NAIJA BLOG

 Babanginda's shop at Wuse Market  is the shrine to the mischievous goddess of beauty There all women gather in supplication to receive the amulets of the goddess  and stay subjugated at her feet.... there they come, the youth in shallow  confidence, the aging in desperate defiance and old in despair. They cry together to Bababgida the chief priest on his throne and demand he produces the amulets  which  will bestow them beauty, youth, confidence and self-esteem they all want a taste of  beauty, the beauty that will make them perpetually admired the beauty that will protect them from the world the beauty that will bestow them power the beauty that will give them love They scream and claw at Babangida in desperation for beauty and Babangida overwhelmed but satisfied smiles and deludes them with bottles of toxic steroids and hydroquinone  that will silence their despair for a week 

I am a poet gifted with the gift of immortality destined to live forever in the minds of men and words in books A conceptualizer of concealed emotions A documenter of paths forsaken and forgotten a visualiser of time Melancholy is my muse that whispers immortality in the midst of my despair and emotions my catharsis for creativity

Days are spent in the digital world of cognitive junk and dissimulation dissonance with reality disassociating from life The poet with no words wanders like rat in a maze of social dysfunction words are lost in a haze of jumbled words without meaning

The texts stopped abruptly No more good mornings and tears and anxiety replace the dopamine rush I cry in silence and my fingers twitch to text "Why"? But instead, I will cry these tears and dry these tears and smile tomorrow because this too shall pass.

  What happens to a dream destroyed? Does it resurrect like a phoenix or vegetate in the minds of those assigned immortality? Does the dream lie heavy on your mind in the dead of the night? Or fill you with envy at the sight of the brave?

  Dream Killers You who have killed dreams with your words or remarks or the sticking to forms with disregard to the beauty of ideas you who could not see life from the vision of a poet or the depth of a painter or live with the rhythm of the singer

Listlessness settles upon me like a stubborn fly, only the Quest will settle its wanton touch, Conformity, comfortability and rest wring my neck like a strangler, my mind is restless and listless and will not be content to wander about with the mudane and the ordinary