These Paths

I'll sit still, listen, while you tell me a story

A foreverland
A happily ever after
A smile that never fades
A heart protected so it never breaks

Of undying love
Of unbroken hearts
Of remembered promises
Of care and affectionate words

This was what we thought
This was how we thought
This was the love we wanted
This was the love we craved

An uncertain future with faith
A hand to hold when all was well
And when the world burnt around them
A shoulder to cry on, a pillar to rest

A utopia, with just these imperfect two
A paradise meant for me and you
A garden where the rivers run through
Eden, your place, my place, our place

It's all gone now, or most of it
The winds came with visions
The visions came with dreams
And as new dreams come, old ones are left behind

Old ones carefully forgotten but not gone
We shuffle past them wishing not to remember
For whichever dream we follow, whatever path we take
We'll always hurt someone we love dearly

Which shall we leave behind, my love?

Pay me in Attention

It's lonely here, it's always been. Keeping to myself was one of the many talents I'd acquired over time; being ignored seemed like something I could do without even having to think twice. Life was good till I started learning more about myself and how my desperate need to be a chameleon on the wall was just a loud cry for help to be noticed.

It all started when I would come over to your place and you would seat across me, phone in hand, almost unaware of my presence, a smile plastered on your face, a chuckle would escape your lips almost every minute like clockwork while I tried to drag you into a conversation. It was too much work and effort to tell you to put your phone down which would usually result in "hold on a second". I had learnt to ignore it. Your phone in hand, head in phone, while we talked became a routine. It was even worse when I wasn't there and I had to listen to you talk about your Facebook posts and how it was so funny when I really wanted to talk... 

Go on, judge me for being selfish and not wanting to listen, you hypocrite!

Our habits, these habits, cost us a chance to really listen to each other. Listen to our voices to hear the strains of the day in the intonations as they rose and fell or to see the wrinkles on our faces that the stress of each day brought. You'd never know now, would you? I wonder how many of those chats you remember when you think about me, I wonder if you'll ever know what was going through my mind while I sat across you or why I needed to see you so urgently that I came to your house right after my classes. Was it even a need to see you? Or was my brain just wired so that being with you would make my day less strenuous and somehow your lack of attention made the strain heavier. Your chats, games and social media would still be there long after I'm gone, just the way you like it. 

I just needed your time, no matter how small, I won't be here long. 

Would you pay me? 

If you would, pay me in attention.

🌝

Hearts do Heal Around Here (A Poem)

Hearts do heal around here

I see your heart's aching

For care, love and attention

I know it's been tossed and turned

Inside out, used like a rag doll,

Beaten like a defeated pinata,

It's almost still, it's beat a faint slow rhythm like dull footsteps on an asphalt road

Hearts do heal around here
I feel the ache, the wants, the needs

I feel the pain, the hurt, the aggression

A fire deep within burning at its lowest

Watered down with empty promises, grand thoughts

And exotic dreams of loves romanticism.

Hearts do heal around here
Be still now child, here's the needle, the syringe and the drug

Get lost

Not in love's tale sung by cupid as he floats above your window sill,

Not in the pictures you glide through of couples together with their body language screaming goals

Not in the fruit forbidden because you're heart, no longer beating flesh but ice cold stone

Not in the sweet words painted by friends who say a broken heart can only be healed with time.

Hearts do heal around here
Get lost

In yourself, build an empire fit for a king like you, a special palace fit for a queen only

In books, in the words of mentors long gone with wisdom for the future years

In ideas which you will make come through by sheer will

In Him, who made you out of dust and breathed life and love into your beautiful heart

Get lost in you

Hearts do heal around here

If you showed to you a little care

Hearts do Break Around Here (A Poem)

Hearts do break around here
I've seen them littered on the floor

Tired flesh, drained of emotions

Devoid of love, without the flow of blood

Hearts do break around here

Icy and cold, the glass and stoned

Shattered into a millions shards

With their screams never heard, stories untold

Hearts do break around here

The proud, the meek, finding what they seek

Chasing endlessly, till love is found

Held on too tight and dropped like a ball

Hearts do break around here

The guarded and the unguarded

Emotional and emotionless

Wrung out to dry like clothes in the sun

Hearts do break around here

I've kept mine in a hole in fear

Will it break? Will it tear?

