I
How can my world collapse
and shatter like splintered ice?
Yet Dide soke stirs within my chest:
Rise. Lift. Awaken to light.
II
On Third Mainland Bridge I stand,
rooted like the ancient Iroko.
Ori mi — crowned in quiet fire —
my head, my path, my destiny.
III
Life threads itself through ash and grey.
Ọgbọ́n now speaks where youth once burned.
Faces gleam with polished smiles,
while silence gathers underneath.
IV
Still, I plant my hope across the divide,
a garden wrestling dust into bloom.
Akoko leaves bruise beneath my steps —
time measuring what I must become.
V
A broken vase — yet fragrance lives.
From shattered clay, perfume persists.
Light slips gently through each fracture,
naming beauty without shame.
VI
Fair is truth — and I walk renewed.
Breath by breath, release unfolds.
The Agogo hums through rib and bone,
peace ringing where fear once slept.
VII
The Gángan rolls with living pulse,
summoning buried dreams to rise.
To live is more than borrowed breath —
it is to dare, to stand, resist.
VIII
Lagos shimmers through salt and smoke,
towers lifting from restless earth.
Stone and sky lean close to listen,
hope rehearsing its quiet crown.
IX
Tell me, Ore mi —
shall destiny splinter like ice?
In this city of heat and hunger,
must vision bow to dust?
X
No.
I rise.
I name myself.
I gather every fallen spark.
For those who fall and rise again
shall claim the ground beneath their feet.
Ala mi does not beg.
It reigns.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 10:29 AM UTC
Welcome home, Father — welcome at last.
It feels like an age, like centuries past.
So much has shifted, so much has gone;
even the memory of you feels softly withdrawn.
Your sojourn left more tears than song,
more aching nights, silent and long.
Yet still I wonder, through all we have cried,
why sorrow endured, and hope never died.
Since last I looked upon your face,
hope has been my anchor, my grace.
Days have blossomed; days have fled,
yet I still wonder where you tread.
And Mother — how much can be said?
Her love has never fled.
Through all these years her tears remain,
whispering your name through quiet pain.
Even Billie Joe no longer barks;
his spirit dimmed, his hunger stark.
The hunter’s path grows faint, unclear,
yet echoes of your steps linger near.
To speak the truth, I must confess:
the coconut tree no longer rests.
We brought it down — for change has come,
our streets transformed, the past undone.
Yet still I hear you, gently asleep,
where mortal shadows quietly creep.
Though nature’s fumes have claimed your frame,
here, we still remember your name.
Eboechine 1 —
the Lion from Ogbagu Ogume,
who reigned in Utagba Ogbe, firm in his way,
calling his people home from Kwale to Ogume.
In this ode to a Southern son,
I sing the work your hands have done —
the tale of one who rose from sand
and carved his mark with steady hand.
From poverty’s root to Fortune’s embrace,
you fought, you earned, you claimed your place.
Like one lone tree that dared to stand
and birthed a forest across the land.
This song, dear noble, is for you.
If you rest, your sleep is true.
Know this beneath the sun —
your living branch is not undone.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 10:51 AM UTC
What tale shall be whispered of thee
When shadows swallow thy name?
Shall they speak of a tyrant’s decree,
Or a hand that uplifted the lame?
Didst thou rob from the weak in their plight,
Or sow seeds where compassion would grow?
A builder of bridges to light,
Or a harbinger cloaked in woe?
What words shall carve thy epitaph deep,
A thought for the living to keep?
Remember, my friend, with each breath we borrow,
Nothing endures—not even the morrow.
The nightingales sing—but their song fades away,
As fleeting as dusk at the end of the day.
We all tread upon shifting sand,
An undeniable, silent command,
Inscribed by fate, unrefined,
Etched in the scrolls of time.
The just and unjust alike depart,
Whether noble of soul or dark of heart;
Yet all shall leave, through right or wrong,
Footprints faint, yet lingering long—
Woven into the sands of time,
A legacy, whispered in rhyme.
