A LETTER TO MR POTENTIAL

Dear 'Friend',

I do not know if I have been a true friend, because for sometime now I have been that hammer with a mouthpiece that has relentlessly delivered blows of discouragement upon the frayed tissues of your quivering heart.

I am the one that stared at your at reflection in the mirror of tenacity and spat bile on your face as you tried to face every facet of the phases that faced your face.

Forgive me if you choose, for applying the safety catch when your muscle steadied the muzzle and the bulls eye was scribbling its Will.

I told you the beautiful was not good and screamed that the good was not beautiful, leaving you single, lonely and miserable.

I am that manacle of doubt around your anxious ankles- nailing down...holding back...restraining your feet teetering at the sea of bliss.

It is I that advised you to grasp at her shadow as the substance of Lady Fortune sauntered by.

I was the clamp that shut your lips from glorious oratory and drew from your unwilling tongue the spittle of unsolicited inanity.

I plead guilty to announcing your youth at the dimming dusk and made your grey prance at infantile dawn.

I am the enemy that welcomed you to early bedtime and left you lying listless at the vibrancy of sunrise.

I punched you in the nose and forbade you to bleed.

.....But if you would keep your passion ablaze, then I'd be as powerful as dew upon a rock basking in the tropical sun.

You must kill me, that you may live!

Yours Unfaithfully,

SELF.

KUNLE OMOPE

pic credit- merrillk.com

THE PICTURE

The Picture stood before me, behind me and within me. I stared at its eyes and it wrapped my soul.

Then a road parted like a sea within The Picture...It drew me in and the world disappeared from behind me.

The wind undressed my foresight and I pleasured in the nudity of my desires.

In my birth-robe, I bathed under the waterfalls that trickled voluptuously via the vulva of verisimilitude.

Yes, I was watered with wet wishes and teased with missed kisses...all within The Picture.

The Picture, without walls, The Picture, without boundaries, The Picture without laws!

I couldn't climb out, crawl through or clamber down...because there was no ground and I had lost my shoes, my feet, my will to take flight.

I only had with me, voiceless screams and mindless thoughts from a thoughtless mind.

And no sooner had Bliss sent a mail…that I found myself standing before the Picture.

The Picture stood there, and I stand here.

Then, I realized that The Picture is just a picture.

KUNLE OMOPE.

*insomnialeavemealone*!!!

pic credit- genius.com

FROOFASI THE CITY HUSTLER - 1

****THE TORTOISE HURRIES HOME*****

My name is Froofasi, don't ask where I am from. I am a city hustler, forget about what I do. I am standing with a huge crowd at the bus stop awaiting the next bus. The sun is frying my head and hunger is dancing shoki in my stomach.

The bus appears from a distance and we all sprint toward it.

Surprisingly a woman straddling a toddler to her back outruns all of us in Okagbare stylee and is seated in the front row behind the driver before I find a space beside her.

The unexpected race increases the hungry dance steps in my belly.

The bus moves and another problem begins. The little boy straddled to Okagbare's back starts to cry aloud. Some of the dancers in my stomach move to my head and they start a march parade.

Everybody in the bus kept throwing pieces of advice at the mother of the child.

"Give am breast nah", said an old woman from the back seat.

"Abi na heat dey worry am?", a bushy mouthed man added.

I looked angrily at the weeping and wailing child, wishing he was an adult so that I could teach him a lesson or two on being a public nuisance.

I quickly plugged my ears with my head phones and set Dorobucci by Don Jazzy and his noisy family on repeat play.

A few minutes later, i noticed almost everyone in the bus were dozing while sweating in the standstill traffic. I then cast a look at the tiny terrorist and he was busy nibbling at edges of a GALA sausage roll. My mouth watered as the little rascal eyed me pitifully as if he knew I didn't have a dime on me asides my t-fare . His mum was fast asleep and she also held an unopened GALA sausage roll in her hand, the neat packaging causing more trouble to my life..

"Chai! Man no fit thief", I thought to myself. I quickly reached a decision that no matter when this tortoise of a traffic gets me home, I must knock at, beg or even break down Ali's kiosk. The dancers in my stomach have doubled and na GALA na im fit do am.

Written by:

KUNLE OMOPE

UNTITLED COULD IT BE?

****** UNTITLED ******

If our hearts be deluged

In life's lather of love

And thorny tortuous thoughts

Flame up in fiery fires of friendship

When human hues paint humility

Like a rainbow asleep in the fields,

Then will guns hide their faces

And bullets shall be stillborn,

Peace 'll peep from curtains of war

Savouring stews seasoned with smiles.

KUNLE OMOPE.

Inspired by the movie: BEASTS OF NO NATION.

WORDSLAYER

Hell breaks in my shell

A storm brews in my gut

So I implode to explode

Can you face my coming?

Cos the fire within these balls

Have been stroked and stoked,

Yes, this canon has been poked

And now it chokes, belching smoke,

Burning blokes who are but jokes.

