath, he took out his meal and silently prayed that his Igbo mother hadn’t come to give him the ‘Marry fast and give me grandchildren!’ talk for the seventy-seventh time. Setting his package down, he strode to the door to uncover a figure that was not his mother. Or even female.

“Brooo!” escaped the lips of Chuka and his visitor in unison, as though the words had minds of theirs. That was followed by an informal handshake and a brotherly hug. Chuka did not waste time in letting his good old friend into his abode.

“Correct guy,” Chuka began as they made to sit, “The last recession didn’t smell you at all.”

 “Like it ever ended.  It’s doing my body work, but wounds heal.”

“They sure do. Time heals everything.”

If only Chuka had the faintest idea. There was nothing but a look of satisfaction plastered on their respective faces. Regardless of their current vastly different lives, they were fraternal brothers with so much in common, right from their undergraduate days in LASU. Despite the façade of manhood that now hovered around them, they could still see clearly their younger, early-twenties’ selves.

“How’s everything going for you?” Ovie asked. “I took a risk by coming sef, but it paid off.”

“A risk?” Chuka had returned with a glass for Ovie. “I’m always here on Saturdays. And some Sundays.” He set it down, sat back and looked forward. “Many Sundays.”

“And you’ll still think that your problems aren’t spiritual.”

Chuka sensed the sarcasm well. “Similar to my mum, you’re now seeing my unmarried status as a curse. What if this is actually God’s way of blessing me?”

Ovie couldn’t help but laugh heartily, setting down his drained glass in the process. “Be careful what you wish for, brother. And this was legit needed,” he said, referring to the glass he’d just consumed.

“Indeed. And you look like you’ve been somewhere today.”

Ovie exhaled, looking upward. “I was at a wedding. Everything was going well before my sidechick went to catch bouquet.” 

In an effort to subdue his shock and laughter, Chuka recounted the years his friend had been married: five. “A single guy is dying in the friendzone while his married friend is still balling like a bachelor. Life is too fair.”

“Very fair, man.” Ovie maintained his upward gaze. “I blame myself for letting things between me and Toke become so strained and bitter in such a short while.” Turning his gaze to his friend, he began again. “What about that Gladys babe you’ve been on to?”

Chuka exhaled. “She…well…” His hands were in the air before they fell. “She decided to become a nun. She left me for Jesus.”

Ovie did little to hide his utter shock. “What on Earth…do females in this day and age still do that? Why?” Rubbing his palm across his face, he shot his friend a sardonic smile. “Take heart and accept her higher calling. But I still don’t believe the girls of our age fancy convents.”

“Me too.”

“So that’s why you’ve been avoiding church.”

“What if that’s why? The heartbroken one that avoids church is better than the infidel that doesn’t.” Chuka shot Ovie a comical searing look afterwards. Ovie knew better than to take offence. His friend had left loose ends and he was more than determined to tie it up.

“Whose zone then are you dying in? And has it gotten so bad that you’re writing about it on your laptop?”

Chuka, for some inexplicable reason, had been oblivious of the laptop on his sofa for as long as he could remember. He ran his hand over his face. “Let’s just say I’m putting my hidden talent to good use. My mind has been nagging at me to write something about this IPOB issue. I couldn’t take it any longer.”

Ovie heaved a sigh. “Inasmuch as I’m entitled to stress over national integrity, your ‘muse’ is of much bigger concern to me right now.”

Nothing about Chuka could believe his friend at that moment. Keep it simple and short, he thought. “Co-worker. Turned me down thrice before telling me she was with someone else. And no, she’s not my muse.”

Their collective blank expressions received life when the doorbell rang again. Chuka remained on the floor a while longer, finally believing that this visitor couldn’t have been anyone else but his mother. 

And Ovie is here to aid her sermon. Perfect. 

Approaching the door, Chuka’s mind drifted to the foodstuffs his mother always brought for him, in an involuntary search for a bright side. Instantly, he found solace.

But the figure he unearthed gave him solace, much more than the foodstuffs could have done. And it shocked him a thousand times more than Ovie’s arrival did.