Like glass or like paper being ripped to shreds

Hearts do break around here

I'll give an excuse and say mine was broken first

A Single Word

You've probably heard, seen or been told that life and death is in the power of the tongue, I'm not writing about that.

I can

I can not

The Difference: NOT

A single word changed the dynamics of the sentence, one optimistic, the other pessimistic. The difference might not be much but the impact is great. You decide, you make your own path, your decisions affect people around you.

Situations we find ourselves in are dependent on a word. 

A person's life hanging on the words "he did it", "he did not do it". A different sentence, a different dynamics, and a totally different scenario. Your one word could make or break you. You've moved from being a judge of your fate to a judge of someone else's fate. The truth lies herein and the question that comes to mind is

                                      "WHAT IS THE TRUTH?"

Looks simple enough, but... Is it really that simple? Well, to find the truth, we just have to find what is not the truth. That's probably harder to answer when there's no standard.

"WHAT IS YOUR TRUTH?"

The truth is relative and your single word is relative. While a single word could bring in profits, did it compromise your standard?

A single word, a little part of a sentence, great or small, long or short, goes a long way. Mind the WORD

The Devil is in the Details

They all sat,  huddled together at the table while the conversation went on.  Soon the banters set in and one after the other, secrets were exposed.  Not the deep ones,  no one really knows your deepest secrets or do they?

Secret, secrets... Acts,  deeds,  words,  thoughts unknown by his neighbor.  He planned to lay it to the world.  Moreover nothing was hidden under the sun, if only the sun could lighten the dark recesses of his evil mind so they could see,  but oblivious they were, and oblivious they would be till he was ready.  A wolf in sheep's clothing he was. Were they really sheep?  Were they that naive? Were they inattentive to his flaws?

Everyone carries a baggage,  one which we want to get rid of,  a dark past,  a malicious thought, the greed,  lust,  wants which are characteristics of human nature.  We all want to be better versions of ourselves,  an upgraded entity by which people should judge us by, whether good or bad,  it all goes down to choices we make.

He had always known that appearances could be deceiving, to those he opened up to, which were a select few who he felt wouldn't judge him, he was weak,  probably needed help,  a sinking ship, but to those who never had a clue,  he was the perfect example,  the dream,  the goal.  He played the part perfectly.

He knew he was imperfect but they never saw, so he'd show his flaws.His mind was made up,  he had made promises,  he intended to keep them. Those promises depended on his choices but he had been so stuck in giving the perfect appearance that it never really bothered him.  Tonight,  it did, he was tired of keeping up appearances. Tired of being the hero and villain. Tired because he could do better, much more better.  He had to make the decisions himself,  the road would be rough but he made up his mind that he would persevere.  He always did and this wouldn't be different.  He closed his mind to second guesses and closed his eyes while he imagined the non existent sunlight filter in though the walls he had built over time, thought the fog of uncertainty and double standards.  He was ready to let the light shine through and get to him.

He was a sinking ship but he wasn't a lost cause.  The Devil was in the details but by morning,  he'd leave the Devil on the rear view and look forward to being a light himself not an illusion.  Not picture perfect but working to make sure his flaws were turned to strengths.  He would make gains and show himself that he could pull through but first he had to talk to someone who had always been there all these while.  He had to talk to his Maker.

The Devil was in the detail but he knew it was time to let it go...

