Blog, Poetry, Writers

Sailor: A Poem by Victor Oladejo

The day the trees bore me died, I, the son, stood on the edge of the cliff of my mountain and peered At the wreck of my ship, The ship that carried me there. My ear became a palace of voices, Voices that danced with promises made of glass: “We will help you,” one said. I guess that was my uncle. “We will shelter you,” another said. That was my aunt. But they shattered while I held them. So I set out to sea alone, My head filled with memories of nights When I tasted gold with my fingers And birds marveled at my joy, A sun-bright like the Sahara’s. Blood is thicker than water, This mantra escaped from my lips. For where is blood when a brother cannot deliver a brother? I closed the door of my heart to love, family, friends, and foes, And I surrendered myself to wander in the symphony of life. It was a journey filled with many crossroads Until we encountered Sade. That very hall was filled with golden light, Drowning us in its powerful radiance. The sun itself was a witness to a beginning And a promise stronger than glass. You taught me what it meant to see your butterflies unfurl And search the mystery of your garden. I started dancing before the hides of my drum knew The palms of my hands. Suddenly, I knew which map to follow. The journey of my life started. For in your love and warmth, The tides of my life said yes, To the wheel of my ship. ii Yesterday I woke from a dark dream filled with forgotten voices, my heart a swinging pendulum begging for comfort, then I felt your fingers on my neck, the tips searching the maps on my skin, I turned to hold you, to feel you, to grasp you with the excitement trapped in the body of a man who stumbled upon a pouch of gold in a lonely field. But they retreated into a frustrated clinch. You were not there; my treacherous mind was at play again. I find solace every day in the calls we share and I read our messages again and again, taking each word slowly with the elegance of a lead dancer in a troupe in service of a king. I savor them and get lost in them, but they are never enough. They say time creates despair, I find those words true, The last letter you wrote from America ended with: I can’t wait to return to you. Those words made my mind tingle, and I decided to write this ode about you, my light giver. I am not so good at the game of waiting, I fail terribly when I try to sit in the shade of patience. I struggle every minute to express what my mind can’t express and these words that bear no comfort but endless trials at consoling a mind that refused to be consoled. I need you here, I need you today, but I can only wish.

Blog, Essays

A Lily In The Sun by Oladejo Victor Olayemi

Adewumi saw her in her dreams or rather created a place for her in her dream; sometimes as a Messiah and at a time a crescent fire casting light to an opaque part of her life. from the stories people who tasted of her kind gestures told her; they told her she owns a restaurant in ore, she was a kind woman who assists people to find a strong foot in the city. All this stories convinced Adewumi that aunty Clara(as she was fondly called), was the reality to her heights of daydreaming of a pleasant life in the city. When aunty Clara came to the village, Adewumi was elated when she visited her grandmother.  She told her grandmother in her own words that parts of the salary Adewumi would be earning would be sent to her occasionally. After all, preparations were made they set out for the city in Clara’s car. While the journey lasted,  Adewumi was filled with anticipation. She felt her lily spread its petals in the orange wash of the summer sun. She felt within her that her spirit rose from its shadowy nadir into its colourful horizon. she felt the gesture from aunty Clara would pull her from the marshes she fell into from infancy when her parents deserted her. She believed her lily would become luxuriant in aunty Clara’s restaurant, the lily that showed sufferance in the face of hardship