Solape? What are you…”

His co-worker could clearly see the shock that made him lose touch of his words. “I know I should have called, but I’m having a bad day and you were pretty close so…” She began silently, before handing expression duties to her eyes. Chuka got the message.

“You can come in, sure.” He said, stepping aside and feeling comfortable. No sooner had he braced to make the expected introductions than Solape suddenly froze before him, directly facing an upstanding Ovie.

“What on Earth are you doing here?” She let out slowly, in a gasp of horror. She began to shoot the duo equally brief but guilty scares, almost as though she had seen a ghost. As she edged towards the door, Chuka could make out “Why do you two have to know each other?” before she finally exited his apartment, so quick that it was hard to believe she ever arrived.

A wide range of possible explanations began to swirl in his head. However, he couldn’t make any sense out of it. All he really needed for clarity was a calm, simple sentence from Ovie.

“Remember the chick I just told you about?”
Written by Clinton Durueke


Published by Great Opara

 

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DÈNOUEMENT

DÈNOUEMENT

She is staring at the woman in front of her. Her face is a rainbow of mottled blue and purple.

She is spotting a black swollen eye that feels painful to look out.

Amaka rotates her neck and the woman does the same.

She touches her face as the woman in the mirror does the same.

The woman staring back with a blackish purple eye the vivid hue of those native pears, ube, is her.
✨◾   ◾    ◾   ◾    ◾  

Last night Dayo had flown into one of his customary rages and punched her in the face.

The argument was a harmless one or had at least started off as one until he snapped and proceeded to pummel her like a pugilist in a KO match.

Then after his fit had ended,he had come back to beg and enclose her in his arms.

She had wept in his arms while he had stroked her hair and promised for the umpteenth time he wouldn’t do it, he was sorry, he wouldn’t hurt her again.

He had gently tended to the bruises he had inflicted himself and drawn a hot bubble bath for her.

This morning he had continued in the role of perfect husband and brought her breakfast in bed, with a side of painkillers. He had stroked her sore face tenderly and promised never to lay a finger on her again. 

She had lain in bed long after he left, fingering the lank strands of her braids, remembering that this wasn’t the first time he had made this promise.

◾   ◾  ◾   ◾    ◾    ◾ 

Now he is off to work while she hides inside, like a vampire afraid of the sun. 

She doesn’t want the prying pitiful looks the neighbours will give her and the stammering excuses she will have to give them.

She stands up and winces as she attempts to stretch her sore joints.

She has to use the toilet and hobbles painfully to the Italian tiled room with its antique shower head and clawed foot bathtub.

 Her husband has always liked luxurious living.

She washes her hands when she is done and stares at her reflection in the mirror for a moment.

She touches her bruised face and winces.

Suddenly she is fed up of this…this craziness.

Amaka looks back at the woman in the mirror, touches her swollen eye and split lip and makes a decision.

She opens her wardrobe and searches for the burgundy handbag she took to church last Sunday.

Last Sunday was thanksgiving and Dayo had insisted on their attending the service ,even though his fists had met her face the night before after a drinking bout with his friends.

She had woken up early to prepare and don the mask of makeup required to hide her bruises.

She had tried her best but some bruises stubbornly refused to be hidden. Subsequently, she had worn a big hat and kept her face down during the service.

The woman in the navy blue suit, the one with the puffed up shoulders, the kind she and her sisters had often sniggered at, calling them “choir mistress suits“, kept on staring at her during the service. She had stared until Amaka began to feel uncomfortable and pulled her hat down lower.

After the service, when Amaka had rushed to relieve her bladder, the woman had waited for her outside the restroom.

Amaka had started walking away when the woman tapped her. She turned and the woman had smiled kindly at her before stuffing a pamphlet and complimentary card into her hand.

Before Amaka could ask her anything, she turned away and melted into the crowd milling around the front doors of the church.

Amaka didn’t read the pamphlet that day or even the next.

She had forgotten about it until Wednesday when she stumbled upon it when she opened the bag to pay for her groceries at the supermarket.

She had read the pamphlet in the car before driving home. It was for a NGO advocating against domestic violence. The woman in the navy suit was it’s director apparently. The NGO’s website was listed and when she got home,she had immediately looked it up.