The Haunted Road by Royver

The old woman sat by the fire, watching the bean cakes fry. It was a particularly cold night and the warmth emanating from the flames was comforting to her frail and skinny body. She watched the akara as their edges began to turn brown then gently but deliberately turned them over so the uncooked side could fry in the oil. She looked up at the continuous stream of people passing to and fro in front of her kiosk. She had started her trade earlier in the evening and had drawn a considerable number of her usual customers and even a few new ones with the sweet aroma of her wares. Now, however, it was getting really dark and she hadn’t had a customer in an hour, a sure sign that it was time to close up for the night. Already the other shops around her had closed and the commercial buses that usually plied this part of town had started to dwindle. She sighed and inspected the bean cakes again. She decided that this would be the last batch. She brought them out of the fire and proceeded to scatter the firewood, allowing the flames to die slowly. She waited for the oil to cool then gently poured it into the container. A young man came up and asked for some bean-cakes. She sold to him and he paid her and left. She turned back to her wares and saw that the fire had all but died out, the ashes glowing a bright orange and yellow in the cold night.

Another half an hour passed by and the old woman began to feel sleepy. The ashes had cooled considerably and the number of people on the street had begun to thin out. As there were only a few more bean cakes left to sell anyway, she wrapped what was left and began to pack her utensils into the kiosk for the night. She put the firewood and ashes into a corner in her kiosk. Experience had taught her that leaving it outside would amount to losing it as the children that went to school in the mornings often times scattered and played with the ashes and firewood. If she had someone to help her gather firewood during the day, it wouldn’t have been so much of a nuisance to her, but she was all alone. Her only son had been killed in a motor accident a few years ago and her husband had not recovered from the shock. He died in the same year; the doctors had given his malady a fancy name “congestive cardiac failure”. She knew how much her husband had loved the boy and strongly believed he had died of a broken heart. She was more of a survivor and though these sad events in her life had brought her down, she kept an optimistic view of things and had resorted to selling akara, bean cakes to eke out a living. It had been so hard at first but then she had started saving small amounts of money and had stopped feeling sorry for herself.
She shut the kiosk door and picked up the left-over bean-cakes. She crossed the main road quite easily as the traffic had reduced. Most of the buildings around had their lights switched off and the town was slowly going to sleep. She trudged along the road, past the new generation bank building that was scheduled to open next week, past some of the old structures that had been in the town for as far as she could remember, past the old catholic church that had two towers, one housing a large ancient bell used to call people in for service and the other with a large mechanical clock that boldly declared the time as being some minutes past nine. The clock’s face had originally been ivory colored but had turned a dirty brown owing to lack of proper cleaning over the years. As she passed, a cold wind blew over and around her and she shivered violently. She wrapped her clothes more firmly around her to keep warm and held the bean-cakes firmly under her arm.