The she they bring is a word,

Asking me if I be a rapper.?

Why wrap her, when I can rape her,

Why smite word, why not slay her?

Cos I aint no Wordsmith but Wordslayer.

You brag here and bring iniquity there

I tread the paths of bragganiquity.

Note: My dear friends, you see what a hot plate of spaghetti and an iced bottle of Coke can do on a Sunday afternoon.

‪#‎Itayaformyself.

ONCE AGAIN

***** ONCE AGAIN ******

Once again,

Can these fingers spurt words,

That can make the tortoise shame the gazel?

Once again,

Can these words concoct a brew,

Of tsunamis and icicles in the Sahara?

Once again,

Can this pen scream on Earth,

And hear echoes in Neptune?

Once again,

Can this ink bleed blazing ballistic bonfires,

And unfreeze the high hills of Antartica?

Once again,

Can this randy Wordsmith,

Find a rendezvous for his horny Muse?

#Got_Answers?

KUNLE OMOPE

Photo- tofehuntingsafaris.com

RAIN NOLSTALGIA

******** RAIN NOSTALGIA *******

Not too long when ago when blokes and babes were boyz and galz, rain was joy.

Free from the news of floods, mud didn't sling and terrorists only existed on the pages of George Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island.

The rains would chill the starry nights and we would sleep wrapped in our mamas' tie and dye wrappers.

Then morning would arrive like a cheery August guest.

Anticipation would thump in our little chests, resonating like the talking drums of the tribal marked entertainers at Ipodo market.

The contest of the winning boy with the most swollen plastic bag of freely picked almonds, then known as 'froot' for ignorance of the real name, was determined by whose parents would leave for work the earliest.

Then the race would begin. The old secretariat at Ikeja was our Eden.

Almond trees were in abundance and the winds of the previous rainy night would have carpeted the ground with a surplus of ripe almonds...red, lemon green and yellow.

And we would pick, taste, discard and fill up our nylons bags with the spoils of nature's internal war on herself for our munchy benefit.

Returning home richer than we left, the older area broses who were on retirement from our kinda adventures will look at us with pride in their eyes and a longing for the sour-sweet taste of our almonds.

And of course, we'd share our 'booty' with our respected predecessors. Our payment being pats on the head.

The gorging fun will now commence, as teeth sank into fleshy pulps and the fruity sweetness exploding in salivary orgasms in our mouth. Orgasms that shook our brains and blasted our hearts with colours.

Juice ran down the sides of our mouths and our eyes were shut tight as if to prevent the ecstasy from escaping.

Such was the beauty of my boyhood!

Almond flesh relished, we moved on to the hard seed, which we cracked open with big stones and got the peanut- looking, divine-tasting nuts therein.

These nuts were either eaten solo and as an accompaniment with garri soaked in cold water..

Our throats didn't itch. Our bellies didn't ache and our anuses didn't run from this heavenly delicacy served upon our tables in the presence of our enemies...bacteria, viruses, fungi, nematodes and protozoans.

And we didn't die...and isn't it obvious from this storyteller that has dragged you through his wordsturbation on rain nostalgia?

Have a great day folks.

KUNLE OMOPE.

Photo from pinterest.com

FRIENDLY FRED

******* FRIENDLY FRED *********

Fred is our friend. He is always in our business. He makes us happy, or so he thinks he does. We make him happy, or so he thinks we do.

He passes by and says hi, and gets a sigh. He hollers at others, even when they don't bother to shrug a shoulder in response.

Fred barges into conversations and spills without reservations, because this is the only consolation for his isolation.

While it is yet midnight, before the day births, it's a friend's birthday. And his day does not birth until he says happy birthday.

Inevitably, the battery drains...and like one with pain in an artery, he struggles to say hello to one last fellow.

Phone red, NEPA dead, he falls in a heap on his bed, deep in sleep.

Some hours later, light comes....fan blows...heavy breathing slows...pool of drool dries.

Phone charges. A notification barges into his slumber, and Fred is alive again.

He grabs his phone and go visiting his friends all over again.

Are you Fred?

YET, HE DREAMS

** YET, HE DREAMS ***

The sun awakes

And yawns

With warm breath

That kills the sleep

In his eyes

He breasts the tape

Of a the foggy dawn

And thoughts climb out

Of the burrows in his mind.

They twist and turn

And hold hands as one.

Then they...

Shoot forth from his bosom

Into the mirror

Of tomorrow.

His luxuriantly maned Belle,

smiles through a rising Eden

Of steel and glass...and gold.

His tongue mired

In a banquet of orchards.

And parched thirst quenched

In a deluge of red milk

From the teats of vineyards

Glossy well fed stallions

With rubber hooves

And succulent humps

Jealously haggle

To bear aloft

The weight of his buttocks

Tomorrow's king is scourged.

His back carry merciless welts

From the whip of sun rays.

He bends and toils,

Planting beads of sweat

Into the soil of tomorrow

As the sun drowns,

Swallowed

By the grey horizon,

He stands on knees

And falls on palms

Crawling like a lizard,

He makes his bed

Under the bridge

At Ojuelegba.

