Broken

“A couplet before I start 

To take you down this dreary path:

“It is better to build than to break

will do whatever the heart says.”

SURVIVORS guilt. Some blood has been spilled. Yes! Secrets. Secrets. Who heard? Who revealed? Many left with a zeal; Many others with returned without a meal. Still, the homes are all Ill. The reality is real: the country is broken, but the future can be birthed from only ONE ovary. 

West. East. North. South. All do you best, if you please. By all means, feed hungry mouths. For we still sell our votes, and along with it our wisdom. After all, all must chop Shebi na turn by turn?  Igbo. Yoruba. Northerner. Middle belt. South-South. All the zones. This country is not a food serving home. The pot is strong, and the stew is sweet. But once it breaks, then the children would weep. 

God. Allah. Esu. Science. I don’t believe all; I mind my business. Let the ignorant die in silence. At the ‘last day’ we shall open our souls to see for themselves. We shall know whether to kill was to love, and to discriminate was to be clean, and whether unity worshipped a particular God, or whether God has a type he would save: Christian. Moslem. Traditionalist. Free minded? I too cannot say. 

Ego. Owo. Kudi. Give me a bank account and let me sell my brother for it to be filled. And if you’re not pleased,  I’d trade you mine. After all the new anthem: Wetin We Gain, if we live and spend all our time without gaining that luxury we dreamed of from age nine. 

Murder. Steal. Anything for a meal. Denounce your family for a mil, if you will. Break anything, any law, any code, anything to get you that dream home. Break society and its bones. Sell its body for 30 silver pieces and leave nothing left except its pieces. 

Death. Sleep. Suffering. Time. All a man must take many a time, except one. The one that he takes only once. It reaps. It rips. Osama Bin Laden. Dele Giwa. What do we have when we leave to give back? Like Wizkid, Fever? Sexual Perversion? Tiwa? What would our lives mean at the end, if we didn’t leave anything on the plate, but left it to break? 

In about five years

Dear future me, 

I hope this is reaching you now by 2023. I can only imagine the state of life you are in rn. The political clime and Nigeria’s myriad of prospects and problems. Anyways, this is something I’m writing from five years ago. I know you’d be interested in this.  
As I begun to write this, that your favourite 2007 hit single from Asa, No One Knows Tomorrow, hit me. 

“…Tomorrow is your opportunity to fail

  Or be successful if you wish to

   Tomorrow, Tomorrow Oh Oh…” 

You’d remember how when as a kid, you’d spend time with Chibueze, your elder brother, fantasizing about a future filled with luxury mansions that were fit to be even called “smart homes” (they were not even trendy then), and how both of you would fill your bellies with ripe sweet dreams and hope that someday you give birth to them in reality.

Wherever you are at this point, reading this, just remember: No one knows tomorrow, but you can know the one who knows tomorrow, and ‘no matter how long it’ll take, never worry for with God no dream is wasted.’ At this point know that I believe in you, and wherever you are now keep believing in you. 

In the next five years I’m not hoping that I’d be the biggest communication professional with two degrees in the same field and from prestigious schools, or a world renowned musician with several record awards, or even an AMVCA award winning actor and movie maker or even a wealthy politician climbing the rocks of politics in the executive arm of government. No, I don’t want to be all that and even more. 

I don’t want to be successful, if my success is only for myself or for my immediate friends/family’s benefit. I don’t want to eat from the national cake, if I can’t help to bake larger ones that can feed the less privileged ones that have mouths too like me. I don’t want success, if it is going to be a birthmark of selfishness. No! I want a life where I can share my life, every minute of my life; where I can show love to others and receive love likewise; where Wetin I gain dey pay pass moni. A life of love, of peace, and of happiness. A life of true success. 

I want to share my art with every ounce of blood in my veins to help society be a better place. 

In about five years from now, I want to read this piece and be glad I ever wrote it. 

Look future me, It doesn’t matter where you are now, just keep the dream afloat and keep walking with God, afterall you know say you no fit miss road with am. 
In about five years, please write another letter to your future self. He’d be waiting to receive it. 
Godspeed, 

Yourself, fiveYearsYounger.

Cancer

​

Photo: Bayo Owosina/Instagram

“MOMMY, I love you so much,” ten-year-old Tanko said softly as his eyes pierced his mother’s heart. “Don’t worry I’ll paint you and Daddy in my drawing book, and  myself too riding my bicycle that Daddy bought for me chasing my Dog Bala around the garden.” He tried to laugh, but his mother knew that he was struggling to hide the pain. 

The next doctor’s visit for the Abubakars was their most dreaded. They knew it was either they did the surgery or they kept him  on the injections they knew weren’t working. They had called the priest hours earlier to pray over their choice. They trusted only in God now who was their only succor. 

“He’s a wonder kid you know,” the doctor said, “I wonder how he has pulled through so strong. Many kids his age wouldn’t be able to do so well as him. He’s going to beat it Madam Hamza. I know.” 

“Doctor, we pray, and we always believe he would be fine. We just can’t bear to see him in so much pain,” Mr. Danko Abubakar tried resisting the tears, but they flowed freely. He couldn’t hold it anymore. 

“Mr. Abubakar, I just know it would be fine. The specialist has flown in from Chicago yesterday. He’s ready to begin the procedure. I can assure you it would be fine.” 

“Nothing must happen to him doctor. He’s my only child. I carried him for nine months and I fed him from these breasts,” she patted her chest softly. “I can’t lose him doctor. Please save my son,” she cried.

There was nothing Doctor Bala could say anymore. All he knew was that the procedure would work. All he knew. 