She didn’t notice the young man hiding in the shadows watching her, watching his prey. A tall and lanky fellow, this human predator of the night was out hunting for easy pickings. He saw the package under her arm and his eyes narrowed in greed. He looked left and right; there were still a few people on the streets, so he decided to follow her until his opportunity came. He walked a considerable distance behind her noticing her ragged appearance. The fabric she wore had since lost its color and was thoroughly faded. Her slippers were old and worn. He didn’t let that disturb him though. Experience had taught him that it was not necessarily those who were well dressed that carried the heavier purses. He fantasized about what could be inside; Money? Jewelry? He wouldn’t be surprised. Some of these old people carried strange and sometimes very valuable things on their persons. He had robbed an elderly man only a few weeks ago, a very unkempt and smelly old man. To his surprise, the man had not only had a large bundle of money under his wrappers, he was also carrying pure golden necklaces. The old man had tried raising an alarm but a heavy blow to the chest had silenced him. The necklaces had fetched him a handsome price at the black market but because he only knew how to spend money and not use it, the windfall was quickly exhausted. Looking at the woman’s physique, he surmised that she wouldn’t be too much of a problem. All he had to do was to sneak up on her when they were alone.
The old woman kept on walking, oblivious of the extreme belligerency that was now only a few meters away from her. She turned off the main road and into a street. The road here was untarred and a little narrow, just wide enough to allow two cars squeeze past each other. On either side of the road, tall bushes grew, interspersed with two or three mango trees. There were no street lights here or if there were they weren’t working and pockets of darkness could be found at various points at the side of the road. Places where unsavory characters and even unsavory creatures could lurk. Or maybe they were both one and the same thing. Nevertheless, the old woman knew this route very well and was not in the least bit uncomfortable. She always passed by this route on her way home and had never had an unpleasant incident. She began singing an old native song under her breath. The song, a little raspy from her lips, was nevertheless pleasant. The lyrics told of a little girl who had wandered deep into the forest and was asking the help of the spirits to guide her safely home.
She passed over the little stone bridge that was built over the stream that flowed through this way. No one had ever bothered to build a house along this stretch of road as the land had once been the abode of a powerful witch doctor and the indigenes were highly superstitious. A few people used it however as a shortcut to the other more remote side of town which happened to be where the old woman lived. At this time of the night it was completely deserted except for the old woman singing softly to herself carrying the left-over akara in a bag under her arm, with the profit of the day neatly tucked in her wrapper, and the young vagrant now catching up with her, a large stick in his hand.
She heard footsteps behind her but did not turn around. Instead, she stopped on her tracks and, with her back to the sound, listened closely. The footsteps also stopped. After a while she resumed her march and soon she heard footsteps behind her again. They were heavy footsteps and careless, kicking a stone here, stepping on dead leaves there. Her superstitious mind chided her for not taking the proper precautions before passing this bit of road, but it had been so long since she had needed to recite the incantation… probably she had disturbed one of the spirits in that area who was now trailing her home. She believed that turning around to face the spirit would be fatal. Instead she began to chant an old prayer of her people, apologizing to the spirit for disturbing it and pleading it to return to its rest. If that didn’t work, she could always light a match for she knew that the spirits were repelled by light. She heard a low laugh as the footsteps got closer. She stood still again and repeated the prayer more loudly as her free hand roamed in her bag for a box of matches. Suddenly the footsteps stopped. She moved forward a little and listened closely but there was no sound behind her now. She looked forward and saw that she was close to her exit. She quickened her pace and turned into a school field that led towards her compound. As she moved towards her house she was hailed by some of her neighbors, some of who had come out to enjoy the evening breeze. She answered their greeting and turned into her compound glad to have made it safely home.
And her would-be-assailant? He hadn’t made it very far. He had never taken this path before and it had spooked him a little. He had quickened his pace, accidentally kicking a stone which the old woman had apparently heard by the way she had cocked her head to one side to listen closely, but she never turned around. Instead, she had stopped to mutter a prayer, driving away spirits, declaring she hadn’t set her eyes on them and so could not be harmed. When he had realized what she was doing it was all he could do to stifle a laugh. They were all superstitious, these old people. He was just over the stone bridge and was about to strike when he heard footsteps behind him.

They were soft, even footsteps. Apparently the person (person?) wasn’t in a hurry. He lowered the stick he was holding in his hand, the stick he had planned to club the woman on the head with. Silently, he cursed his ill-luck that had made him delay in catching up to the old woman earlier and making his move. He was about turning around to see who was following him when the air around him became very still. It was true that the night was cold but something else was sending a chill down his spine. He could feel a presence. Not a nice presence either. All of a sudden he knew. He knew what he would see if he turned around. His rational mind told him this was absurd, this was purely superstition but in his heart he knew. His throat constricted and a funny noise escaped his esophagus. His was suddenly thrown into the very grip of terror. What was it the old woman had been muttering?  He tried to recollect them and stumbled through the words even as he was rooted to the spot, and when that didn’t seem to work he tried crying out for help but no sound escaped his lips. His insides became cold and he actually felt himself ageing.

What had she said about spirits?

"Close your eyes...!"

But he couldn’t do it. Try as he might his eyes kept popping back open in fright. So instead he looked down at his feet. Two other feet slowly came into his field of vision. They were swollen, bloated, with some of the nails and toes decayed and falling off. He could feel it inspecting him, sniffing him out as if to catch the scent of inherent mischief. Suddenly there was a snarl and something gripped his arm. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He looked up.
The old woman never heard him scream. She couldn’t have. Even if she had turned around at that precise moment all she would have seen was a young man drop lifelessly to the floor. Even as his soul was being pulled away from his body by forces he couldn’t begin to comprehend, he continued to scream in terror, the loud wail of a tortured soul, inaudible to human ears.