and pain, the lily she nurtured on the soil of hard work and self-respect. When they arrived at aunty Clara’s home, Aunty Clara tore the veil from her face and Adewumi stared at her real face. She began to sketch the picture of what her real work was. After weeks of her stay in aunty Clara’s house, Adewumi began to notice what was subtle about aunty Clara’s work. when all that was in the hazy revealed itself she was bewildered. The business aunty Clara owned was a mirage of a decent job, the business was prostitution in the disguise of a restaurant that highly influential men patronize on a daily basis.  She was lost in the cyclorama of horrible pictures painted in black hues, she was trapped in between two choices; join the circle willingly or be forced into it. She could not fight her because she had all the backing of the influential men who patronize her, these men were the puppeteers behind the puppets that controlled the government of the state. She heard about the way the girls she met at the so-called restaurant was shredded of their innocence from the men whenever their conversations grew bawdy. While those pictures floated, Adewumi decided within her own piece never to yield to the circumstances she found herself. Though she lived in a hybrid of fear and anxiety about what would befall her when her turn comes, she decided that her lily would never be pulled, twisted and offered to please men old enough to be her father. She thought of her grandmother in the village, the poor woman who had always wanted the best for her, she thought about the impression she would have of what her work in the city was. The answer to her thoughts gave her the impression that her life would come to an impasse forever if nothing was done. She thought of any means of escape but found none. Her lily began to wither and suffer a lack of water. She tried to pray but she could not, the maze she found herself in began to make the pious imprint her pietistic village had on her before she came to the city; a blur of the actual photo. she began to sink under the weight of the bad influence Aunty Clara tried to make on her. On a particular day, Adewumi decided to find solace in her diary, while she was reading she stumbled on a message she wrote about a man who was born a cripple but through his trust in God, he succeeded eventually in life.  Drawn to this story, she saw her own very self reflected in it. Though she wasn’t crippled, she had no parents to walk her through life. she had learnt to trust God like the man in the story while she was at the village. The story kindled her trust in God and a new form of energy to strive even among thorns. After her brief meditation, she prayed silently to God. some weeks later, Aunty Clara decided to leave the city for Adewumi’s village of Ifon. A man visited the restaurant, seeing the birthmark on Adewumi’s neck, begged for privacy with her. The man told Adewumi that he was her father, he told her it was out of the the shame of impregnating her mother who was a descent from a lineage of slaves in their village that  pushed him out of their life, and over the years he tried hard to reach out to Adewumi’s mother but couldn’t. He begged her for forgiveness and promised to heal her wounds if he was allowed to do so. Adewumi forgave her father and she related the story on how she got to the restaurant to him, upon hearing her story; he decided to rescue her and those who were trapped in the restaurant. He filled a lawsuit against Aunty Clara and her influential circle members and justice had their way. Adewumi and her father went back to Ifon and reunited with her grandmother. After many years she became a successful entrepreneur. whenever the poignant story of her trial comes to her memory she always consoles herself that her lily blossomed and flourished in the sun at the end. Oladejo Victor Olayemi is a budding artist and a secondary school graduate. He lives in Ore, Odigbo, Ondo state and wrote in via victoroladejo95@gmail.com

