The Old Lady ChaCha

The Old Lady ChaCha.


Numbers 1, 2, 10 in superfluity
A strong stumbling wall with barbed wire band
A strong voice resident in the brain and mind
Measurement of maturity and potentiality


Everywhere looks the same-

old boring bundles of nothing

I’m searching, seeking,

asking, knocking, looking,

where can the glittering spark be?

That little Godly light that makes

life more interesting

more worth living


God! I have waited this long to live,

give me life in abundance

to live, love and fear you.

I want to live,

let me live.


In all Father,

may your will be done,

may your kingdom come

may I be worthy

of your kingdom.



I wish I could wail, to wash my pains.

I wish I could scream, to clear my heart.

I wish I could throw a punch

to let out the strength of

the strong fury waging within me.


I wish I could sink to show my depression.

Nothing can be compared

to what wages within me.

Who can hear my cry for help?

Who can lend me a helping hand?


Friends say to pick the Holy Book

and immerse myself

in its soothing words.

then will I gain my peace.


My peace rest in his words,

my escape from despair

resides in the pages

of my Holy Book.


The power to pass through

cloudy days and triumph,

lives in the holy book.

It is where my hope is found.


Ọ̀lẸ                                                      LAZY MAN

Wọ́n ní kí o tẹpá mọ́sẹ́                      Advising a lazy man to work

O’un gún pá                                    makes him raise is sarcastic shoulders.

Ń gbà tí isẹ́ bá dìsẹ́                           When joblessness becomes poverty,

Awọ rẹ a giiran                              his skin would lose it shine,

Àyà rẹ̀ a yọ egun                               his shoulders blades would appear

Ojú rẹ̀ a rangun                                his eyes would shy into their socket.


Kò sí àbùjá fún ọ̀lẹ                           There’s no short cut for a lazy man,

Ẹni tó tẹpá mọ́sẹ́                              the everyday devoted workaholic’s

ò ti jẹun kánú                                 belly remains unsatisfied

kátó ń bùrú ọ̀lẹ olè                            let alone the lazy man – thief

Afi ọmọ ẹran dájọ                           sacrificing a calf where he should give a goat.

ọmọ ọ̀lẹ ò le rẹ́ni nùú                         No one would feed the lazy man’s child,

ọ̀lẹ fún ra rẹ̀ ko rẹ́nu jẹun.                  even the lazy man has no food for his mouth.


To Yoruba speakers and readers: Forgive the inefficient marking.

To English readers and speakers: Forgive the inadequate translation.


A Mother’s Love

A Mother’s love is incomparable

A mother’s care is inconceivable

A mother’s strength is incomprehensible

A mother’s prayer is unconditional

A mother’s passion is infinite

A mother’s love is constant.


It has no bound

It has no boundaries

It has no conditions

It has no limitation.


A mother’s arms is a sanctuary

where the ocean of life

becomes still, quiet and peaceful.

A mother’s kiss

is a seal, a mark of hope

spreading warmth,

sheltering us

from the biting cold of life.


Not all women are mothers,

not all mothers are women,

and not all mothers

are worthy of the name “MOTHER”


I thank God that my mother

is a woman qualified

to be called “MOTHER”

She is rarer than gold

More precious than diamond.

A perfect fit for my Mirror – My father.

A pillar of strength in stormy waters.

Second to no one but God.

Blessed by God to bless me.



To all mothers,

to potential mothers,

to women longing to be mothers,

to mothers gone but living

in the heart of their loved ones.


This is me

It is me you see,

writing about writing.


A young man –

a man of great influence,

a man of inspiration

is making me write;

Write about writing.


This is me writing,

writing about writing.

Writing about seeing writing

as a daily dose;

daily dose of medication,

daily dose of resources,

daily dose of fire

to purify the gold.

The gold called talent –

the gold God has imbedded

in me as writing.


This is me writing,

about me writing.

Writing untill I break through

Writing until my writing makes a way

Writing until my writing

writes about me.

Writing until my writing

make others write about me.


This is me writing,

writing about writing.

Alone in my room,

writing about writing

with the words of SOJI ALAYO

ringing in my ears

making me write about writing.


Oh no! She did said no
when I know, she had always said yes.
Do I stink worse than most stinkers?

Do I look shoddier than other monsters?
How can she then give me a NO.

She’s the simplest thing ever on earth,
she says YES to all the boys and girsl-

She says AIYE to all Dicks, Toms and Harrys.
All I wanted was a nice thought of birth
when we fuse and become one as with others.

Not that I was going to take the birth
just something to keep her off our street.
oh no she did say no, I never thought of it….
I must stink so badly, because she never says that.

She never say NO.