Category Archives: personal stuff

Be inspired

Inspiration is a subtle gift wrapped in urgency. One has to take it when offered or risk losing that glimpse into heaven by dallying with the cares of this earth.

When you see it you will know.

Dear reader, be encouraged. Recognition is bound in the identity of that which you look for. Eyes have not seen nor ears heard what God has prepared for those who love him. Dont worry. Time will pass trailing in its wake your expectations on a platter of mirth. Below is a poem, please let me know how it resonates with you.

P.S: Credit goes to @deeyssertFlower and Marvel Comics for the first line and part of the seventh lines respectively. Thanks for inspiring me.

Be encouraged

The light that dimmed did not die,

It lay at night awoken.

Fed off the memory of that to come

And every word unspoken.

The night that came did not last,

Earth turned in restless sleep.

Then now and days of future past

gave the light forever to keep


Psalm 152

Thank You.
For the rain, for again.
I wonder about here and now and how
And sometimes why.
Thank You for not answering just yet
Teaching me that patience can often
Be the reply to many a prayer whispered
In hope that You do hear.
Thank you for the many shades of men.
This one colour is made all the more vivid
By their brilliant reflection of Your
Goodness and grace.
Thank you for desire and want
For in them we learn to come to Your table
And eat of Your bounty and drink
from Your cup that never runs dry.
Thank You for turning a blind eye
While shielding me with Your strong arm,
And for binding tears and burns inflicted
By me and mine.
Thank You for endings and half-ways
Because though some see a thing gone
You put in my heart a traveler’s song
That says “the road is a journey’s home”
Thank You.

P.S: without You, I am empty space in a hidden place.

Signposts and Markers

It’s right in front of you. Read.
There was much promise in the early years; bags packed , destination in mind, goodbyes said. And then the journey proper.
Blessing remarked in her sms to me yesterday that she almost couldn’t believe that we were both talking about work. I replied, saying that today is the yesterday of tomorrow. Something must move. It is either us, moving forward, or time moving backwards until it appears, small and worthless, in the distance. In any case, we would find that transition occurs. It is my hope that life’s flashpoints don’t catch you standing open mouthed in surprise ,asking “How did i/we get here?
Look. See.
We stop to ask for direction all the time, from God, our peers, strangers on the street; all in a bid to “get there”. When is this ignorance, and when is it arrogance? Granted, losing one’s way is a hallmark of travelling on the earth, but if one is careful to read the weather beaten pointers that have been painstakingly hammered into the ground right under our noses by people that have gone before us, we may find the journey less uncertain and shorter, leaving us with time to smell the roses and bury road-kill that we so often ignore. There is no temptation in travel that has not been experienced by others before you. Only perception is novel, the vista is largely the same.
Today I took out time to study about finance and business, and it occurred to me that one of the reasons why my father recorded only moderate success in his corporate labors is that he did not take out time to read the signposts on his business trip. You can read newspapers, talk to people, send and receive messages via the innumerable channels we have today and still be lost if you don’t take note of where the signpost says you are per time.
Signpost Says.
Take your nose out of the dirt, take off the arrogance that despair places round your neck, look up, look around, and read the signs. Soon, you will be on your way.


The viewer, the view.

You walk across my window sill
and into curtains draped across the hill.
Nine times you’ve passed this way before,
I know because I’ve stood here more
listening to the shuffle-step of your feet
make even and odd prints on the street.

I sometimes whisper to my window pane:
“Ask her if she has a name”
It murmurs back in a voice that’s the same:
“I will -if you will- when she comes again”

You stand framed in my right eye’s nook
And also in my left when i dare to look.
Gran tells me “dust settles on a life that’s still
So run an errand to the cassava mill.
Bring me tasty tales of goings on,
Don’t mix up who has died or borne a son”

I often wonder what she would make of you;
The ‘goings on’ that dare not follow through.
Don’t know how many more times I’ll be by;
Gran fades. The news stream may dry

young man standing at window

Taking Lives

In the world of myths, good and evil are unremarkable, merely footnotes in a narrative. However, in this patch of earth and sky, both actors are only too real.


What is it? a person? A state of mind? An act? A result?

It was her. No, it IS her. She lives. In a smile stealing across my face beneath a shade of her memory, in the words and habits transferred without pay or parchment, In her family. In her family.


what is it?

Now we wouldn’t waste text and time talking about that would we? Silence is it’s grave.

This is to her, this is to all those who slept. It makes me wonder about beds and blanket and morning.

Esiere o!


Can anyone ever be dressed to go?

Would the timing ever be right?

Is there use for bedclothes? You should know:

You slept before the night.

Asleep under a blanket of loam

With heads on pillows of sand,

The stillness of years on a steady foam,

Your beds bespeckle the land.

Tears marked your home with a headstone

But its weight couldn’t keep place with time

Over the years your memory had grown (dim)

Into a storied object of predesign.

Light like pollen from dawn’s tender shoot,

make shadowy dreams scurry everywhere.

At dusk, all fall and lie underfoot.

Does any dreamer, or his dream, lie here?

Psalm 151

God of all the earth

And the worlds that are to come,

Keeper of the fire in this hearth

Quencher of the sun.

You, the maker of heaven and earth,

You, the taker of heaven and earth

When all we hold dear is nowhere to be seen.

Then to you i go to glean meaning from the

Fields of leftovers and dried out flowers.

A lot of the times I do not understand you,

Open my eyes O Lord that I may see your heart

And have one thing with which to parry the taunts

And quiet the haunts of this old heart.

You are my mother tongue

and my father’s song when he dressed for war.

You are the reach of my hands

And the crowd in the stands when I am alone

Before your throne nothing can be named

Save for your name again, again.


A path leads where it will

A path leads where it will,

Set rock-hard in its way;

It saunters through winter chill

And butterflies in May.


Paths always pause to share in talk

With another passing through,

About lonely soles and potholes

And distant lands where roads flew.


A path continues where it must,

Little changed by traveler’s tales

Of stops- places where paths get lost

As men’s journeying instinct fails.


Roads are born in baby form

Before being laid where grass is worn

Until they arrive without having to depart.

The way of the path is an art.