Wednesday, 8 March 2017


Korea and japan was on heat,
Just my little wonder of why,
Just a day, a day that even the medulla of time forgot to forget, not special actually,
I was a half innocent boy; and nature was already bloating the
Girls of my age into bigger quiches, Girls such as nilyhumer, Jedy, kumbi,
kukoyi, seyi, and Helen the girl that wrestled with the thug boys,
But I could only dream about not dreaming about the dreads of maturity.
Already I knew wale, femi, wole the friend from kogi that told me about okoli
And oloruntoba the guy that executed the innocent culver,
(owned by the native midwife beside bolafoluwa)
Then I didn’t know trust and Dorcas, don-sacra, emeritus,
wunmi, fisy, tosihne, damsel, Mutato the O-Dboy,
MRA and makybaba my great allies,
wese and kelvin the father of pencils and colors,
And abdulafeez the great Yoruba eulogist.

Now it is 6 : 10 am,
My father whispered my name, reminded me of the murder of my color choreography with land
- my school nicker and the grasses,
He said the grasses should be mown into green humility and
Rest their back on some already executed teenage grasses,
Hurriedly, I would deliberately thrust the greens upward like I was
Into something special whenever those bigger girls were passing by,
That was the day I wanted to learn how to fit my sit into the long eyed crustacean
How to push senior wicked’s car from his note book to the high way,
And how to buy with 5 naira and bring 60 naira change.
In my composition were several their for there and there for their,
Some of the playful boys in school were making faces,
Trying to dilute my stern with a pinch of smile,
Gbofua the special one whose nose could talk was grimacing his face omnidirectionally,
He can close his eyes and see with perhaps his eardrum , how? In that he can
Eavesdrop even the silent soliloquy Of darkness
In the night Blinded by the gradual death of moonlit
Like a vampire bat, seem like he was using echolocation.
Still him, he voiced for the chairs and architraves,
Badly talented, as it were – a puppeteer really.

Now it is 1 : 00 pm, - on my way home with fiends and friends,
Some mouths held a razor sharp knife and slaughtered
The interest of several children in religion, Begriming their
Lives while whiffling from wooers to banana talks and
To several other rubbish,
We would smile our love and touch the garment of the sensitive plants,
We saw them fold inside their dread for dying, immediately,
My left leg swiftly yanked my falling bread sauced with babadudu ,
who sent it, But am grateful though.
Subsequently, I was trying to drop my net album of hurricane into a woodwind
Of pawpaw stock, my neck bloated like void rocks without inner
Rigidly bouncing like overfed tyres at the verge of beginning.
Later, we saw that the children of those maidens at 28 are now having children,
And the liquid child in their children are stocked in traffics in pipes,
This liquid would cry as they trail the waters in zigzag to the cesspit – a crying child with no hope.
I was only concerned about Nature and his athletic brothers – the animals ,
I thought about the “ so called lion and hunter game” with my brother,
I felt Maybe the acacia would talk through speakers of songbirds, thrush specifically.
and eat the delicacy of phosphorus, And their childish
stolon would do the same in the understory, mothered by the canopies.
When I got home I saw some youthful bodies scattered all over our living room,
The bodies of French players disembowelled on the pitch by my debutant Senegalese friends,
Silver, diouf, and camara had a defeat.

In warm up for Nigeria’s doom by batistuta.
I know the boys would understand that.
It Was a Wonderful day really.
And more about that day, a day in my mental diary,
Oh sorry, those bodies were seen on the TV, Makelele, Henry, Pires,...
- Just about 3:45 pm

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