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Those few days speeding on me
like snails
Like a slow cooker within my core
causing a dull rhythm between my legs.

The days the cold grows tougher
skin and the warmth of a fleece
does not quite cover.
The days the yarn for a lover’s arms
makes me curl like disturbed slug.
The moments when a brush against
my breast becomes the start
of a wild fire raining slimy
gel down my inner tube.

But I must not wade in the sea of love
This is trick of mother nature,
Feeling my belly with hunger
Just as the forbidden apple tree blossoms.



What worries you my love?
Your face is hardened like palm kennel
your eyebrows are kissing like my neighbour’s knees
your lips are tight like a virgin’s sweet pot
and your smile is gone on a hermit’s holiday.

Just the usual stuffs, my dear,
like a path taken turning rough.
To tell you is to shadow the sun
Your smile brightens my day,
I can’t stand to lose it

Your smile is my world, my love
but you have lost it in a bag of thornes
worrying about these usual stuffs.
Tell me these that worries you
and if they shadow the sun
then we will become sun flowers.

I just might, my dear.
If you lose your sun
for these usual stuffs,
this straight path
curving like rubber bowls.
we most venture on
a journey to find it.

But first promise me, my love,
that this sun finding venture
would be ours.
You will not go off to find it
in the bosom of another
and I give you my words,
My sun would not be found
in the arms of another
And this path will lead
To freedom in the end.


It is 4:30 in Nigeria, a Wednesday,
two days after Mosun’s birthday. Yes,
it is 1998 and I go get a bowl of garri
because I’ll have to go for prep in JSS1 Class
at 7:30 and then go to Red house to meet Bola’s
sister and I don’t know why she wants to see me.

I stroll pass the second large room almost empty and
look for a junior to go get me ground nut and sugar from
Wumi or Peju in their room, just above my room and I carry a radio –
rechargeable lamp to hear some latest music
I continue to large
room to my cupboard and Senior Tayo (the strict room leader)
didn’t even look up from her bed to ask for my sweet and
because she’s a nice one I give it to her although I now command a little
respect for I have once shown those seniors that I can’t be messed
with. Other seniors and room leaders are mini military terrors
like Babangida in their rooms. Some are just like Ojukwu’s and
Yellow house is practically a military base where junior girls
sleep with one eye open and their hearts in their mouths.

and as there is no junior around I just walk to the back of
DEMONSTRATION and ask for hot “beske” and “dundu”
and then I go pass Green house back to Yellow house large room,
ask why Tayo is still glued to the radio-rechargeable lamp listening
to some static noise I can’t make out from where I am standing
but I think I heard his name. I wonder what he has done this time

and I am drinking a lot of water by now and wondering why today’s
pepper is so hot. While Tayo still holds on to the lamp listening.
Then she scream, ‘he’s gone,’ everybody scream, his voice clear from the
lamp, I froze with my hand mid-way to my mouth and a silent scream in my throat.


On an empty bed
in the cold country

in a strange city
is my dream.

Troubles and trials
strangled and choked

the realisation
of the dream

fear was

a companion
a regular friend

grabbing the heart
sending stabbing pain

though every
block cleared

it was replaced
with a new one

and every step
closer seem like

a thousand step

but every block was
really a stepping stone

I was not alone
to fight the battle

The anxiety of
waiting for the

passport and the
search for money

to pay, a hard venture
is this masters.



Light dinner by the sea on a starry night
after I got caught red handed I do know
to find peace and settlement is a tough call
since peace is an illusion, an elusive bird
and to be settled is not to be peaceful
though in peace is a kind of settlement
(in the resignation to fate) but not silence
though silence can be everywhere, it
changes in a tinkle like a chameleon
and all peace becomes a noisy adventure
I am at peace only in the love in his eyes

A Great Britain?

Another side to my poem “I too, am British” https://fikayobalogun.wordpress.com/2012/10/19/i-too-am-british/

Max Thomas Scribbles

A beer in his hand and fright in his eyes,
‘Go back where you come from and don’t say goodbye.’
He’s proud of his land and its Great British past,
‘You’re taking our jobs’, as I listen aghast.
Unemployed yes of course, who would hire this man?
‘Go straight back to India perhaps Pakistan.’
No one defends the Sri-Lankan gent,
‘We don’t want you here’, his fists look intent.

By this point I’m fuming, the dark fills my eyes,
Pulse racing, heart thumping, I stand up and rise.
‘Look at the Carlsberg you hold in your hand,
It’s from Copenhagen, no Great British brand.
Our sausages German and pizza from Italy,
Our curry from India..’ he shuffles uncomfortably.
‘Our country’s diverse and we’ve never been free,
From the lands just over the great deep blue sea.’

‘I’ll add when you talk of the Great British past,
Viking invasions…

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Oh when the saints go marching

in matching white garment

in to the dazzling presence

of my marvellous Alpha and Omega

Singing glorious matching songs.


Oh Lord in this month of March

I want to be in the number

with the marching Saints

singing a matching song

to the glory of my Elohim

For his matching blessings

In this month of March.