JOHN SAW BABA A certain man, John Left baptizing his flock Took his bag and horn He head to Ota Rock He met Baba Wise eating his yam He prostrated to Baba Wise Baba loves his pounded yam With old p…




My Lawyer, a lonesome lawyer
He is suave and not a real liar
His words are the vehicle
Of his noble trade
Locus classicus, chronicle
Of his daily tirade
He holds hands of blind Justice
In clean and murky waters
Through the deep precipice
Ruffling multiple feathers
He comes atop the hill
He is my champion
So I have now to chill
Value is his opinion
For he walks where all demons
Even fear to stroll
His words are rich as diamonds
He fears no troll



A certain man, John
Left baptizing his flock
Took his bag and horn
He head to Ota Rock
He met Baba Wise eating his yam
He prostrated to Baba Wise
Baba loves his pounded yam
With old palm oil or new palm wine
He threw Baba an invite to his party
Baba shacked his wine and shook his head
“I wrote to you, you wrath at me.
Your party’ll vent, to get me blue and dead
But sit with me, have some yams.”
He tried and tried, till he be tired
Baba still smiled, finished his yams
“My boy, my boy we are retired
Go to your wife and live in Peace
Teach her words lest she bombs again.”
He left Baba Wise chewing his diss
By and by it seemed he schemed in vain


I opened a case
It is blue filled with hue
Inside this case
It is filled with facts untrue
Torn clothing, singed remains
Rustic knicks and knacks it contains
No, this is not my case

I opened a case
It is green, I grin
This here is my case
It is filed with beauty unseen
Of mended hopes treasured in bliss
I close my eyes, blowing a silent kiss
Yes, this is my case

My case is different
Unique and a testimony
Of bounties heavenly sent
Bringing brightly-lit epiphany
Of God’s goodness and exceptionality
To me to bless all humanity
Yes, this is my case

Your own case is different
Maybe laden with broken dreams
Of rotten decisions made in haste
Of hearts breaking by the seams
Fear not.Faith-like tiny seeds
Will grow to fulfill your needs
And your case is indeed different


The gust of the dry winds
Sailing lazily like lonely little lakes
Many mutilated heads
Beneath the lifeless leaves
A wail
A sniffle
An elegy, that slithers from the hidden faces
Jaundiced jowls of anger and fear
Frozen smiles
Forgotten rhapsody, embittered symphony
The cold killers in wanderlust of wanton wastage
Of life, limp and land
Their spiky tails are drenched in the blood
Of the children yet unborn
Swashbuckling in their fanatic rivulets
That they proclaim as victory
Their speeches, laced with venom
Their fiery eyes burn the souls of the innocents
Of a lunacy emits the brilliant foolishness
The weeping sun is trapped above
The orgies of bloodlust persists unabated
Ill-intent from shallowed mind turns logic on its head
The flight of the frail and frantic fellows
That run on the roadless terrain to
Dredge comforts from the crude madness
Have found a respite in a new determination
For they dare to dare the despot who decrees
From a formidable forte
He voices the rain, sun, draught and thunder
His ears trained, hearing invisible accolades of paid drummers
To his own music, he is the best dancer
To himself alone he surrenders
To himself alone he answers
Resolute, absolute his trademark
Desolate, the features of his landmark
Praying to the answerless gods
He regale in his on foolishness
The runners are running back
To face the two Janus faced killers
Enough the blood flow
Renewed the will to live.
Long may we live
To coldhearted kill the killer
The dying, dreading death
Scattering into the thickets. Fate’s vengeful hand
Has lampooned a heavy blinding blow
In this grim nightmare of horror show
Men’s shadows evaporating into the hearts of the nights
Leaving in their wake mothers running helter skelter. Gloomy sights
Of the chubby little hands that clutch, cling to fleeing fathers
Lost are many in the fog of the reeling melee
From the blistering foothills to the cold crest of the mountains, fathers
Refuged. These fleeing erstwhile embodiments of strength and valour strive to see
Where the bush paths would take their wives and daughters
Bent heads, crowned in shame and fear, all visages of courage left hanging
By their wives’ windows. Forgotten laughters
Adorned in loincloths, housed in caves, trembling
Sly snakes, hungry hyenas and old owls deign to come out to slay
Helpless, they watch foreign flags hoisted, music from the ricocheting guns play
From the brainless predators who brandish televisioned weaponry
Orgied in a macabre dance, lost in their blood-lusty frenzy
Flags flaying on the fringes of the shattered serenity
Serenity that for many born years reigned supreme
Born now, is a ghost town. Deserted
Withering farmlands, silent dirges for the departed
Hang low from the terrified trees.
A new air of poverty hovering in pomp and pageantry sits atop
A lingering desolation and mutilation that will not stop
The freshly branded face of the old town. The town is on its knees, down
The fleeing scatterlings have abandoned their crown
In a motionless orison the cry out to the hopes hanging on the horizon
Desperate to melt the gods’ heart that appear frozen
Simmering songs, fledgling faith, ephemeral enthusiasm, tormented tomorrows
Marketed to hang around their necks, contemplating their newfound sorrows
Mindless carnage carefully concocted and careened upon their midst
Jolting them into forgotten realization that the dark mist
That descended were the machinations of their revered rulers
Pray, where lie the assurances from the pretentious princes’ hulas
Those sysops sang in garbs of salvation, preening like peacocks
Are they those basking in revelry in palaces placed atop the rocks
Their fitzy filled crystal glasses enchant them as they rave, rant and ramble
In a web of crystalline subterfuge. Tongues talk, stalk like embellished wrinkle
As their aloof airs and flairs of fanfares in flurry of wanton destructions
Arise from their turbaned smugness. Such ruse, such dark deceptions
That extort our trusts, burying distant truths
Broken promises, beguiling tokens, rend the air
By prancing and preening statesmen from their golden-egged lair
Bloodied whispers of despair
Wheel above the hopes of the discouraged
Crying for justice from the souls still sitting in limbo
Still, the statesmen stand arms akimbo
With grave faces that belie their snickering hearts
Though hope torn to shreds
Small gnawing determintioning shards
Converge to sit tight upon the citadel
Of our ravaged villages. New messages we will sell
Renewing the hearts of revolt beneath the fallen wall
Time is stilled, the tinderbox ignited
The ancient spirits are now called, uninvited
The men have salvaged the cusps of their courage
Together we shat fight this scoring scourge