The End

Even Superheroes Make Mistakes

by Anonymous

He was once a superhero, Her superhero...

He was not a superhero, never was. Even if he was, superheroes need love and hugs too.

It's kinda ironical that the one you called a superhero needed saving, lost in a tunnel where he found her, his light, in a world where he was caught up in his wiles and secrets. He was not a superhero, even though he came off as one, He was a wolf in sheep clothing, scum of the earth. He screwed her over, hurt her, made her cry, did wrong by her. He was a fool, but he was human too, bound to make mistakes and he made one.

The pain in her eyes, he couldn't stand them, the tears left cracks on his heart and made his eyes moist, the words she spoke were like blows, blows after blows, he welcomed the pain, he deserved it. The words knocked him down, cutting him way below his size. He focused on his mistakes and let his heart bleed and he finally let his tears fall, he had hurt the most precious thing in the world to him and it hurt him to have caused her pain, he felt like dying. He had hurt his rib, the cut too deep, the pain, the ache, was almost too much for him to bear as he wondered how she felt. She had kept him sane for so long and he paid her back with pain when he fell, when he gave in to his weakness.

He always thought he would never hurt her, but he did, he lied to himself, and it was killing him. He would never be able to raise his head or his shoulders high. He was broken, and would have a distant look in his eyes, the look of one who found love and lost it by his hands. He would never be her superhero anymore because even SUPERHEROES MAKE MISTAKES.

She was his superhero, still is...

Empty Thoughts

Sitting by the table, conscious of everything around but still lost in the depths of the multitudes of thoughts crowding my mind. A lot has been up lately and it's been overwhelming. I'm still young, a teenager or in my early twenties and the realization of life has started setting in, staring me in the face, more like daring me and there's little or nothing I can do about it... for now, right?

What's life about? We've been fed stories by elders, how life gets harder as you go higher. Basic human desires points us in the direction of being better, getting tougher, making stuff better for ourselves as we go on, it's imbibed in us... the will to survive. I guess these instincts written down in our genetic codes bring these thoughts to the surface at some point in our lives. What's next, what could I do to make my life better? Will I get a job after studying for four years, after all the numerous tests and quizzes and exams, trying to see if I was smart enough to be in the real world? Or should I get a masters degree while taking time to figure out life?

The future is a scary place or is it? The feeling of nostalgia returns, the desire to go back in time, probably make better decisions, probably never grow up. It's all there but we know deep down, it'll never go, that feeling that we can't change the past. We forget something, something very important; the past is in the past, even though it can define certain sequence of events in the present and future, it doesn't mean it should define the sequence of events, because, the future is malleable, the future is dependent on the sequence of actions of the present and the present becomes the past pretty soon.

Make each moment count, the future will always sort itself out, make plans, dream big, work towards them in the present and work hard at them. Don't be scared and leave the thinking for the times when they are needed, just make those plans and work towards them and see a better you come through...

For fear of fear

Growing up  and being exposed to the wrath of a cane, belt, slippers or any nearby object that could instill pain or punishment into you that would be befitting of the crime or sin committed created; the fear of doing wrong or the fear of doing wrong and being caught or the fear of being punished or fear of the one who was the punisher or fear of the one who would tell/snitch.  Whichever way you choose to look at it, fear is a limiting factor. Stopping us from realising our potentials, clipping our wings and blinding our view of a bigger picture, a better picture.

Daily, we are faced with making decisions that can and will change our lives, everyone wants change but not everyone wants to change or be in a position to to effect the change we desire. Fear of the future and what it holds, holds you back in the present, stagnant, unmoving while everything, everyone rushes by. Fear of leaving friends behind, memories created, fear of growing up and facing responsibilities, fear of a new environment, fear of adapting....