Creative Essays, Essays

The Serial Killer’s Wife by Victor Oladejo

  Dear Efua, You have no idea how long I have tried to write this letter to you, but I couldn’t because shades and voices now haunt me. They are in my head now, speaking nonstop, a man is lying in the pool of his blood close by, his blood, crimson red, is soaking my blue shorts. It is not Tinnitus, they speak languages I can understand, not just sounds. I’m not hallucinating, I can touch them, I can feel them, just like this man lying on the ground. His face is pale, snow-white. His mouth is open, as though he is screaming, but he is not. He is dead. He is from my past, yes, my past but they are so many I can’t remember who he is.  They ebb out of the shadows l locked them in, reaching for me, trying to suck me in. I’m trying my best not to screw this up like these papers, crumbled and lying in wait on the ground for this to join them. But I will try to hold myself till the end. I’m writing this letter to you because you are the only one I owe this story. You are the only one who will believe this tale because it’s your story, the story you share with them. This may be my last letter to you, and to me. But I beg of you, everything in this story is true. All of it. I have a horrible feeling that you might roll this letter up and throw it into the nearest trash can because the story I’m about to tell will feel so alien, so strange and dark and so different from my story, the one I shared with you for eight long years before I came here last year. Efua you have to believe my story and find another life, you’ve stayed glued to me for years, sending letters, sending love, but you know so little about me, so little, but I know a great deal about you, your secrets and the silent part of my story— our story. They haunt me now, perhaps they’ll set you free. 2. GREEN PLANET PARK SHOOTING–  I believe it was an accidental discharge, wife claims.  That was on the first page of the guardian yesterday, your interview on my case with Teju Greene on why my case should be reviewed and investigated again. That was when they came, the darkness. I held the newsprint in my wet palms, my eyes fixed on the front page, on your picture, on your expression, fear and pain in your eyes all frozen. Slowly the hard cement floor began to crawl with green creepers, grasses, and wildflowers. All at once, I was at the park again. You sat on the bench with Fred. The evening sun was shining, drowning both of you in its rich yellow light and the birds were tweeting away in the orange trees. I stood behind the tree, my hands on my camera, watching you both, waiting patiently to raise my camera and make a quick flash. Then seconds grew into, minutes into hours, then at last I was about to leave, I was about to believe you were innocent, then you stood and he pulled you to his body, buried you in it. Your lips locked in his. I looked away, something raised its head in me, then started to crawl to my heart and all at once began to scream: Kill him, Kill him, Kill him. So I whispered my prayers for forgiveness again for the oath of duty as a policeman, I was about to break. I waited till you left, then I walked to him. He was shocked to see me, his eyes red and feral like the eyes of a rat. There were more people in the park now, scattered under the trees. But I didn’t mind, they didn’t matter now, what mattered was the fiend staring at me, looking through me,  perhaps at the serpent that was still screaming. I smiled at him, just like I did when moments like this came. Then my hand found its way to my holster, to my little darling. I raised it, he screamed, then the couples close by started to scream, the whole park now screaming, even the tweeting of the birds was drowned out. “ Please I can explain, I can explain ”, He said, his eyes swimming in tears. I squeezed the trigger. The birds took to flight in the trees. He fell on his back. Then the sirens wailing, then fellow police everywhere, so I started to run and run…slowly the green grass and flowers started to fade away for the cement floor of this kirikiri prison, my fellow inmates in blue restraining me from squeezing myself through these iron bars. “He is mad! Maaddd!” they were screaming, they can’t see what l see, they can’t hear what l hear. I died again that day in the park, but that was not the first time I died, I had been dying before Fred. And you killed me Efua. 3. Your eyes were closed on the bed, the giant machines had green zig-zag playing on their screen. They were connected to you. Something was beeping too and the doctor was holding your hand, shaking his head. Then he saw me and smiled and said: “Are you ready?” “ Yes, I said. ” Then I donated my kidney when no one could, I did it because l loved you. Because meeting you was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. You survived, we married and I thought it would be: happy ever after. I was wrong. Five years of living with you, I was normal with a kidney, then it happened on that dreadful Saturday, l was driving back to the station to deliver my firearm when spasms surged through me from under my person. Then it spread through my body. I parked and held my