As the rickety tired bus ticketed and ricketted
Finally along the picketed road that
Snaked to my village of dreams
My rear, firm and ready on gear at the rear of the blustering bus
My mind wandered along the long memory lane
Clear memories I hold dear, flashing and flooded back
Like long lost prisoners at the gate of freedom
I recall the long narrow faces of the tombstones
That gardened the welcoming outskirts like sentinels
The expansive grounds, wide and waiting while we worn out the playgrounds
Yes, we play till we worn out the playground
The sea of long, lush grasses habouring the grasshoppers
That once salted and roasted brought rare smiles to our bushed faces
Every hut was garlanded by the green grasses that tickle our bare feet
The nights were bejeweled by the diamond studded-stars above
Twinkling in mischief as we sing our moonlight songs passed
From the generations of old
To behold once again the November hue of the ripened row of golden cornfields
That awaits to impregnate our stoic granaries
My eyes brighten at the thought of the varied evening aromas
That tease our nostrils and tempt our rumbling bellies
The salad of sounds from the ravine, the trees and the huts find a mix with
Mama, as the rising smoke from her heath and papa’s pipes all blend mystery unmatched
The bus lumbered still, down the slope and up the hill
Aching away to drop its heavy loads.
My patience wearing thin, my anticipation swelling and swirling.
For my pockets are lined with the gems of my adventures
Which I yearn to share with my kin and kith
To watch their enraptured faces as I regale them
With the tales of the city of angels lined with gold
Traipsing deeper into my boyhood fantasies
The droopy eyes of my mind fail to register the now lonely road
Devoid of pots balanced on headgeared heads
Or the old farmers’ bicycles slewing towards the village at sunset
To lick the last drops of their hot burkutu
Out of my reverie when the bus halted with a lurch
Pasted on my face were the fierce looking soldiers
Wielding guns and beaming mean streaks
A travesty, a roadblock at the gate of my village?
I shake my head from this dreary dream
Or perhaps I was not dreaming
No, not yet.


