Temple of Words

To dear readers, this is the first time a play will be posted on this blog. This play is infact an  absurdist play , hence every deviation from the norm of language, structural presentation (discourse space) and theatre is delibrate. Enjoy the reading! (The stage is free of any prop) Ist Baabu: I won't take that from you at all! You this... this...         2nd Baabu:   Shut up! Ist Baabu: (moves closer to him in anger) What did you just say?       2nd Baabu: What did you hear?           Ist Baabu: Are you asking me that damn quest....                                     2nd Baabu: I said shut up!                                    (Both keep quiet for awhile) 1st and 2nd B...

The story of my night continues here.... Everything had become a mystery to me. The death of Oyinkan had breathed some feelings of ineptness deep down into my soul. For days, I was just alone in my room, not speaking to anyone, or answered anyone who knocked on my door. The memories of Oyinkan’s death still roamed greatly in my mind and the most intense parts of her inflowing memories are the moments of her burial. It was such a disdainful sight as I saw mummy Oyinkan almost tearing herself down in pain. She wept so much that it seemed no one could control her, and yes, no one did. Who else could feel the loss more than her. She was the one who bore her for nine months, who washed her clothes when she dirtied them, who spent the night, maybe praying for her to be a great woman and all those hope for a fulfilled dream, a bright future of reaping the fruit of her labour were all gone; all gone within a day.

‘Taxi!’ You shouted into the hot air. Placing your leg on your Ghana-must-go bag, you shouted again. Finally one came around with four men in it, two behind and in front. ‘Seat in the middle’, one said. ‘I want the fresh air.’ No big deal. You got in and the cab was soon on motion. Seeing a sanitation vehicle, you ordered the driver to stop, but he refused. Surprisingly, you were in an unknown place. Your wallet was gone, including the bag and laughter hooked you. ‘Fools! Waste paper thieves. Dusting yourself, you got up and left the place . THE END

Before a mirror; broken with a curve I stood and saw myself; thoroughly confused        Through the distorted form I have now                Been allotted by myself. I was not myself myself,               I was a split self myself I had one eye; bigger I had a half face; bigger Then as myself moved my mirrored self a little away from myself

Expect, always, the unexpected from the unexpected ones; be it good or bad.

When your hardwork is poured into a open basket of vanity- All you have is pain, pouring down Into the ocean of thoughts.

I need to work with time, you say, who is greater than time, I ask: is God not the timeless being on earth: the one who planned the how before time came to obey? I added. Then make God your time, I suggest. Really, make God your time, I re-echo.

I looked at the start and end of the sky, and I saw the evidence of God's beauty and creativity. The birds, the moon, the stars, the clouds, the rain, the sun, the rainbow, and so much more. They all are beautiful. Someone that could create this much is sure to be more than beautiful.

Being born is being born, but when you are born without being done, then you are done for.

Two things are most dangerous in the world: knowing what you should and not knowing what you should. Two things are most saving in the world: knowing what you should and not knowing what you should.

The most mysterious item in the world is the human mind. It travels neither with a compass nor sailor, driver nor with the aid of a horseman, yet gets to the direction it has always known. Train up your mind in the way it should go, and when it grows, it will not depart from it.

Look into these eyes Which is not mine, But only a resident of my sockets Which I see through, But cannot let me be seen until

Being born is being born, but when you are born without being done, then you are done for.

The story I make with you today, my today, is the history I tell them tomorrow, my tomorrow.

Salvation was not free, it was paid for by Christ; we got it free anyway.

Last night, my dream was cold, Touching him felt real and cold, His hands were cold and his eyes -white as snow- Not to be looked into.

If those who should know, know There will be no need to agitate If those who should feel, feel

On the 5th of December, 2015 This night I worship in the shrine of words As poetry splashes Its cold waters, not on my skin But within, not on my spirit, But within, not on my soul, But within, not on my- Okay, what else?

Right now,  amidst this vibrant cold,  the thoughts of you have  continued to wrap me  in your warmth.

Would you rather have me sin and sink in my own sacred bath or maybe bathe in my own sacred sin and then sink?

Who knows my name? Who knows me and my name? I am a mad man born on a never day I am a mad man healed on a Saturday? So who knows me?

When our city burnt Our ashes did not blow away: When our city burnt Our existing relics of pain did not destroy: Our ashes were burnt again New relics and remnants of suffering Were given birth to by the former ones. We neither left our city, Nor left our homes,

I waddled across the tiny bridge that led to where my hostel was situated. The road was very familiar. On a normal day when I crossed the bridge, my hands would hold tightly to the wall supporting the bridge. I would then walk over it slowly, trying my possible best not to fall into the small stream that split the road. But that night, that very night full of gnashing hollowness, I ran over it in a flash like manner, and slipping into the mud-covered road, I brushed my left hand against the elephant grasses that were at the left-hand side of the muddy road. I was unsteady. The race was so intense that I didn't know when I ran passed the church that was directly before my house into the somehow tiny corridor that led to my room. I could have woken some of my neighbors up, I could have disturbed some persons reading in the night, but all these, all those thoughts weren't at that moment my concern. That which most concerned me was the opening of my room with my key which ...

I knew there was nothing I could do to avoid walking straight into what into what was laying ahead of me; it was a dense and dangerous darkness for a loner to embark on. I was, however, left with just a choice which was to proceed. It was at this moment that I galloped into the short footpath that would at the end lead me to my place of residence. This single step I took in a shimmy and stumbling manner was the beginning of the short odyssey into an ever referential point in my life.