Creative Essays, Essays

Spiral by Oladejo Victor

Edward was jarred from his sleep by the crying of the baby. He ran down the hallway and when he got close to the room where he had led his wife, holding her arm and nestling her head on his shoulder for support earlier this evening, he met the midwife.

Essays, Writers

The Reporter by Victor Oladejo.

I was beyond dealth and some people said l was lucky. Some people even said l was mad and was in need of those brain-guys. In my opine l wasn’t . But in my assuring voice my thought lingered. 𝘈𝘮 𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘮𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭? 𝘖𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺. How can you call that lucky ehen? All those things l had done. You don’t know me , then you don’t visit the vendors everyday. do you? I was the guy always smiling with a kodak camera hanging down my deck in the front page of 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗗𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝗙𝗲𝗲𝗱 newspaper. I was the highest paid newspaper reporter. I was the risk taking reporter who runs through the fleeing crowd towards the destruction and on the next news report every detail would be presented on the front page of the newspaper. I had International recognition too. A very big one at that. I was invited by the Japanese government to make a live coverage of a Tsuami. I went and l did it! So you see am beyond death . Though l was beyond death or l was being lucky, l still had my fears. When the Nigerian government contacted me, l was beyond Joy. Though my fellow reporters expressed their fears , l accepted the offer. An offer to visit the desert lovers. The hooded and turbanned militants in the Sambissa forest — The Boko Haram. It was plain insanity , it was clear. One of the reasons l accepted the challenge was to see that beautiful girl in their camp — Leah Sharibu. So we made all preparations and l left with my crew and two green men. The Air was misty when we got to the heart of the forest. It was a dirt road . It was said that the road was used at other times in bringing food supplies into the camp. The 𝗦𝘂𝘇𝘂𝗸𝗶 Truck swayed as the vehicle tore deeper into the canopy of trees and mangroves. The darkness was fading and it was close to dawn. My crew nembers kept vigil. They were trapped between fear and excitement, but they couldn’t help it. They were in need of fame to revive their dying Careers as Journalists. The entrance into the forest camp was placed on guard. Three turbanned Boko Haram militants had Rocket Launchers on their shoulders , ready to roast us in the 𝗦𝘂𝘇𝘂𝗸𝗶 . They ordered us to stop and present our entry documents. The oldest of our soldiers spoke with them in Arabic and bits of Hausa thrown inbetween. After a while we entered and my fear returned. The tents were scattered around a huge one that appeared to be a mosque. They had just finished their early morning prayers and were walking slowly back to their tents. All eyes on us. I avoided the stares of my crew members, l did because l knew they would only add to my growing fear. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘭 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭? We stopped at the front of a huge black tent. The militant that led us, went to the entrance and called the tent owner with a loud voice. I signalled to my crew guys and they arranged their equipments. Ade had the rotating microphone and Juwon was in charge of the Camera. The tent cover was loosed from the bar holding it in place. The tent owner came out of the tent. I was about to Turn to the crew members and commence the coverage when one of the soldiers yelled : “ Ye eh” and he fell hitting the ground like an uprooted iroko tree. In sychronizing way, my crew guys fled into the bush followed by the second soldier. I was too stunned to move. I stared at the dead soldier and l turned to the black tent. A militant was posed in a shooting position. His rifle in my direction. I yelled and was about to flee when l was shot in the leg. I fell on the hard yellow earth . The pain went through my body. The militant walked closer and raised a spear. I raised my hands to sheild my self and l screamed. “ Temiyemi, what is wrong?” my brother asked throwing our cloths into the laundry basket by his side. I was too scared to talk. I surveyed the room to see if l was still in the camp, my heart almost Jumped out of my chest, when l saw a black fold-able fabric wardrobe. “ Jesus!” l shouted. My brother by the wardrobe brought the militant to my memory again. “ what happened ? “ He asked again, folding a black pyjamas. “ l had a dream , about those …. give me water” l said, feeling thirsty. My throat was almost dry. I was feeling dizzy. “ l had a dream . it was at Boko Haram’s camp” l said. My brother grinned. “ No wonder, you threw your legs wildly on the bed when l came in “ he said, throwing a pair of sucks into the basket. “ Can you remember the assignment Mr Kunle gave us?” “ That one , Mr Kunle gave us about emm…” he scratched his head “ see l can not remember” “ He told us that we should write about ourselves being free from death” l said and took my copy of 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗔𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘁 by Paulo Coelho. “ Oh, yes, that assignment it’s too strange. Imagine Abacha still alive and Hitler still conquering. Imagine the pain if they had the ability to live forever. Thank God we are mortals” He said and sat on a stool. d” But all the same being mortals proves a very great difference” He said. “ Anyway, l think l now know the reason we were given the assignment” l said, excited. “ Mr Kunle told us to lmagine that death and it’s fear is over, how would we live our lifes. Iook at those Boko Haram guys. They reach out for their goals. Though negatively. They go among people and they get blown off. Can’t you see they are

Essays, Writers

The Bird by Oladejo Victor.