President Mohammad Buhari, alias PHB, left the country and had been gone for awhile now. The president of the most populous black nation is missing in action – this is what a cross-ection of the citizenry is intoning. The cauldron is therefore boiling with all kinds of speculations and conspiracy theories.
Quite obviously, the president, being human and all, he is also saddled with governing the very complex entity called Nigeria. As herculean as the task of governing this nation is, deservedly, the president must take time for a periodic vacation – whether such vacations are shaded medical or late winter vacations, it is a matter of semantics.

The president is not in the country, pure and simple.
The good news is that he had entrusted the reins of leadership to the able hands of the youthful and energetic VeePee, Professor Yemi Osibajo, who has wormed his way into the heart of the populace. Within a few weeks of presiding in an acting capacity, he has steered the nation in the right direction. May proactive decisions had been taken and the execution of the same are seen as the needed yen to rejigger the economy and drastically reduce the strain of the recession bedevils the country. Steadily, we are inching out of the economic doldrums.

While we applaud the Veepee’s sagacity, the same cannot be said of the presidency’s public relations handlers. It appears that they could not decipher that the president had ceased to be a private citizen the moment he took he oath of office and famously declared he was for nobody, he was for everybody. He is the father of the nation. He is a public servant. The masses pay his salary. To that extend, the masses deserve to know the truth; the whole truth and nothing but the truth of the whereabouts of their president. They must know the state their head of state, the venerable Commander-In-Chief of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.

At first, when the report seeped out that he had flown out to faraway London for a medical vacation, to attend to a presidential earache, barrage of denials had erupted from the domain of the presidency. The fact that the president abruptly left before the date he proposed to left naturally opened the Pandora’S box of speculations and wild conspiracy theories – some of which bothered on the ridiculous. It reached a crescendo when mischief-makers further opened a floodgate of morbid rumors crusting that the beloved president had passed over to the world beyond. The rumours were rife and they took the maelstrom of the social media by storm.
It was mind boggling the way the presidency came all out – (with metaphorical arms flailing in the air) with lukewarm explanations, assurances and excuses intended at alleviating yea, dousing the palpable tension pervading the nation. Their lameness only stoked the embers of fears and concerns. Even when Asiwaju Bola Tinubu, the senate President and the Speaker of the House of Representatives visited the ailing president in London and the pictures released to the public, many skeptics still sowed the seeds of distrust by alleging that the pictures were photoshoped. In fact, hilarious memes accompanied the claim as well. Some pictures even showed the president being buried.

These, to the naïve and gullible, were enough to raise serious concerns about the real state of the president. Even when it was reported that he had received a phone call from US’ Donald Trump, many people took that with a pinch of salt.
Well, given the Late Yar’Adua’s scenerio and how it played out, the people deserve to be skeptical and it behoves on the presidency to come clean and clear the air forthwith.

Our president is human and is susceptible to illness. His vulnerability only makes him human and as it is appointed unto every soul, death is inevitable. Therefore, shrouding the president’s actual situation in secret will not help assuage the peoples’ trepidation.
Despite the silence and sometimes half-truths emanating from the presidency, it is gladdening to see Christian and Muslim clerics calling in an unequivocal and loud voice on their followers to fast and pray fervently for the president. Albeit the mischief-makers are wont to insist on knowing the president’s actual predicament before committing him unto prayer, still, a general prayer is not out of place.

There is absolutely nothing wrong in the president addressing the nation even on a sick bed. What with Trump tweeting like mad, the social media platforms such as Twitter, Facebook, and Snapchat offer simple and easy channels for them to address this confusion and allow us move on. As can be expected, tomorrow another scandal or controversy will emerge and as usual, we will forget yesterday’s ill and good will.

The general rule about silence is that it is golden. However, in every general rule, there is always an exception. The very loud silence of the presidency speaks volume and the sooner the president addressed the nation, the sooner we moved on with our lives.

POETIC JUSTICE -By MshinaramWarigon Ahrey

Chibok girls

I was not there
When the Chibok girls were taken
I was ensconced here
Under an air-conditioned token
I was wining and dining
I was not there while
They’re whining and crying
For a long while
They are gone to where
I do not know
How they fear, fare
I do not know
I wasn’t there
But I feel their raw pain
Now I am here
Feeling the rain of pain
In vain we seek to gain
A glory of inaction
Their lost innocence
Is ever the penance
That will gnaw on us forever
In failing them, we, together
Must be here when they return
To rebuild conscience we burn


chibok 2