AJISAFE, Michael Oluwafemi.
So he writes, as an Observer and a Doer.
Moving in Thoughts.
Day By Day
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I want to be reignited
Craving the fire
Your page, a push
Your muse, my spark
Your light to reignite my dry wood
More than a glow, I desire for an untamed flame
Flaring high
That my muse may glitter again
Ìjàpá ọkọ Yáníbo Tortoise the husband of Yáníbo We eat to live, we shouldn't live to eat. As this reminds me of the ancient Yoruba folklore that my grandmother told me about Ìjàpá the husband of Yáníbo. She said, "Yáníbo couldn't conceive, and because of the great importance attached to procreation, Ìjàpá and Yáníbo were greatly disturbed." I know that even till today in our society, women are mostly blamed for not being able to conceive. A very wrong assumption, men are mostly the cause for this anomaly. Granny explained that Ìjàpá consulted a herbalist (Babaláwo) as suggested by his wife, and the man gave him the concoction he had asked his wife Yáníbo to come and collect earlier. 'Don't taste it Ìjàpá, it is solely prepared for your wife,' the herbalist told Ìjàpá. On his way home, Ìjàpá got enticed by the sweet aroma of the concoction and fell for the temptation. He ate what was not meant for him to taste. And when he got home,...
Across from me, beyond the iron jaws of the prison gate, He stood—tall, gaunt, eyes deep as forsaken wells, Grey whispers of hair pleading against the creeping void of baldness. With hands weathered by death’s cold touch, he poured liquid steel, A silver vessel birthing oil onto a stone slab, His fingers twirling round the severed blade, A lover’s caress upon the guillotine’s wicked tongue. Doom shadowed me, a false charge branding my soul, My devotion to the throne now but a fleeting ember. Xerxes, blind to the truth, deaf to my cries, The palace council—wolves in gilded robes— Sealed my fate with whispers sharp as daggers. Had he forgotten? My king, my lord, How once I shattered the goblet of venom, How I snatched him from death’s coiling grasp? Yet now, his Empress, Cassandane, draped in silken malice, Arrived before the baying hounds, eager for the theatre of my demise. The headsman grinned, his glee a blade as keen as the one he honed, Steel kissed wood—a plank sundered like wind ...
As I mount this stage, all of you here will be thinking that a professor just arrived. No. Not like that. I am a hustler, I'm not a bookworm. It's from my university days that I realized that school doesn't bring in the money. The only person I could recollect that made money from school is my professor of psychology. He once got an international grant to research 'Why Corruption is endemic to Nigeria.' The project grant was to the sum of 20 million dollars, it's a United Nation sponsored project. My professor bought a brand new Range Rover, Married a Second wife, did the 40 years in remembrance of his late father. He was disbursing money like a happy yahoo boy. In no time, EFCC was after him. He'd diverted funds meant for research into personal use. School is not my thing. After all, ASUU strikes more than thunder! This book in my hand contains the list of comedy I'll be cracking for you all. If you like, laugh. And if you want, accuse me of not being a...
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