𝗦𝗛𝗘 was shaking violently, the bed was creaking. She was convulsing and her body was thrown forward as she did. She held unto me tightly and i clasped my hands around her shoulder. she was gasping for breath. My stomach churned , i felt a strong pain entangled with fear . i wanted to shout, but instead , air came. Then she was thrown forward again , this time her face was tightened with her eyebrows curving forward towards her forehead . she let out a shout and she fell back to the bed. She became still in the grip of death. “mother “ was all i muttered. The ward was empty , we were alone in it. My body shook, the skin under my navel became hot. I tried to shout, to call for help , but it was too late, she wasn’t breathing. I became languid myself , i dragged myself to my chair which was by her bed all night. A wave of pain swept through my body and i became dizzy, i felt my spirit was living my body, darkness came , pitch darkness and silence. The rays of light was on my face , i opened my left eye, everything was in a blur . i twitched . “ Thank God he is alive”. I stared to the direction where the faint sound came from. I saw nothing except colours dragging around like jelly. I closed my eyes again and opened them slowly, the room became pellucid. Mrs Tunji, the nurse that was in charge of my mother . she sat on a blue chair. She smiled dryly at me , i didn’t smile back. She stood from her chair and walked to the bed i was on. “ you fainted , sorry , your mother is dead, she is in the last ward. We met you on the floor this morning”. I wasn’t surprised, i took grief like that often. I didn’t cry , i turned on my back and stared at the blue wall behind me. I didn’t think of my mother, i was dead also, something died in me. During my mother’s funeral, my father came. He came along with my stepsisters and my stepmother. They wore black and held flowers in their hands. I felt paranoid standing close to them. I was burning with hate. My father was quiet and he had the expression the fuhrer had on his face on the cover of the history of Nazi Germany i read often. He sniffed and blew into his nose whenever our gaze cross. When the funeral was over , i rode in his car to my father’s house. When we got home my father came to the room i was staying. The words of comfort he said to nauseated me. I pretended to be listening, inwardly i felt like holding to his throat and choking him. He neglected me and my mother for a reason i didn’t know, all i knew was, they had a fight and he left. I visited him at his office whenever i needed anything and that was all, i didn’t know he had another family until the funeral. When l couldn’t sleep , i became introspective . i surfed through my thoughts about my mother. I wondered why she of all people died. I wondered why fate took away my voice . my voice was my hope and my hope was my mother. I was the happy and the singing bird until she died and my voice died when she went six feet into the earth. All through my stay at my father’s house with my stepmother and my stepsisters, i lost taste of everything i loved and cherished while my mother was alive. I was much of an optimist while my mother was alive, always full of hope because of the priceless counsel from my mother. She had the advice to anything and a way of doing things right. So it all changed after her death. Life became meaningless . My father began to care for all of my needs and i never lacked anything but it changed nothing. I didn’t heal. In my bid to find solace i fell into bad company. I began to smoke and drink alcohol secretly with my new found friends. I continued on my new path till i got admitted to the university. My stay at the university was uneventful , my drinking habit grew and i was an addictive smoker. I didn’t attend church often like i did with my pious mother while she was alive. I took my studies seriously but my voice didn’t return, i was hurting myself deliberately and i knew it. My relation with others suffered severely and the only person i related to was my room mate, Uche. Uche , a pious fellow, the last to sleep at night and the first to wake me up with his prayers was my room mate during my first year at the university. He was a person who won’t take no for an answer. He was the fellowship leader and he preached and gave me piece of advice anytime he got the chance . i was lost to my habit and nothing else made sense to me. I was depressed often. After a while i let my thought about my mother fade into oblivion but i never found my voice. My habit remained , nothing changed until my last year at the university. My habits had gone to it’s height, i missed classes and my grades fell. I went to the hospital and i was diagnosed with lung disease. I experienced fatigue and shortness of breath as a result of the disease. I came to my right senses but it was almost late. I went through several tests at the hospital and i used a lot of drugs. During the period of my disease the final examinations was fast approaching. I cried my eyes out and tried to study. The examination came and went , i received the result and i performed very low but i didn’t fail. The result and the

Essays, Writers

If You Talk To A Man In His Language by Oladejo Victor.