KUNLE OMOPE

Photo from vagabondish.com

JOHN THABO

John Thabo has been angry for as long as he could remember. He grew up with his poor mother and a father that was never seen or known.

As a child, he was always the butt of jokes of his peers. They would poke him hard in the ribs and laughed themselves silly as he tried in vain to chase after his tormentors.

John Thabo, had a bad leg, the left was about 9inches shorter than the right.

His mother told him, he got his legs from his father and everytime he looked down at his left leg, he murdered her many times in his heart for getting pregnant for a one-and-a half legged bastard.

Walking to and from school was a torturous task and he dreamed of the day he would be free from walking long distances...or working at all.

Adulthood came quickly and his anger increased.

He became a street boy. J. Thabo lost many fights, evidenced by his many scars. He blamed and cursed his bad leg everyday.

He needed to prove his toughness...his manhood, he decided that he must kill a man..just any man.

The screams from a large crowd outside J.Thabo's house roused him from his sleep. He rushed out to meet a man sprawled on the ground in a pool of his blood. Machete cuts had made his face unrecognisable.

The leader of the crowd which happened to be a xenophobic lynch mob was emptying a gallon of gasoline on the dying man.

J. Thabo's blood grew hot and he rushed into his room to get a matchbox.

His opportunity had come to spill some blood...to take life out of a man...to satiate the bloodlust of the old demon residing in his heart. Someone had to pay for God's sin of giving him a bad father, who gave him nothing but an inherited bad leg.

He pushed the mob leader aside and held the matchbox like a weapon. The mob cheered him on.

He struck a matchstick and threw it on the bloodied man. Flames immediately enveloped the victim.

As if this was a fresh suffering he needed to escape from, the burning man sprang to his feet and the mob scattered. In his final struggle with death, the burning man ran after J.Thabo, who threw away the match box and attempted an escape on his bad leg.

He tried, but as he looked back he saw the burning man coming after him. It became a fruitless irony as J.Thabo noticed the burning man had a bad leg too and ran just like him.

The dying man caught up with the fleeing murderer and hugged him from behind.

As both men went up in flames, J.Thabo remembered his mother's words, "John, someday you'll find happiness in your twin brother".

Africans, we are all family.

#stopxenophobia

KUNLE OMOPE.

Photo from jitisi.wordpress

OF TIMELORDS AND FIRE-EATERS

** OF TIMELORDS AND FIRE-EATERS **

Talents abound all around us. But there are so many that have remained untapped. I shall quickly tell you about two of the ones I have noticed.

1. *** TIMELORDS ***

There are these rare species of human beings whom without antennas sticking out of their heads like cockroaches , can pick up subtle and subliminal aromas in the air, even when they are many miles away from the arena of the main event.

Sorry if I lost you there. I mean those set of peeps who walk into your house/room as soon as your pot of food is climbing down the fire.

Some of them even have so much faith in this 'divine' gift of theirs that they carry spoons around in their pockets!

"Greater faith hath no man like a timelord"

RECOMMENDATION: I suggest that the incoming government employ these timelords to sniff out public officers who have just finished cooking a pot of red stew corruptio-pepperoni.

Sai GMB, take note.

2. *** FIRE-EATERS ***

They aren't magicians but magicians envy their talents.

In my opinion, a freshly cooked pot of beans is a good reminder of what hell fire will be like. Yet, some guys are so skilled at swallowing spoonfuls of hot beans, hot rice, hot porridge..or flaming balls of eba, semo and even the almighty fiery amala.

They accomplish this feat with no tears in their eyes or smoke rising up from their ears.

If you have had the unfortunate opportunity of feasting with them from the same bowl, you fittint belleful, lai lai!!

RECOMMENDATION: These kind of people will function well, if selected as members of the jury to try corrupt politicians, as I am sure that whatever shred of mercy resident in their hearts have gone through the fire.

Sai GMB take note again.

So if you have any of these talents, I congratulate you. A great political appointment awaits you.

KUNLE OMOPE.

Photo- gastrolust.com

SUSANNA

                                                             ******* SUSANNA *******

Dear Susanna,

Here is the man in this man that the woman in your woman has made, seeking for the woman in the woman that the man in this man has made?

Like a mason, you built up my faith with your loving words, but my impatience tore your hopes apart like a frayed rag.

When my soul was famished, the soft touch of your bossomy embrace was my appetiser, even as the dovey gaze in your eyes fed me full, and your kisses upon my teary cheeks was the dessert that my heart hungrily craved.

When my tattered sandals shamed the man in me, you took off your shoes, to make my feet seem more fortunate as you walked barefoot beside me upon the flaming sands of Takwa Bay.

You assured me of being by my side for a lifetime, but my doubts stabbed your affections and my confidence bled out like the wounds of a dying warrior.

I ran away from you, Susanna. Like a gypsy, I travelled far and left no trace.

