Dear Someone,
I don't know your name yet,
but I have been writing to you for years.
I have been saving conversations in my chest
for a person whose number I don't have.
Rehearsing laughter with someone
who hasn't arrived.
I want a friend who texts first.
Not because I reminded them,
not because they needed something,
just because my name crossed their mind
and they let it.
I want someone who greets me
before I reach for my phone.
Who asks "how are you"
and actually waits for the answer.
Someone who stands behind me
not to watch me fall
but to catch when I fall.
Who counsels me when I am wrong
without making me feel small for being wrong.
Who sits with me in my helpless hours
and doesn't call it a burden.
I have met people.
Many people.
But meeting is not the same as finding.
They came close,
close enough to learn my name,
not close enough to learn my silence.
So I keep writing to you, Someone.
Not because I am lonely,
But because there is a kind of fullness
that only arrives when you are truly known
by another living soul.
Your kind is rare.
I know that now.
Not extinct — just rare.
Like patience. Like honesty.
Like a friend who stays
when staying costs them something.
So wherever you are,
still becoming, still being shaped,
still finding your own way to me.
Take your time.
I am not going anywhere.
I will be here,
practising what it means to be
the kind of friend
I have been writing to.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 11:04 PM UTC
I cannot wait to meet my Love, my heart,
You taste sweeter than honey on my tongue.
Your love surrounds me, lifts me, shapes my art,
No wealth or gold could match the gifts you've flung.
Your fragrance wraps me, oceans in its flow,
A rose eternal blooms where I repose.
Each morning, your soft smile sets me aglow,
Your promises anchor me through all woes.
Your face, a compass pointing me to grace,
I long to dwell where whispers guide my stride.
Not for one day, but all my fleeting space,
I come to meet you, where my joys abide.
In secret place I seek, my soul's delight:
You, Christ, my Valentine, my sacred light.
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 4:04 PM UTC
The new year rises like the morning sun,
Its golden smile whispers, a journey begun.
We mutter softly, “a fresh path is here,”
As the horizon glows, the vision is clear.
The sun climbs gently to the middle sky,
Some rest in shade, letting moments pass by.
But time keeps moving, it will never wait,
Each hour is a seed, each choice is a gate.
When Evening arrives with labor’s reward,
That's when the lazy begin their rush hour.
Dreams deferred may fade with the night,
Start now, pursue, while the day is bright.
Do not presume the last thirty days will suffice,
The curtain may fall, and demand its price.
Begin with zeal, let wisdom steer,
For the dawn is fleeting, and so is the year.
So rise with the sun, let diligence show,
Your first fruits of effort to God you owe.
Jan 6
Jan 6, 2026 at 10:07 PM UTC
God’s voice isn’t always loud,
sometimes he speaks inside of you.
That still, small voice that nudges,
convicts, comforts, or warns.
It is a personal dialogue between soul and Savior.
Your conscience is God’s courtroom in your heart.
It judges the choices,
reflects His law written within.
Ignore it, and peace slips away.
Listen, and you’ll find guidance.
But conscience alone needs training,
fed by the Word, sharpened by truth,
or it becomes a confused echo.
So honor your conscience,
but don’t let it stand alone,
let Scripture be the lamp it follows.
— Osahenoma writes ✍️✍️
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 10:13 PM UTC
God doesn’t only speak through thunder.
Sometimes, His voice walks in skin.
Not every man with a mic carries a message,
but the ones filled with heaven’s breath,
That teaches the undiluted Word of God.
He speaks through mouths surrendered,
voices broken before they were bold,
those who carry His Word, not their ego.
He warns through prophets,
He teaches through shepherds,
He comforts through counselors.
But test every voice.
Because not every pulpit echoes heaven.
Truth doesn’t shout the loudest,
it whisper but people often reject it.
So listen,
but filter every voice through the Word.
God still speaks through men,
but He never contradicts Himself.
Osahenoma writes ✍️
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 10:11 PM UTC
God’s voice is not absent,
We sometimes fail to notice his presence.
His Word does not always come like a flood,
sometimes, His Word drops soft,
like morning dew on a thirsty soul.
His tone is etched in ancient pages.
He speaks when you look into the Word,
not like a book,
but like a mirror that stares back,
revealing the truth about you.
The Bible is not mute.
It’s a mouth waiting to be opened.
We think hearing is enough.
But obedience…
obedience is the only ear faith has.
Osahenoma writes ✍️
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 10:09 PM UTC
Let me paint a picture not of what is, but what must be.
A Nigeria where every soul breathes with dignity.
I love this land of legends and great history,
With great culture and colourful stories.
From Benue harvest to Lagos light,
Nigeria is magic when she gets it right.
We want more than survival.
We want a place where justice flow like endless river.
A country where you don't need to win with connection,
Where tribal marks are not tickets to rejection.
Where jobs meet effort, not bribery or class,
Where every child can rise, regardless of their past.
We want hospitals that heal, not delay,
Roads that don’t turn journeys into dismay.
We want police that protect, not oppress,
And leaders that serve the people with transparency.
The Nigeria we want is not a myth.
It starts with truth, with you, with me.
We must build her with sweat, not just wish,
Till justice flows and every soul is free.
This green and white is more than flag—it’s flame.
Let’s build the Nigeria that honours her name.
Know this: Nigeria needs the government, the people, you and I to grow.
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 11:52 PM UTC
Before the world called us black,
We were bronze, shining in royal grace.
We were complete, nothing we lack.
Fly with me now, through poetic space,
To a land where legends never die,
Where every stone tells a tale,
And bronze plaques are tongues of ancestors,
Still speaking, still loud, still real.
We built walls without cement, but with resolve,
No empire walked through without bowing first.
We lived in a Utopia, before they came,
Thieves of time, looters of sacred flame.
Not all white‑looking birds are eagles,
Ask the ones who plundered our treasures.
But the bronze whispered till the world listened.
We, the children of the soil, rise again.
Not just children of history, we are history itself.
So when you speak of kingdoms…
Whisper Benin with respect.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 8:25 PM UTC
Sugar Seventeen. Days that are so bright.
Life of rose, in sweet river, tasting like beet.
******* better than adult's freedom; Pain, so sweet.
Free from hustle and bustle, time of light.
But your light is for a while, then fade like night.
You are just a sweet dream. We wake to meet
With the truth, after we've had your moment so sweet.
You fade as time rides close on his bike with might.
Since you are a dream, Let us not be loser,
Like those who cry, "Had I known?"
Let's have good time as soon as possible.
Forget the morrow, jolly, 'cause time's bike draws closer.
With my pen and note, I will note my sweet moment now.
That on the morrow, my youth will be memorable.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 7:32 AM UTC
Shakespeare says, "The world is a stage..."
But who gave me this play that has no page?
We are the playwright of our play.
God has given us the light for the way.
"Action!" Our feet stand on the theater,
Ready to perform, use all strength to do better.
The judge is sitting at the auditorium top.
Millions of mouths jazz for the artist of pop.
Their echoes can trick a lofty heart to fail.
But the dressed player will not be the tail.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 2:26 AM UTC