She had read stories of women like her who had suffered violence in their relationships silently and had finally spoken up and left such abusive relationships. The NGO had aided these women by way of counselling, rehabilitation and providing legal services for those who required it. The director’s number was listed on the complimentary card and Amaka had stared at it for a long time, toying with the idea of dialling the number before dropping the card back in her bag.

Today, there was no debate as to calling the NGO.

This camel’s back has already been broken by the final straw.

She reaches into the bag and takes the card out. 

With suddenly shaky fingers, she dials the number.

The call is picked and a warm female voice says softly :” Hello”

With her breath catching in her throat, she begins to speak.
Written by Miracle Eme

Published by Great Opara

 

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A SMOKY TALE

I am dozing on my bed this hot afternoon,halfway to the land of sleep, when I hear one of the cleaners yell. She has a loud speaking voice normally but her yells,my goodness,are of the earsplitting sort.

I turn to the other side of my bed and wonder who or what wants to cause this hearing loss for all of us.

She yells again and I decipher the word she is yelling.

She is yelling:”Baba!”

Now, I’m wondering who this Baba is and why his name is being yelled.

She yells again in Yoruba that he shouldn’t kill us.

At this stage,I’m wondering fuzzily, if I remembered to lock the door after my roomie left.

There is a bout of silence and I heave a sigh of relief. I turn again and continue my nap.

Then she continues,screaming at the unseen Baba,asking him if he wants to ruin people’s clothes.

That gets my attention and I open my eyes,fully alert.

Today is Saturday and the clothing lines in the backyard are full of clothes in varying colours and sizes spread out or hung up.

I happen to be one of the people whose clothing is spread out on that line by the dint of hard work,being that I woke up early,8am precisely( Yes. 8am on a Saturday is early for me), to wash and spread them.

She yells again and I sit up fuzzily.

As I rub my bleary eyes ,I smell the smoke.Warning bells go off in my head.

The man who has a plot at the back of our building farms it and occasionally he indulges in bush burning to our detriment.

I mean,isn’t bush burning in residential areas illegal? If it isn’t,it should be.Without any apology to his neighbours too!

I peep out my window and see the spirals of smoke and ashes descending upon the backyard and our hard washed clothes.All traces of sleep vanish from my eyes instantly.

I hear doors opening and people shouting in outrage at the sight of the unwelcome smoke spiraling over the fence.

The cleaner is still yelling and cursing as she packs away the clothes she spread out this morning. She has a murderous glare on her face as she stuffs the clothes into a large basin.

She keeps on cursing as the smoke spirals down. 

I feel the tickle of laughter in my throat and am tempted to laugh. I really am.That is, until I realize I have clothes outside too.

Snapping back to attention,I put on my slippers to go and rescue my clothes,before they start smelling like those of  an “asun” seller.( Not that they smell particularly unpleasant or anything)

Like grasscutters being smoked out of their lair ,we rush out with one quest in mind: rescue your clothes.
Written by Miracle Eme

 
1 Comment

Posted by on July 31, 2017 in Literature/Writing

 

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THE BIG BEANS THEORY

Isn’t it funny how you probably can’t stand beans but you would jump on the first Moin Moin wrap you see?

Any fellow beanlievers, say ayy! 

Well, provided it’s the right one.

There are few other things I believe in. 

Besides God, love, family, myself and John Legend, of course. But I sure know and believe that Moin Moin is only ever two things; good or bad. No in betweens.

It’s either you love it or you don’t!

It’s either it’s lit or a mess.

A hit or a miss.

No in betweens.

I’ve had too many misses. 

So, I tend to avoid it all together.

Now, I’m not a connoisseur on beans and it’s produce, products and by-products. Notwithstanding the fact that I enjoy and can make a mean Gbegiri stew, I think. But I can’t even stand Ewa Ayogin

Hi. I live in Lagos. I can’t stand Ewa Agoyin. No, I’m not abnormal. No, I wasn’t dropped on the head as a baby. No, not even with extra ‘oyel‘.

Yes, I said it. Ewa Agoyin is just not my specs. And yes, I said specs.

Give me Akara instead! 