You were too beautiful to suffer...too beautiful to eat from my wooden plate of impoverished fate.

I ran away, that you may be free of me....so that a worthy prince may cart you away.

But my dear Susanna, your words were true. I rode through storms and hit gold. Your prayers were answered, the winds of the earth brought me fortunes.

And now, they swarm around me. They say plastic words through crimson lips. They drool over my snakeskin shoes that cover the ugly toes that you so caressed with gentle care.

But I want none of their smoky lust..all I want is you, Susanna.

Susanna, my first, my true, my only, my love...where art thou?

Today, I shall leave all my wealth behind and let the sea break her fast with my shoes.

I shall walk upon the flaming sands of Takwa Bay.

I shall scream your name into the ears of the boisterous waves and they shall echo my anguished cry in search of you, my love.

I shall walk, and walk, and walk and never return until I find you my dear Susanna.

I shall walk...and walk...and walk....and wal...and wa....and w.....

KUNLE OMOPE

Photo from pixshark.com

6 WORD STORIES

1. Plane crashed. All survived. Ghosts town.

2. Farts piss the shit outta me.

3. War ends. Conquerors, childless. Victors, vanquished.

4. He rode. She screamed. Horse sped.

5. Kiss to cheek, fangs to neck.

6. Matric. Frat. Tears rain over grave.

7. Wasn't looking. Baby shits. Delicious soup!

8. Lifts naked baby. "Hello". Drinks pee.

9. He drove, she rode. Two corpses.

10. A brothel. His father, his bride. —

MARIJUANA

Marijuana,

Canabis,

Pot,

Dope,

Igbo,

Ganja,

Sinsemilla,

Mary Ja(y)ne,

Esskay,

Skunk,

SK,

Kpoli,

Tafe,

Ewe ola

Lemon,

Choko,

Smoke,

Weed,

Hemp,

Spliff,

Indo......

......all these names refer to a drug made from a plant whose leaves are harvested and dried, artfully rolled up in a rolling paper, lit up with a flame and smoked through the mouth for a number of reasons...ranging from the truth to myths; superstitions to old uncles' tales; wordaroundtown to streetsagacity...even well spiced and spruced gibberish and balderdash on the internet.

So much stuff have been written about this mystery grass- some of them lofty...some stemming from prejudiced opinions...some outrightly stupid!!!

Marijuana has the ability to...

...Make stale akara taste like freshly made shawarma,

...Make mouldy Agege bread taste like freshly baked pizza,

...Make watery sugarless akamu taste like chilled cranberry juice,

...Make a night market in Ajegunle with kerosene lamps everywhere look like the streets of Las Vegas..

...Make a staircase appear on the expressway.

....Make an octogenarian look like Tonto Dike,

....Make the mouth perpetually hungry even when the stomach is bursting with uberbellefullness.

...Make you laugh yourself to tears even when there is no joke.

..Make eyes red as a baboon's rump and mouths dry as unprocessed ponmo,

....Marijuana can do many wonderful things.

Anyways, I don't know much, but this one thing I know, I am gonna tell ya.

Smoking marijuana is like a journey toward a cliff. Some will take a few steps and quickly realise, then stop.

Some will walk quickly toward the cliff and take a detour to the land of addiction.

While some will walk toward the cliff and fall headlong, splattering onto welcoming rocks of insanity.

Now, there is no way to know who will take this suicidal journey before their first drag of smoke.

Just like a lotto advert once said "e fit be you o!"

Yes, you may have heard that it makes some people smarter, read better, more alert, understand more clearly, become more confident.....but then you have to embark on the journey first to discover how it would work for you.

The outcome of your journey toward the cliff is not what you can determine.

You may just be the one to fall off the cliff!

Marijuana is very common around us...more common than mosquitoes and I am sure that if you know the right direction to walk, a seller is less than a 15minute walk from where you are right now.

My young friends,

THE RISK IS TOO RISKY TO RISK!

You can do all you need to do to be that superstar you see in your dreams...YOU CAN WITHOUT MARIJUANA !

Trust me on this...YOU CAN!

Be blessed.

KUNLE OMOPE

OSHAKASUSU

*** OSHAKASUSU *****

Before your tomb,the wind chokes

O Oshakasusu the conqueror!

Even the rainbow turbaned lilies,

Wilt from the fetid breath of your bed.

You who had spirits for breakfast,

And smoky carcasses of burning bush,

Chewed with lips and spat through nostrils,

A lazy bunch with no punch for lunch.

Brown barks bottled in burning booze,

Lime and leaves lying lifeless in liquor,

Hots hastily hurrying headlong

Diving to death in your deep depths.

The winds of aging years blew,

Stillness from their carrions flew

Indeed dead bones rose again

The army by Oshakasusu slain.

They got high on arrested blood,

And the pressure failed his heart

They got liver to knead his kidneys

And drained his brain of his soul.