Whether it was the doctor’s reassurances that little Tanko would get well, or the priest’s comforting words that there was peace awaiting him now on the other side or the fact that he left with a smile on his face. They didn’t want to question fate, even if they didn’t understand it. Their grief tore them away from any delusion they had borne about these things – pain, loss, and regret. All they wanted to remember now was his final words to them.

“Mummy, Daddy, if I go, please give my bicycle to Aminu who lives two houses from us. He really loves to ride my bicycle.

 “Don’t worry, I would paint your picture there to show everybody up there so they would see how preety my Mummy is and how strong my Daddy is.”

They couldn’t fathom his sense of maturity or strength, but they knew that as he had showed them. 

 Love is the best drug, strong enough to beat any cancer, whether physical or emotional. 

Overdose

#15daywritingchallengeday7

KEJI walked briskly through the food traders in Boundary market. She hurried to buy the vegetables for Lami’s dinner tonight. She had told the driver to keep the engine running, and with it her desire. Tonight would be special, she thought to herself. He would finally forgive her after everything. Egusi and Pounded yam always did the trick, his mother had told her. 

***

“Good morning baby. Rise and shine,” She hummed her favourite song, Davido’s Assurance, as she dropped the ash coloured tray carrying some bread toast, scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee on his laps. 

He looked at the tray and cried out in surprise,”Baby you shouldn’t have. ”

“Anything for my baby boo.” She pecked him on the cheek and slumped into the bed. 

“Oh, you’re just the best.” He ate rapidly, and as he ate, she started again:”Baby, I’m really remorseful. Please find it in your good heart to forgive me. I won’t ever let it happen again.” 

He kissed her and held her two hands firmly. “I have already forgotten it b. I trust you and I know this was the last time.” 

***

“Keji! Keji!!’ He yelled angrily. 

” Pele Oko mi, shey ko si?” She rushed out of her room that sunny Saturday afternoon, panicking. 

“How could you?”

“What are you talking about?”

He showed her her phone screen, and as she saw the pictures she bit her lip in regret. She had forgot to lock her phone, forgetting she told him her password after the last time. 

“Baby I didn’t really mean to. I am so sorry,” she knelt down, crying. 

“Shut up! You lying slut! How could you? What does this Muyideen guy have that I haven’t given you? Oh! is it because he is an athlete? Is that it? Is that why he should be seeing my wife’s naked pictures? Is that it?! Answer me, You slut!

” I trusted you, but now I know I was wrong.” He left the house, in anger, to his only source of solace since she started her cheating escapades. 

***

“Hello” he sounded calm now on the phone. 

“Baby where are you?” Keji asked, tensed. 

“Nevermind,” his teary eyes flushed red as he spoke. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m done.” He heard her crying as he hung up the call, but he didn’t care again. He just couldn’t suffer it anymore.

He took the one kilo sack of cannabis from his pouch. Nobody ever knew he carried it there. The purple thing looked as innocent as the staunch Christian carrier. But even Christians too face trouble, he thought. At least drugs was better than cheating. He looked his watch and then downed the greenish liquid in one sweep. 

***

“Hello?” The voice of the caller sounded tense. 

“Yes, who’s this?” Keji replied, curiously. 

“Is this the wife of Mr. Lima Okereke?”

 “Yes that’s me,” she sounded scared. 

“You need to rush down to Lagos University Teaching Hospital. Your husband has just been rushed here by some people who found him unconscious at a bar. You need to come quickly.”

“Oh my Gosh,” she couldn’t think straight,”Okay ermm. Who are you? what’s your name?”

“I’m Nurse Abigail. You need to hurry.” The call dropped. 

She ransacked her hair first, then her bag looking for her keys as she rushed outside. “Oh Lord please save him.” A tear rolled down her eyes.  

Untalented

​#15daywritingchallenge

 ‘What’s the matter? Why are you sad? Isn’t this the opportunity you’ve always wanted? Write man! Scribble something, or do you want him to take you for a quack?

 He’s waiting!’ The voice in my head kept preventing the rhythms from coming into my mind. I stared and stammered inside my mind, yet no lyrics. I sighed. Two minutes gone. A songwriting audition with Don Jazzy was a dream come true, now would that dream just slip away from my reality’s grasp? ‘Oh Lord! Please help, I muttered.

I watched and watched as the crowd lit up in glee with their eyes down the whole auditorium. Was this really me? I didn’t even know. ‘Obeezy’ they yelled. Was this really me? I didn’t truly know. 

Few years ago, I never thought myself bold or talented enough to mount this stage. I had frequently toured the streets of my life with my degree of  low esteem in search of an opportunity, but now I’ve gone back to the classroom and learned now that I am all I believe I am: talented or quack. 

‘What’s going on?’ I asked him as a tear dropped out of my sore eye. ‘What do you mean, Obee?’

 ‘Didn’t you see the way they all yelled my name out there? Do you think that was really me they love that much?’ I pressed further. 

He laughed. Perhaps he sensed my shock. Perhaps it was my immaturity in this lifestyle. 

‘Obee, that was never really you on that stage. The you I know you know is a shy, lazy, cowardly, untalented quack truly incapable of wowing even himself – the you you always thought yourself to be, before now. Now, you know that is a lie you’ve told yourself all along. Obee you’re the lie you tell yourself you are, or the truth you believe you are. 

‘Now, are you ready to mount the next stage of your life, or are you ready to remain a invincible talent never to shine in the sky among the stars of your kind?’ 

I was just about to say yes when he tapped me. I had slept off after writing a verse. Don Jazzy had entered the studio and was sitting there looking at me.

 ‘Hey, na so you wan write your song abi na what?’ He said. ‘No sir! I’m ready!’