Fresh, hot, steaming oil bean cakes, fried crisp to it’s utmost destruction. 

But it’s a good type of destruction, if you know what I mean. 

Growing up, there were two types of Akara. The ‘normal’ soft ones, with no crunch whatsoever and tiny. So tiny, it finished and you wonder how that happened. Then, the other one.

Little ol’ me, I couldn’t stand it. Those palm-oil bean cakes with the little peppers, red and green and absolutely not my favourite. Mum never made them, even though I bet she knew how. We bought them from our trusted customer, every Tuesday and we took them with homemade Ogi. I loved the crunch but couldn’t stand the heat. You couldn’t even beat that heat, not even if you pulled out all the mini peppers.

It was torture and perfection at the same time. 

I haven’t touched that type of Akara in years. Now, it’s that torture and perfection I desperately seek.

Beans and Maize. What a maze! Lol. It’s a horrible rhyme, I know. My infamous Adalu story happened in Ss2, also known as Grade 11, Year 5, whatever. I had never made it in my life but it was my exam and I wanted to impress the ‘convalescent’ who in real life was just two scary teachers anyway! My mashed potatoes and poached egg was an absolute flop so this was my one chance.

Oh and impress, I did. With my hard corn and beans that took forever to cook. Complaints flying left and right. Tears threatening and a lot of pressure. 

The teachers would watch your every move and taste your every move.

The end result was however, worth it but bye, Adalu. Till we meet again.

Beans.

Beans, love it or hate it. 

I should have probably titled this piece that but what I couldn’t decide was which was more cliché. 

Beans.

So unpredictable, could be absolutely pain-ish today, comfort food tomorrow.

Too many variations and so much diversity. 

Reminds me of a place I know, Nig… Can I get help with that?

But the great thing is, like our dear country, Nigeria, there’s really something for everyone. 

Written By Titilope Adedokun

Published By Great Opara

 
 

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HOMECOMING

Neto sat comfortably in the back seat of the SUV as it breezed to church; it was a bleak Sunday morning. Turning his head to the left, he couldn’t help but notice how the landscape, the feel of the vehicle and the cloudy weather of the day threw him back to a fateful Sunday morning in August, five years prior. Then, an Indomie-branded bus transported him and forty-plus weary, homesick souls back to church after a week-long teens camp. He couldn’t exactly call it a camp, but a mass gathering in a not-so-secluded posh school which felt like home in every way, only that it wasn’t. The night before his return was camp fire night. It was supposed to be an epic conclusion- not just to the undeniably eventful camp, but possibly to his seventeen years of living and studying in Nigeria. Like Batman v Superman, it fell below his expectations.

Yes, the food and snacks were good. The open-air performances next to the camp fire had a primal feel to them. He had a decent time with his friends. But when he gazed up at the silver-dotted indigo sky that night, after his ‘good’ bye, he knew it just wasn’t it.

The ride back to church that bleak Sunday morning was almost wordless. His phone was long dead, so he couldn’t listen to music or play games or chat with his friends after being AWOL for seven long days. And he wasn’t much of a reader. He could barely talk to the pretty girl seated next to him. There was no point starting anything transient, as transient as what he and Ebiere had. At least, what he thought he and Ebiere had. The very impetus behind his embarking on a final camping experience became the very one behind his desire to depart. Stripped of his companions, with an undesirable weather, Neto’s thoughts revolved around the uncertain life ahead and the painful one behind. He was indeed kissed by a rose. The only problem was that its thorns sunk in deep, so deep that its petals fell helplessly to their demise, leaving Neto to reel from the searing pain.
The same pain he bottled up within and corked so tightly for so many months.

Neto remembered how everyone was told to drop penned-down prayer requests into a set of boxes, before that night. He remembered his parents were on the brink of a divorce, prior to the commencement of camp. He didn’t even care if they still loved each other or not. All he wanted was for them to not separate. He penned down the request. Neto also desperately wanted New York University to consider his application and admit him. He wasn’t considering his Nigerian option in CU. He knew what he wanted and he had faith in the possibility of success. He penned it down. Having stood to submit it, Neto remembered Ebiere. Inasmuch as he wanted to be with her, to spend the rest of his life with her, his ambition was also important. He wasn’t even sure if she still felt the same love, like or whatever it was she felt. If indeed she ever felt anything.