KUNLE OMOPE

Photo from punchng.com

A TRUE LIFE STORY

This is a true life story. Whether you'll believe or disbelieve it, I shall tell you still.

It was a cool evening and the small hotel that stood somewhere around Ogba, Lagos, boomed with loud music.

People milled around. Some were seated in threes or fours on plastic chairs around plastic tables. Some unfortunate fish that had just lost their lives wore carnations of onion ring necklaces and swam in the company of Otazi leaves inside china bowls of spicy soups.

Booze in green and brown bottles decorated the tables just as fumes from cigarettes and jedi kara(ask your neighbour what that is!) perfumed and clouded the nightclub-like atmosphere.

Then, the SUV drove in and parked before the large gate. A fairly huge man with a grey beardy tuft leading his face in front appeared from the driver's side. He looked like the King of Banana Island and smelled like the bulk room at Zenith Bank .

Alighting from the passenger's seat, was a young lady of about 20. She was so fair complexioned that she seemed to illuminate the night. Standing on a pair of stilettos the height of a scaffolding, she wore two articles of clothings....two handkerchiefs...one handkie drew a line over her bosom and the other struggled with her g-string in a PDP/APC-like tussle.

Arm in arm, they walked in...not stopping to join the open air party downstairs, but mounted the staircase at the corner of the hotel building- and then, they were gone.

About an hour later, a man arrived on a motorbike. He stood at the corner of the gate and made a call on his mobile phone.

A few minutes later, the young lady hurried downstairs and walked briskly toward the man at the gate. And then squeezing a wad of crisp currency notes into the man's waiting hand, she said.

"Papa, take four thousand naira, and help me give mama six thousand. We go see tomorrow morning".

The man mounted the motorbike and was gone, while his daughter hurried back up the stairs.

THE END.

KUNLE OMOPE.

Photo from tripadvisor.com

BREAK THE BALLS

                                                  BREAK THE BALLS

Chalk your stalk

Walk your talk

Break the balls

Night falls, dawn calls

Stick to the cue

Again, life's new.

When knots align in a plot

Change your spot

Focus! double!! pot!!!

and leave...

with a pocket-full-o-jackpot.

KUNLE OMOPE.

Model in photo- Ngaro Ramsom

TAKULAYA (A PARABLE)

                                                                     TAKULAYA

A parable....read.

Once upon a time in the ancient town of Hilahilo, there lived a very wicked farmer.

Takulaya was such a cruel man that his wife and children ran away from his house...their home. His malevolent exploits was aided by his possession of great and grave metaphysical powers.

He was so feared by the villagers and even the king, so much so that everyone avoided mentioning his name in their conversations.

Straying children were usually his victims as no one could really explain why these little ones usually developed stomach troubles whenever they walked around his large house. When this happened and the child defecates on the ground, the child would stool to death on getting home.

It was no news that Takulaya always cast a poison spell on children's faeces. This ensured the death of the unfortunate child within 24hrs.

And so it happened on this day, that Takulaya on his way back from his farm found a huge mound of shit right at the entrance of the wooden gate that led to his house. He smiled a wickedly joyful smile at another rare opportunity to throw a household into mourning.

He knelt down before the shit and spoke out the mortal spell in indecipherable incantations,

"Askranbatu atutubashay iskandumeyunta inakuwanoo ogbolomiyo"

As soon as these incantations left his mouth, the mound of shit exploded in flames, blinding his eyes. Takulaya coughed aloud and fell face first into the burning shit.

Quickly, a vision came into his mind and he saw himself in his farm and some young children looked down at him from a tall tree.

Next he saw them climbing down hurriedly like squirrels and they dug up and stole his shit from under the earth where he had buried it that morning when he answered nature's call.

After stealing Takulaya's excrement, the boys flew off like fleeing sparrows dropping off the stolen goods in front of the wooden gate that led to his house.

The vision ended abruptly and Takulaya realised that he had cast a spell on his own shit, which was now burning him up.

As he was roasted in the shitty fire, voices of wailing children could be heard from all the rooms in his large house.

The voices can still be heard today, especially at midnight. Even the smell of Takulaya's burning shit still sits still in the air.

KUNLE OMOPE.

Photo from: spenceburnett.com

KNEES ARISE

******** KNEES ARISE. *********

Indeed, these knees did the deeds,

But Knees tarry long and bleeds and bleeds,

For mercy, these knees pleads, peels and bleeds

Conscience speeds on bruises and Knees heeds her leads.

Pees feed these knees like a broken reed, an unwanted weed.

"See, Knees" the Creed is fulfilled,

Says He, who was on a tree killed

Arise Knees. Be healed! Be healed!

KUNLE OMOPE.

Photo from google

PS- When man rejects your remorse, give it to God, He forgives and heals.

MY FIRST TELEPHONE CONVO

* SPARE A MINUTE, READ THIS SMALL NONSENSE YANS **

The electoral tension has taken a break. The fever has subsided..... to emerge later in the evening of March.

....And so my muse is creeping on me from behind, kissing the nape of my neck with moist inspiration.....and here cums a lil wordsturbation on the screen before your eyes...

