Eye Contact (Hour 12)

Eye contact becomes virtually impossible

Yet my breathe speaks aloud from where I sit

Easels of my sketches are filled with your alluring outline


Congenial company is all I want

On roads paved with sweets scents and deep sighs

Nothing pleases me more than when your amity circuit lights up my senses

Tons of obstacles will only end up amplifying my breathe

As I cannot speak with my eyes as I wish

Caught now behind the bars of your heart

To remain for as long as you lift your face for your eyes to meet mine

Auckland (Hour 11)

I dream of my one thousandth poem

So the end of the world would be nice to see

That’s what comes to mind when Auckland creeps into it


For a whole weekend that won’t ever end

I can live there to scribble

My one thousandth poem


I will invite organic plants to whisper sicknesses away

Condition the air to be served as wholesome meals

Halt the communication networks and let essence speak to me instead

Ask my ink to stop producing blank manuscripts


These are stuff that come to mind when Auckland creeps into it

So the end of the world would be nice to see


Will you come too?

So you can ask love not to ever take to its heels?

So you can see my exhibitions of snow cold, desert heat, and wild rain?

All bottled up and served only when needed?


I dream of my one thousandth poem

And end of the world would be nice to see

That’s what comes to mind when Auckland creeps into it



Indeterminate (Hour 10)

I should walk beside my shadow; it is mine

Not minding that it should be the one walking beside me

Dark on the lane, it ought not to be seen

Entrails of the road finds a blend with it

To claim I do not know my shadow is to disrespect poetry

Engendering a war not worth fighting


Redolent of a time hanging in the balance

My senses comes to a consensus, seeking meaning in all fine influences

In search of what should be the definition of time

Not that I cannot recognize the shape of my shadow

Anguish must not wield a weapon against the life I know

Twilight cannot become the mother of the day

Ephemeral manifestations will not cut my shadow lose; it remains mine

Lockdown in Lagos (Hour 9)

Three months…

Like a plane speeding away on an endless runway

These three months won’t take off

I’ve been stuck on this plane

Little wonder I had to stick my neck out

Stealing out of my neighbourhood only three times

The streets I used to know are full of ninja people

Faces trapped in masks

Distances widened like the ten lanes

Make-ups tossed into the dustbin of irrelevance


Now, I have been dealing with that


So the plane takes off, but the runway won’t stop

We are going to land in the city of Zoom

We are going to leave the office spirit behind

To berth like lone mushrooms in vast forests

Again, the faces are trapped in masks

Even in Zoom rooms


I don’t know if I can deal with that


You’ll have to unveil your face

Let it be as bare as it can be

I can’t afford to lose it in the office

Lose it on the streets

Lose it on screen

Not after our pant pockets stole all of our handshakes


How can I deal with that?


This plane is already too stuffy as it is

My hair is overgrown too, like an umbrella over my head

Go ahead and invoke a blank page in the constitution

Scribble a new sub-section and call it the new normal

I will deposit no further coin in the bank of lethargy

Season of Recompense (Hour 7)

A litany of fatalities

Lives to berth new lives


The evaporation of jobs

Splashes the tributaries of new possibilities


The futility of wanton apostasy

Paves way for the evolution of purity


The incertitude of governments

Exposes a new trajectory of verity


The confusion of a world on edge

Yields a mixed foetus of acceptance


The ravaging of the fires

Produces new fabrics of togetherness


The earth itches in terrible torrents

Upholding signs of healing to come


In this season soaked

In a latent call for recompense





Crests and Troughs (Hour 5)

The pinnacle of the cliff

Holds my view stiff


Along the trough, the boat is empty

Gentle in its sail, its promise is scanty


At that frightening top, I am closer to the sky

They said it’s the limit, to the earth I won’t say bye


Oh I love jumping down, there is fun in the risk

If the boat is on a pool of tears, I’d rather shelf my risk


The knack to navigate the peaks and valleys

Gives me a sense of what should be in my grocery trolleys


All said; for choice I’ll stay at the peak

That will keep my bird pointing to the sky with its beak



The Lost Words (Hour 4)

Jisike, you are the friend who chose to foldaway


Truth found us in the beginning

Its presence, unwelcome

Its garment of honour, invisible

The invitation to the unity of birth, void


But we tarried


We were nascent beings, volatile and transient

We stood always with hairs in the sky

If we have a date with truth tonight again

They will be rehearsing our beautiful songs


And you chose to travel


Truth will find us midway still

Truth will find us in the end

Those beautiful songs must sing themselves

Those dreams built on sand dunes will remain

Not to be buried in the cemetery of lost words


The Boss is a Lie (Hour 3)

Clean suit on straight lovely pants

Screaming tie, transforming into a noose

An Italian leather briefcase ejects a suffocating Mac laptop

Spreadsheets pop out multiple eight-digit figures

A lean workforce trembles, a fat board expects

All sat, listening to slides brimming with lies


In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while


Profit is squatting nearby, seeking a new abode

The workforce is dying, beaten ill by the boss’ ire

The boss’ SUV outside exudes pity, unable to help

The board has slept with juicy tales all year long

All sat, waiting for the pregnant magic of transformation

But the spreadsheet figures are not adding up, they won’t

The board is spitting eight-digit curses upon the payroll

Profit is standing afar, winking at new spinsters


In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while


The meeting disperses like the aftermath of war

The bourgeois boss sheds tears under the corporate almond tree

The pillars will collapse like a weak house in the woods

It’s time to redeem the lies, to roll up the sleeves

But the beaten workforce will care no more

And the boss feels the biting hollowness of the pyramid top


In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while