You sat on the edge of the bed , clutching your bedsheets in your hand. The window was opened and the breeze with its coldness crept towards you like a hunter skulking in the bush. The night was in a strange romance with quietness which was unlike of your ever bustling street. No one was at home because they were on holiday. You stayed back not because you hate having holidays , the truth was,no one would be receiving you. They were gone — your parents — they died three years ago and your siblings are far in the distant north. You stared into the quiet night and shook your head. You hated loneliness. You grew nostalgia and you closed your eyes as if you could relive those happy moment you call your beautiful past. You wished you could relive and inhabit those colourful days when your parents were alive, though they it was tinged with some bits of sadness too. You wished those days of innocency and carefree life you lived with your brother: Samuel and your parents would come alive. You remembered those beautiful days when your father would call you to his study after your siesta . He would sit you down and read his books on history. He read about Napoleon and the French , about a man called Gandhi from India who he called his model and of silk and cocoons from China. You wondered why he loved to read those books to you and what relevance they were. He read some interesting literature by African female writers to you most of the time. He read books written by Ama Ata Aidoo to you and some of chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. He told you he want you to learn from them and you did! Your encounter with chimamanda through literature kindled a new form of fire in you. You learnt the word :”feminism “ and what it meant. Your brother painted it bad , so did your mother and after a while your father(due to some reasons). You did also at first. You were fascinated by her success and wished to be like her. You became a bit addicted to her works and your mother warned you : “wumi , overly successful women never get married , because low-class men will shrink at their sight”. She thought chimamanda as overly successful because of the limits she broke. Even when she got married your mother never stopped the message. You knew that it was a plain unintended lie. people were only surprise at some success and the only way to contribute is to talk. You wondered why your mother hated feminism when she needed it herself. You wondered why she preferred to stick to hate and never embrace it when she received lashes daily at her work place because she is a woman. You wondered why she decided to accept there was a limit to success as a female and remained as the deputy of her firm for three years because she competed with men. Your brother added a bit of his message too. You noticed that whenever chimamanda and fighting for equality of gender came into the dining table conversation, he got angry. Now as an adult he fought with his wife often and got divorced. He was arrested recently for assault because he slapped a female co-worker. Your father hated feminism eventually because he was scared of your behavior — you always question decisions made by men — He perceived you learnt that from reading “feminist manifesto “ by chimamanda. You knew the book was a guide on becoming a champion of equality , you picked the necessary advice based on your version of feminism. Your older self became what you read . you didn’t tolerate abuse from anyone and people saw that in you. When you read “ Half of a yellow sun “ by chimamanda , you were surprised at what the eastern part of the country faced. The deaths, destruction of buildings ,starvation and separations of family from loved ones all echoed in your heart and you became part of the story. You were glad she wrote the book to remind the sleeping Nigeria of her past that should not happen again. You vowed to shun anything that could bring about hate among you and people from other ethnic groups and tribes. You perfected your new form of believe to the extent your co — workers began to complain among themselves that you avoided your tribesmen and set other people from other tribes above them. You ignored their words because you promoted those people above them based on qualification and not tribalism as expected. You allowed your friends to live with you even when they are not from your tribe. Your favourite quote was : “ if you talk to a man in a language he understand that goes to his head . if you talk to him in his language , that goes to his heart “. It was a quote you understood its meaning but you didn’t know of its full potency until you knew the world’s only language : Action. Everyone in the world understands action in any form it is used. You realised that was the reason Chimamanda chose to act. She acted by speaking on equality fearlessly through interviews and talkshows on equality , unity and race because it is the language that the world needs to hear. Her appearance on “ TEDxEuston” amused you. Her words about stereotype limit and shape of thinking about Africa at the conference shook you. She preached through her actions and you decided to do the same anywhere you go. Her fearlessness and boldness to be different despite her gender made her your perfect definition of an human being worthy of your admiration. You believed that if everyone should preach the right thing through their action on issues that concerns others , if they chose to look above race or economy background and speak through their positive actions the world would become a better place to dwell. Oladejo Victor Olayemi, a secondary school graduate is a budding artist who


Who Murdered Yesterday ? by Oladejo Victor.

Ogunniyi was the chief of Ifon for years before his death, his grandfather was a pioneer of Christianity in the village. The imprints of this religion made him a very Orthodox Christian. He ruled over a court and a large family.  He settled disputes among the sons of the soil with an impartial mind, but he had nothing to do with Muslims and heathens. He shunned every activity that could make him fraternize with them. The eerie fire he carried in his heart towards them was very cryptic to his kinsmen and his fellow pious converts. Even in his court, no one dared to say anything profane about his religion. And with the skill of an alchemist turning steel to gold, he infected the hearts of his children. Like the tide flowing from the sea and ebbing back into it, Ogunniyi’s fire flowed into his son. As the strength of his youth, he built a source of illumination in him to guide his path through life. The fire he thought would illuminate his path and fight off the waxy fingers of darkness from his son. He believed his son would embrace his illumination and detest the darkness, the herald of the abyss, the abyss of the outer world of Muslims and heathens. Since life speaks in vague languages and signs, archaic and arcane signs that only the conscious could decipher. These conscious minds stoic and simple are the ones who could understand that in the universe of a babel of minds, accepting others is the true definition of a man with sapience strong enough to walk through life; even as a pious being. Growing up Alade was astonished at his father’s misanthropical lifestyle towards Muslims and heathens in his jurisdiction. His hands were always outstretched towards the needy but not to non-believers but he was too illuminated to see the pitch darkness at the end of the path he was threading, he was choked by his father’s stewardship of illumination, the illumination he had begun to have a lust for. He was lost to his father’s enigma. But in the middle of spiralling towards the fountain springing with fulgent  fire that flowed from the estuary of his father’s blind hate, he fell into a moment of reminisce. He began to see that the path that he thought was leading to the treasury of illuminated sapience was a fjord he would fall from into a gulf of pain and inhumane lifestyle if does not disembark. Ogunniyi was too blind with his stewardship to notice that his son wasn’t illuminated but was burnt like the Phoenix and returned a different being. Many years after Ogunniyi’s death, his son took the rein of the rulership of the kingdom and he treated everyone as equal because having hateful sapience about others is not a source of power for leadership. Oladejo Victor Olayemi a budding artist from Ore. He wrote in via ezekieloladejo375@gmail.com

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