I often watch with unhidden dismay, my young nephews and nieces sitting cross-legged, making calls on mobile phones, while popping chin chin and I can't help but wonder how much the world has changed. Now, if your mind just called me old school, tell your mind I said, gerrrrrrout!

I remember my first phone call. I was about 7yrs old and was more curious than Adam on the day he was created.

And so, I had spied and copied a phone number from a Union Bank calendar in our parlour (it wasn't called "living room" in those days). With a pocket full of 10kobo coins in my corduroy kampala shorts and my face glistening from an overdose smearing of STELLA pomade (remember the yellow petroleum jelly with the fruity smell?) which my dear mama polished me with an excess of, I headed for a phone booth (yes we once had that in Naija) at the General Hospital gate at Ikeja.

A man was in the booth and he casted a condescending eye at me like "what the eff are you looking for here?". But yours truly was a barrack pikin who could not be intimidated by Lucifer himself(my papa na policeman and Devil no get gun). So I returned the stare and my mind screamed at him "park well abeg"

After he did his thing while I watched his every finger move 'Jamesbondly', he walked away, hissing aloud and shaking his mighty head that reminded me of Papa Ekene, the palm wine seller's bicycle seat.

My turn came, and I sauntered in majestically. Stretching on tip toe, I gently unseated the receiver, from its rest and held it to my ear. The tone made heart palpitate slightly. I psyched myself "fear fall down and die" I repeated in my thoughts, my virgin ear's hymen must be ripped apart today!

I rummaged through my pocket and retrieved the piece of paper where I had scribbled the Union Bank numbers on.

With a generous slush from my tongue, I baptised the back of the of the paper with enough saliva to trap a horse, and stuck it on the insides of the glass booth opposite my big scrutinising eyes. The paper tried to struggle free, but it was no match for my okro soup mixed spittle, hence it was held tightly against the glass.

Next, I slid a coin into the slot...and then two coins to be doubly sure. I punched in the bank numbers like a pro ( e good to dey watch film o. God bless LWT).

A Voice, feminine and pleasant, answered with a well practised customer service prompt, and all hell broke loose....I sweated and stammered and stuttered and sweated.

I can't remember the details of our conversation...something about how much it costs to open a bank account. I guess she figured I was just a curious, adventurous kid and talked to me nicely ( God bless her wherever she is)

Experiment accomplished, I ran excitedly back home to tell my story to my friends....with enough exaggerations and embellishments.

As I flew through the air in my corduroy kampala shorts, I felt like Superman...the flying man with the billowing cape, whose image was artfully crested on the crotch of the orange coloured pant under my shorts.

Enjoy your day friends.

KUNLE OMOPE

Photo from boothveneerspic.blogspot.com

YOU MURDERERS!

                                                

                                         **** YOU MURDERERS! ****

Television, newspapers, the internet- they all keep our much desired amnesia at bay by reminding us of murders in our country every day.

From the terrorists of the north-east to the ritualists of Soka and other corners that soak-away blood into the gullets of the psychopaths.

Armed robbers on the highways and trigger-happy officers who have sunk into the low-ways of discharging their bullet-things accidentally.

The Nexus that stands with sword and scales before our courts have also become quadriplegic in addition to being blind, abi na blindfolded sef.

Murders flow and fly free over our nations' skies like a flock of egrets.

They snake-bite justice in deft manoeuvres... And then, we all forget! And move on to our rice, beans and kponmo, until the next breaking news steals the salt from our food and mouths

But even when a man's tongue is cut off, and his throat slit...and the strong hands of death clamps his teeth shut..his blood still speaks. We can't hear the sound of his voice and cries because they are not meant for our ears.

They are meant for the One who listens to 7billion heartbeats simultaneously.

The BAGA mp3 is blasting from mighty speakers before His Throne.

If He didn't forget Abel, why should He forget Amina, the pretty brown eyed girl? Why would He forget little Adamu who was sleepily sucking his little thumb as he rode on his mother's back? Why would He forget the young bride that cooked stew for her groom, but men with gunshots beckoned on death to come have her, her stew and husband for dinner?

No! He wouldn't forget! God will not forget Baga.

Psalm 9:12

KUNLEOMOPE.

Photo from google

STICKY FINGERS

Sticky fingers went to town,

Around the food stores he hung,

Pockets like sacks, both sides of his gown,

Vegetables that caught his fingers, in the sack flung,

Onions, meat, spared not even salt.

On way home, glassy eyes in guilt rove,

His kitchen spectacle made his feet halt,

Ha! Another sticky finger had stolen his stove.

Written by: Kunle Omope

Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson

A LETTER TO TWO

************ A LETTER TO TWO ***********

Dear Sirs,

Congratulations so far. A wise man once said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. Following these words, I have tried to peer into your souls as your eyes stare at me...at us, from posters hanging everywhere.