Nevertheless, he got back down and wrote that he did not want to be separated from Ebiere. It contradicted his second request, but he didn’t care. It was very kamikaze, since only one of his final two requests could logically be fulfilled, or even none. But he wrapped it, went to the platform and dropped it in one of the boxes.
The day after that, he watched as the numerous boxes rose up to the heavens and Heaven in flames after being prayed over. He turned to his left. He saw her standing alone, in the dark. At that moment, Neto had his own camp fire burning within him. He approached her. He made to ensure a most satisfactory goodbye, with a most memorable parting gift. But the rest as they say is history.
Neto got down from the SUV as his eyes ran through the church building. God had granted his second camp request. And his first, too. He hadn’t returned to the country ever since he left. He hadn’t been to the church since that bleak Sunday morning. Basking in the spirit of homecoming, a wave of nostalgic feelings swept through him. The grey clouds still hadn’t ceased, similar to the way they didn’t cease when he got down from the bus five years prior. He had returned then, as well. He said his goodbyes to everyone he could see, to every soul he could salvage. Five years on, on another bleak Sunday morning, none of those faces could be seen. Apparently, everyone had their respective five years to change, to evolve and for some, to conclude.

As the clouds began to drop snippets for the upcoming blockbuster, Neto made it to the spot he and Ebiere last saw before they parted ways. As expected, she was already standing there, her back turned to him. She was facing the same iconic landscape he faced five years prior. The blockbuster loomed even greater; neither he nor Ebiere moved an inch. He remembered how, at that same spot five years ago, she placed her hand on his shoulder and changed everything. The look in her eyes that day could have meant anything. What she said could have meant anything. What they actually meant, Neto still didn’t know. He would never know.

The blockbuster began in earnest. Inevitably, slowly, she finally turned back to face him. The same gap between them as they stood five years ago repeated itself as lightning streaked well above their heads. Lightning could strike the same spot twice, after all. He saw the same look in her eyes. He saw the same hand making it towards his shoulder, but he caught it gently. As he grasped it, lost in her eyes, an avalanche of memories came crashing down; memories of a not-so-distant life that felt like an eternity prior, memories that could never be re-experienced. But he let go.
Slowly, he turned back and made his way to the interior without looking back at her as the blockbuster neared its climax. Nothing had changed. Nothing would.
Written by Clinton Durueke
Published by Great Opara

 
3 Comments

Posted by on June 9, 2017 in Literature/Writing

 

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THOUGHTS OF A SUICIDAL

BrokenSeparated into parts or pieces by being hit, damaged or altered

Something is wrong with me. 

I am a masterpiece, I am 

Beauty to behold but please be told,

Don’t open the ornamented doors, lift the embroidered carpet, remove the wig

Never look beneath for my broken is not to be seen. 

Yes, open your eyes and look

But don’t far. Don’t go deep. Don’t search wide.

Let me hide

Behind the façade

Why decide

Decide you need to know me better

Better watch out 

Think again 

Again I beseech 

Let me hide.

 No! you don’t have the right to right my wrongs. 

What is wrong with you? 

No! what is wrong with me? 

E-motionless
Unable to find my way 

I want to find joy 

I want my troubles to go away 

I want to know peace as I know my name 

I want true happiness

I want genuine love 

I want to feel!

I feel stuck

I want to move!

What is wrong with me?
Desperate

What am I not doing right?

Why this much pain?

I cry myself to sleep at night 

Hoping my morning would be bright

Open my curtains to the light 

But as hard as I fight with all might

I cannot quite feel alright… 

What is wrong with me?
Alone

Why am I this way? 

I want to scream 

I have nightmares 

Of when I was little

And my cupboard was my close companion

And the cobwebs weren’t nuisance

And I could block the whole world 

My daddy didn’t love me 

My mummy shouldn’t have had me

I’m certain God hates me

What is wrong with me?
Written by Olamide Davis

 
1 Comment

Posted by on June 9, 2017 in Literature/Writing

 

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