I’m officially capped to do this.
Okay. Here’s the thing. You have to promise me something. Three things, four.
You know this is freestyle Friday so yea…
First permit us in this alley. We know fishing is not allowed but common our bait are for words. The hooks held by our fishermen are made of ink. We fetch our words from peace like from a river overflowing so we can catch men by the pull.

Next give us an audience. We need an audience to be caught by our wide nets weaved of words and punctuations to mark a good start with our fishing business.
We heard there are ghosts in your alley. Some have even nicknamed it the haunted alley. We understand that’s a legit reason for the ban but do let us face our fears ourselves. If we call ourselves fisher men give us the benefits of being adequately clad for the job.

And finally, don’t leave us your equipment. If they worked in ghost proofing the area it wouldn’t still be haunted would it? We have come from a dimension of torch lights that spell victory with the name of the Christ. And from this watch tower, Life is not too good to be true, it is true.

Adaobi

(c) 2018

Do you still consider me Your child?
Do you still love me?
Do you still have a place?
Even in this sin city I call my heart,
With all these shortcomings of mine?

My question is?
Do all murderers have a place in your house?
Can I stab you in the heart,
Nail you to the cross,And turn my deaf hears to your world,
And still go to heaven?

I remember the first I saw you,My eyes were the colours of the sky, You took my life and gave it a new breath, And from the mouth of that very moment, Nothing else mattered, only you, Nothing was ever the same,

Until a bug flew past my eyes, Until I got stung by the swam of distractions, Then lost I, the view of you, The once crystal view became nothing but a jagged reflection, What was left of our broken love, Fell in the little Bird’s feather, And flew away, Nothing seemed to work, And progress seemed like a distant walk,

Then you took me through your words,
Gave me a silent kiss on the cheek,
Assured my ever pendulum-like heart,
That if I could trust the words write,
On the tablet of my heart,
I would be wanted for Murder,
The first degree murder of my flesh,

Olaoye Adeleye

(c) 2018

Heads of garments, heads of fruits, heads of people… Heads. Heads.

You can gaze upon my face all you want. But to have a look into my head, no you won’t.

Cause you can’t.

And You’ll never know the strings of vessels that work hand in hand with strands of ligaments to pull this through. You’ll never know the gaps that had to be filled with cartilage or red blood peels all to keep this up; this straight looking, up-faced, high standing figure called a head. You don’t know.

You don’t know what it takes to clean me up. Floss after floss of cotton balls dangling up down and across my pores in zig zag motions, all to clean me, wet, dull and clingy, sticking right up to me telling me how I’m a story without a clean stop when I’m bleeding. I wonder if you really know where I’m heading at cause you don’t know me. You don’t know what it feels like to be me.

That’s how you can sincerely look forward to appreciating me with nothing. You’re expecting me to continue to spring up all of a sudden, give a genuine laugh all the time all of a sudden, have many reasons to always sit up and think for you when you would have me sit up and think for you because you’re certain doing nothing is your part while all I must do is sit up and think for you. But you have not been sincere enough to genuinely follow up my system. Now you can’t back me up.

So you accuse me and abuse me, all rightly. You treat me lightly yet you expect me to perform brightly. You conjure up your own magic and yet you can’t spell me. When Paul said to pray for our leaders, he was not speaking Anti. In the spirit he was true and he was matter-of-factly. You know we…dress up our lives with Makeup and acting, yet actually we pretend to know what our leaders are really facing. Forgetting they also have faces and dresses to act in. Believe me…

You don’t know the heart of the matter until you’ve listened to its beat. You don’t know the stomach of the warrior until you’ve fed it. You don’t know the bone of contention until you’ve chewed on it. You don’t know the joke of the oesophagus until you’ve told it. You don’t know the favorite joint until you can beer it stretch. You don’t know your own guts until you’ve spilled it. You don’t know the skin of trouble until you’ve felt it. You don’t know the slippery nature of butter fingers until you’ve heat it. You don’t know how elastic your ribs are until you’ve cracked it.

And you don’t know the breath of his shoulders until you’ve cried on it, taking in deep breaths till you can measure it. So why are you waiting? We never measured up to this, this beautiful privilege of the Good News but, the good news is He is waiting to take our hands and comfort us and equip us beyond measure in the power of His Spirit.

So He sealed it. If you know it, you can live it and get it into your head.

Adaobi Chiemelu

(c) 2018