I looked long and hard, yet came up with zilch as regards the goings-on in your minds. I am sure your followers must share my testimonial ignorance even if they choose to hide their heads in a pile of saw dust, for we are only but puny humans with only two spiritually myopic eyes.

And so it baffles me, when some of these aggressive followers of yours have agreed to kill their neighbours for your sakes.

How am I sure of their murderous potentials? Simple! Have you read their comments on social media? Don't they just reek of blood curdling anger ? Have you seen them argue and insult one another at the news stands, with eyes flaming and veins bulging from their hungry necks?

Dear Sirs, do you really love these followers of yours? Will their deaths add more feathers to the caps they have worn you because of the words you have said, and the promises you have made? Do they know you so well to die for you?

Sirs, are you not but humans capable of breaking your promises and deceiving us all. Can't we be hoodwinked by you?

Another wise man said, "see one lion, you have seen all lions, see one goat and you have seen all goats...but see one man and you haven't seen any man, as a matter of fact, you have just seen one of his many sides".

How much of you does A know to kill B his coursemate and buddy way back in school because one sweeps with a broom and one carries an umbrella?

Because of you, your followers have decided to 'change' to murderers and 'transform' to killers in the dark craze for changing transformations and transformation changes.

One of you is going to be President, but whom will you preside over when all are dead?! Will you be a President over young graves?

It will really be nice, if you and your family members would lead in front as we go into this avoidable and senseless battle.

Have we not died enough in this land? Must we continue to die for men whom we can't see their hearts?

Sirs, how many orphans and widows will 2015 manufacture? You alone know your real intentions, your driving force...but are they worth our blood as broth for flies? Must we be meals to vultures to put smiles on your faces?

I have more questions but can't find the answers in your smiling mouths and eyes that hold many secrets.

I will not kill whom I can eat eba and okro soup with because of you whom I may never be able to eat a crumb from your table, eventhough I do not know whether he has poisoned my cup of water because we are on different sides of the fence you built to divide us on the same dining table of hopelessness

Fearfully yours,

Kunle Omope.

HARLOTRY AND THE MARKET FORCES (ARTICLE)

********* HARLOTRY AND THE MARKET FORCES ***********

The day has gone to bed, the eyes of the night flick open to stare at the black blanket stained by spangled stars.

Distant sisters wear make-up on their faces to take up the trade at the market forces of harlotry.  

They paint their cold eyes and gloss rouge over lips that pout a beckon.

A dash of fragrance clings unto their skin and skimpy skirts, escorting them as they sway and sashay into the streets. Vermilion talons at the ready to bore holes and trap the blood and sweat in Messrs Randys’ wallets. 

Over breezy miles across a sleepy town, distant brothers rise up(and they rise up with their masters too) to demand lust at the night market of supply.

The hypocritical world with horse whips for tongues, lashes the Supply at the market. They don't know her story, yet they tell it in corners, before assemblies and on tabloids.

Without Demand, will there be Supply? Doesn't a rise in Demand lead to an increase in Supply?

If Demand becomes responsible and makes himself unavailable, would Supply supply herself to Supply?

If a fall in demand leads to a fall in supply, imagine a world where demand for harlotry is non-existent.

Yet, two holes on one double speaking body speak opposite languages. The hole in the head, slaps a lip over incisors onto the other lip, to utter self-righteous, pseudo saintly obscenities against the pleasure supply merchants.

And then, in the dark,

and in corners,

and in clandestine red light rooms.

when eyes are turned away,

 the hole that protrudes from the waist seeks the Supply’s succulent southern lips to empty a flow of that which he left unsaid. What a well-fed, well-clad, shiny faced piece of hypocrisy.

For the Supply stained society to be sane again, there must be a deliberate death of Demand. At least the laws of the market forces imply so.

Written by- KUNLE OMOPE.

Photo from google

KUNLE OMOPE DEFINES POETRY

Poetry, like a skilled seductress,

creeps on me from behind,

kissing my neck with moist inspiration,

shivers race down my fingers,

as orgasmic muses in febrile semblances,

cascade salaciously on paper.”

“Poetry is an elixir; a soothing balm to life’s plenteous maladies; a shoulder that drinks up the tears of our mind’s unkind tragedies.

It is a bloodhound, sniffing, seeking, the lifeblood of villainous questions.”

“Poetry is like fire:

It burns a tyrant’s ego

and heals a soldier’s wound.

It purifies gold,

and beautifies clay.

It awakens Morn,

and sends Night to sleep”

IMAGES IN THE DARK (POEM)

Walking in the dark forest at night,

Melodious chants and whistling winds tumble in fight,

Keen look, bright lights in the night,

Jungle illumined, south to north, left to right.

Sniffing danger, I took to my heels with all might,

That I may not behold an unsavory sight.

The faster I ran, the harder the dark bit.

Ominous thoughts in my mind, a spinning kite.

Before me, stood silhouettes clad in moonlight.

Alas! I became a condiment of the rite!