But stop and think for a moment, the friends you leave behind will always be there, it's a digital age, you might not see them physically but you cam always talk to them whenever you want. Memories stored forever in pictures of happy times and sad moments, there to remind you of how much you've been through and how you always came out stronger. Responsibilities to remind us that growing up can't be all that bad if you just be you, do your best and everything will be fine. New environments suddenly become warm, a place you want to be in, a place you don't want to leave because new friends came through, new experiences were made, and new memories created.

Your fear would only last as long as you hold onto it, let go of it and take a step, come out stronger. Be stronger

It's YOUR Life

by Ace Potter and Alexandria Lancaster 

Life is a mystery, so how do we go about discovering this journey with no manuals and button for settings?

Life is a bed of roses to those who have the means to get by and a bed of thorns to without such means.

Different perceptions, different views abound in the world on the approach to take on life, but which is which and which is optimal?

Books have been written on the best route to take, the highs, the lows, but no one knows what's best for you because they never walked in your shoes and never threaded your path therefore no one can determine your life or the path you should take. 

Life could be pretty simple like in a fairy-tale, child gets born, grows up in a sheltered place, sees some one, falls in love and together they live happily ever after or could be a Korean movie with so much drama and so many episodes or it could be a Nollywood movie with so many parts and never ending or ending on a cliff hangar or a Hollywood movie with so much action and so much gap between the actions, maybe a Bollywood movie with songs and dances and cliche eye interactions.

But what defines life, your life I mean?

Laws written down by fathers long gone, in different times and eras when horses where the means of transportation or when we struggled with the first automobiles, cultures defined by ancestors and those which we try to keep their legacies as times and mentality changes, ethics that define our morality, giving us that line with which we interpret what is right and what is wrong, religion that keeps us in check, defined primarily by culture and open to interpretation by us as we see fit.

Remember that your life is yours, examples have been set forth before you, the cycle repeats itself an you always have a choice.Whatever you interpret life to be, it is also important to make the right choices Let no one strong arm you into letting them make your decision for you. Make your choices, take risks, live life, be happy, smile often, give freely, and when your choices don't seem good, take a pick and move on, Life is too short to keep contemplating and second guessing.

What then is life?

Self Check

All men are dogs         True?

Most men are dogs       Really?

Some men are dogs       Right?

Few men are dogs         OK...?

Still thinking of the correct statement to classify men as, in a world where the need for equal rights for males and females is still under debate by religion which consider men as the head and women the 'slave' and politics which do not really consider the female folks as mighty contenders in the race for the position of power also not leaving out society and its value it places on men as being ones who are responsible for most of the 'work done' in any given relationship.

While the above paragraph is subject to question in your mind given your experience with the egoistical male folks, do you ever stop to see them as the victim? Now that is a biased judgement, women are always the victim, always right in any given situation, I celebrate them with all the love in my heart for one of the greatest of them, MOM. Nevertheless, is DAD a dog?

You never thought of it like that, have you? Now, some of you really had it rough, with Dad looking like the scum on the earth that should be wiped out of existence and this hatred easily extends to any homo-sapiens that does not share the highs and the lows of womanhood but stop for a moment and ask yourself, What/Who made him 'what' he became?

People pass through abuse (physical, mental, verbal, emotional) daily and some are more subtle than others but do we bother to check around and be our brothers/sisters keeper in these trying times, when the ones we claim we love are faced with their inner demons. Or do we turn a blind eye to their struggles, their fights, their tears, their broken hearts, and instead of lending a hand to pick them up when they are down, or are we eager to lend a mouth to the nearest ear to spill the juicy details (snitch)?


All men are dogs but who is a man?



HAPPY WOMEN'S DAY

The Random Pilot

While trying to keep my head right in a world filled with distractions and pleasures which I, which we all indulge in once in a while or at the maximum, relationships are born, friendships are made, bonds created and mysteries evolve. While some remain constant, some grow, evolve, ever changing and dynamic, regardless of what or who they are.

Nevertheless, we all seek the same thing, though called by different names, known as different things to different people, we all want it. 

What is IT?