THIS BOOK

This book is a hill,

Where words form the cosmos

and constellations,

Where flipping pages make up

the hilltop,

Letters, a blanketing halo in

the sky,

And ink, an ointment for my soul’s

eye...

Painting a metaphysical

reality,

Bringing near a distant

world,

Orchestrating a new rising.

On this hill,

I hear the voice of love calling me home,

To come partake of that world,

I do not fully see it. Yet, it calls,

To come touch-base with what my hands

can’t.

To come learn what my spirit knows.

To come pursue after what my

spirit has.

This book| This hill| This bible.

Written by; OLUWAJUWON (THE SCRIBE).

AMALA DUDU

(Inspired for LabuleNG)

I was designed for your hands...your palms.

To be taken in lobes...in whole.

I was sculpted to be an artwork between your fingers.

A dent here, a dent there until I am ready for the taking.

I was created to be the rhythm on your lips.

Fueling your gastric juices.

Serenading the stomach of your senses-

In some Ewedu, Gbegiri and Pomo goodness.

I do not ask for too much

All I ask is to be caressed by your fingers

To feel the warmth of the rushing blood within your veins.

To feel their urgency as they cut through, through and through

My name is AMALA DUDU, the one you harass with your fork and knife.

Written by; OLUWAJUWON (THE SCRIBE).

Image Credits: AcceleratetTV.

THIS PLACE.

This piece was performed at an event hosted by the 'visually impaired students association', UNILAG (University of Lagos, Nigeria.)

I’m on a boulevard quite strange.

A place where raindrops can only be felt with my hands.

A place where beauty can only be conjured in a mysterious slideshow of mental art.

A place where I can only accept the saying that water is colorless without having to personally decipher that fact.

I hear the beautiful chirpings of birds, “How Lovely they must really be”

Can someone tell me if they are Big, small, colourless?

A place where I can’t watch my back because I know not even the back

Of the one Who watches mine.

Here, where I can’t define light.

What I see are the things I cannot see.

I hear that grasses are green,

That the sky glows silvery at night,

And Golden, at day.

A place where I worry not about fashion.

Nor, the consequences of another’s actions.

This is where the beauty of my mother can only be imagined and felt.

Where my smiles, laughter and frowns can only be traced with my thumbs.

Oh! These more I need say.

I live in a place of no excuses.

Where I’m not limited to limitations.

Where without being judged, I can explore the world of imaginary creations.

Where I can make my dark light beautifully lit.

Here, I can be a fit Misfit.

Here, a place of possible impossibilities.

I’m VISUALLY IMPAIRED!

I see beyond the sight of sights.

I see beyond the darkest lights.

Written by; OLUWAJUWON (THE SCRIBE).

THE ROAD FROM YESTERDAY.

(Boko-haram-inspired)

Was it not yesterday?

Yesterday whose nipples ripened with a bountiful harvest.

Yesterday was our day before the world fell at our feet.

At the deafening sounds from afar.

Off our feet, off our beds, we scampered.

Wives ran south, Husbands, north in a hurry.

Nor did children see fathers, upon to lean.

At that point, to nobody was selfishness a sin.

It was a fight of who could win.

Detached limbs hit us like Cain.

The air turned fiery with explosions and blood.

Our lands became a field of tattered flesh.

We ran, not a minute of breath to fetch.

Some ran into the 'boko-haramic' den, blasted

Others, into worse surprises, forever wasted.

The ships of our lives capsized.

Our lives never remained the same-

After that night they came,

They were the “boko haram”

Who disguised as the “salam salam”

To blow off our lives alarm.

Our distant yesterday, we crave.

We crave healing for the dried nipples of Nigeria.

Healing for our hoods and areas.

We hope for the whitening of our bloodied streams.

We hope for the outburst of genuine beams.

Written by; OLUWAJUWON (THE SCRIBE).