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 2:30 PM UTC
Some midnights never pass;
They learn your breath and stay.
Coast of dark and silent mull,
Where sorrow builds its hidden hull.
Upon an innocent, tender lad,
Thy vengeance, bitter, harsh, and sad,
Memory wrestles, worn with strain,
Tugging hard to numb the pain.
A dreadful venture's haunting thread
Clings tightly round the boyish head;
The unknown's grip, a phantom's claw,
Seizes marrow, bone, and jaw.
Through Safari's trembling heart,
A journey fear could not depart—
The elephant grass like blades of fate
Lashed my soul, my youthful state.
The rhythm of its cunning tune
Shapes the child beneath the moon;
Just like yesterday’s broken song,
A stutter speaks of all that's wrong.
At the verge—a mother frail,
Her breathing weak, her body pale;
This is the pustule, raw and bare,
The festering grief we all must share.
To another's flesh, it hollows deep,
Young hearts ache, they do not sleep;
Nostalgia claws with bleeding palms,
Longing for a mother's arms.
Though feeble now and sickly worn,
Her warmth, her touch, the soul adorns;
Singled out for frail embrace,
The only peace in time and place.
A blister of my past remains,
Etched like fire upon my veins;
A page within a booklet torn,
A childhood bruised, betrayed, and worn.
Yet still I walk where shadows grow,
Where endless midnight's embers glow;
Still midnight, O still midnight's call,
Your haunting tale encloses all.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 3:59 PM UTC
Dedication
In Memory of Caesar Augustus
To those whose legacies outlive their lives— whose names, like embers,
still warm the memory of the world
Epigraph
“He found Rome a city of brick and left it a city of marble.”
— Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars
I gaze— at walls now clothed in silence,
veiled in dust and patient time,
where shadows harden like old wax
and thought dissolves into hush.
Yet I shall not weep.
No tear shall stain this wearied cheek.
I have wept the heavens pale—
too many borne away
in time’s unanswering breath,
drawn from earth
into realms unnamed.
Another day in mourning’s robe,
I rise with broken breath.
My heart—a shattered chalice—
still beats for what is lost.
Though this is not my way,
I must write
this song of parting.
We have lost—
how swiftly we have lost:
in a breath,
a blink,
a whisper in the tide of days.
Lives stilled
before their stories closed.
Yet this elegy is not for all.
It is for the flame
that dared the dark—
the soul that strode through time
and vanished
like a star withdrawn.
He fell
not into dust,
but into legend.
And I shall not mourn him,
for he who lived well
lives still
beyond the veil.
This I set down
in remembrance of thee,
O Caesar Augustus,
first of thy name,
crowned not with gold,
but with deeds
death could not unmake.
The imprint of thy steps
rests in the breath of Rome,
echoes through winter winds,
sleeps in Italia’s vineyards,
wakes in the rusted arms of Spain,
sings in the stones of Greece,
rides the mist of Gaul
and distant isles.
Thy grandeur lingers—
in empires raised upon thy dream,
in rulers who shaped themselves
within thy long shadow.
Ah—what a life:
not merely lived, but forged;
not fleeting, but flame.
What a passing—
with banners trailing starlight
and thunder bearing thy name.
Thy victories lie etched in honour,
set upon scroll and sword,
outlasting even time’s dust.
For ages yet unborn,
thy name shall rise—
a compass for the bold,
a measure for the brave.
Across the earth,
and far beyond its bounds,
the young shall speak of thy reign.
Minds of vision shall invoke thy name.
Hands veiled in reverence
shall crown thy memory
with laurel and white stone.
And voices yet unformed
shall lift their songs—
praising the ruler
who bowed only
to the gods.
O humble, exalted flame,
not extinguished, but gathered—
thou art not gone.
Thou art remembered.
Thou art crowned
in the kingdom
of the eternal.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 3:41 PM UTC