In utter fear, I stared at the images in the dark,

Petrified by the ones flowing from the Iroko’s bark

With the speed of a wounded lark,

Feathery sheathed clubs met their mark.

Wracking pains boomed in a million sparks.

My body screamed as I was skinned inside.

I lifted a heavy head and life went blank.

Next thing, I lay on fresh human stack.

So much regrets, too many pains, for choosing Black.

Only blackened hearts see images in the dark!

*The regret filled story of a confraternity initiate, who discovers THE HIDDEN TRUTH on the brutal initiation day.

Written by: Kunle Omope

Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson

META HAIKU (POEMS)

Stars twinkle softly

Like fireflies on summer nights

When loving eyes meet

The dew, hail and rain

Like arrows shot by Cupid

Pierces the earth’s heart

Soldiers’ unknown fears

Hidden flames behind the eyes

As they march to war

Written by: Kunle Omope

KASALA (POEM)

The spirit of Kasala,

Has come to town.
Doors slammed, windows shut,
Destruction looms,
As a warhead booms.
Danger screams aloud,
At fainting hearts.
Then, nightfall shambles in,
As fear wears her makeup.

Kasala! Evil phenomenon,
Dancing wildly around our nation.
Azonto in the north,
Galala in the east,
Suo in the west,
And Yahoozay in the south.

Kasala! Ye unwelcome stranger,
Yet your fiery fury is pinched,
By blood eating hypocrites.
We pray the oceans drink you up,
And the wind violently shove you,
The sandy Sahara you go.

Kasala! We must fight you.
Be cursed by our mothers’ bleeding breasts.
Stand indicted by the hopeless loins of the grey haired.
You shall be no more!

I open my eyes wide,
Still it looms,
Yes, it hangs, still in the air,
Like foul breath.
So what is this?
Wishful thinking or fantasy?
Perhaps a purposeless nightmare!

*Kasala- common street slang synonymous with chaos or anarchy
*Azonto, Galala, Suo, Yahoozay- Afro- HipHop dance styles.

Written by: Kunle Omope
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson

STRIKE (POEM)

In the great market place of minds,

Emptiness and echo loiter around.

Silver bowl of milk and honey rusts away.

Zealous fingers are limp in idleness.

A forest has become desert,

So that the boss can gorge his constipated stomach.

Written by: Kunle Omope

Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson

BRAIN DRAIN (POEM)

 He sat on a pile of books,

Lucubrated wrinkles cracked his looks,

Geometry’s jugular, he clutched in a vice grip,

And a crowd of tongues sprung from his lips,

Yet frayed linen embraced his lean frame,

As he squeezed little bread from his great name.

Patriotism died, he fled the Motherland,

Now strangers drink the soup of his hands.

Written by Kunle Omope.

Edited by Kukogho Iruesiri Samson

THE UNRIGHTEOUS CLIMAX (POEM)

1.

To find our stolen Peace, we light the torch of war.

Until War carries a flamy head, we can’t find Peace.

Arrogant fingers poked the eyes of our law,

Only a dance upon graves shall appease and make us cease.

2.

Anger aches our eyes, fury poisons our blood,

Muscles stretch with no rein, nostrils spew and fume,

Bows made taut, our stony hearts whet the sword,

Amulets boil under the skin of our battle costume.

3.

Tonight, our bloodlust shall lie amorously on their land,

A bounty of terror and tears they’ll get.

Souls a legion will sink from our hands into their sand,

On their hearts we’ll feast without regret.

4.

“Doom!” roars the drums of war “no going back”.

Like an old rag, her spirit rends the air.

We shall hurl our hate in lethal attack,

Daring, duelling, dying and decaying without care.

* This poem does not endorse war in anyway. Its aim is to poetically examine the minds of warmongers, thereby highlighting the fruitlessness of war.

Written by:  Kunle Omope

Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson

RICHLAND (POEM)

Atop the house stood I with glee,

Imaginative anticipation in wild sprint,
Gin to sink, smoke to flare,
Head be soaked, mind high and spin.

The mansion, a nest to a poet,
Housing hungry desires and selfish fulfillments.
Meat gobbled, bread reduced, wine slobbered.
Laughter shook and merriment soared.

Richland, a terror centre to trouble,
Its shooters and lookers.
Herein, journeying nuisances rests their heads.
Chattering so cheap, even simpletons buy.

Grassy flames bite quiet ambience,
Evoking delight from hypocritical vagrants.
Innermost inn, a suitable den,
Where Wahala and Surutu knot their ties.

Retribution busts in, landlord imprisoned.
Opportunists forget heels in Richland.
Market becomes graveyard as flesh become bone.
Emptiness reigns with the shattered recluse.

As master treks to find Amnesty’s home,
Roaches pay no rent for their tenancy,
Unhindered weed creeps in with no invite,
House hollow with the howl of Lost Glory.

All things come to an end my friend.
If your flabber is whelmed,
Do not let your over be gasted,
For the world passes away like Richland.

* The author’s campus testimony.

Written by: Kunle Omope
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson