In Honor of President Ahmed Bola Tinubu*

O leader whose name now echoes wide,
Through valleys deep and mountains' side,
You rose with purpose, firm and bold—
A vision cast in green and gold.

From Lagos roots where strength was born,
To Abuja’s heart, at break of dawn,
You led with wisdom, calm and sure,
A steady hand the people trust, secure.

In Northern lands where dust once flew,
You brought the rains, you broke right through.
The roads now hum with growing life,
Once scarred by silence, now free from strife.

You lit the path in Kano’s sprawl,
Rebuilt the bridges that once did fall.
In Sokoto and far Katsina’s plains,
You planted seeds that now bear grains.

The dams you built in desert’s hold,
Now sparkle bright, a tale retold.
For youth you carved out schools and dreams,
And gave new power to faded streams.

In farming fields, the tractors hum,
Where once was stillness, progress come.
Markets buzz with northern trade,
In every stall, your mark is laid.

No tribal shade could dim your course,
You drove the wheel with just one force:
A nation strong, in peace and pride,
With all her people unified.

So rise, O sons and daughters here,
And let your grateful voices cheer.
For in this time, this fleeting span,
We’ve seen the works of a noble man.

I didn’t plan to make it this far.
the road was long, and I was tired.
Life never promised me softness,
but then there was you ~
folding sunlight into my hours
like it had always belonged there.

You, who can fit
a decade of joy into a single day,
whose laugh pulls the dust from old corners
and leaves something living in its place.
Your eyes ~
they undress more than skin.
They peel back the years I wore like armor,
and somehow,
I do not mind being seen.

You say you don’t like your greys.
But I ~
I never thought I’d wear time like this,
like a shared jacket
slung across the backs of two souls
sitting on a porch too small for regret.
Each silver strand a mile we’ve wandered,
each wrinkle a map I get to trace
with grateful hands.

If this is what age can look like;
soft, surprising,
filled with the kind of joy
that hums low in the bones,
then let time come.
Let it etch you deeper into me.
Let it bring more of your quiet magic,
the kind that rewrites endings
before they’re written.

Whatever waits for us next,
I will greet it smiling.
Because somehow,
you made forever feel
less like a promise,
and more like a present.

I should be happy for you
but I'm not.
I should congratulate you
but I won't.
I should let go of you
but I can't.

I guess, I'm just petty.

I keep throwing up memories
no one asked me to keep -
bruises shaped like questions,
the sound of my mother’s scream
lodged behind my ribs.

No one tells you grief can rot
when you don’t spit it out.
That love, untouched,
ferments into something sour.
I carry it all in my throat ~
half apology, half war cry.

You say,
“I want more of you.”
And my body says,
“Are you sure?”
Because more of me
means bloodstains on carpet,
means fists instead of lullabies,
means learning how to disappear
before I ever learned to speak.

I was fed fear in childhood portions,
taught to flinch before I felt.
I watched my mother
burn down her mind,
and still tried to build homes
in her ashes.
I held her wrist
when she begged me not to.
Took the pills. Took the gun.
Took the fall.

I was not built for softness
but I do crave it.
Every tender thing feels foreign,
like wearing someone else’s skin.
But you touch me
like I’m not ruined.
And that’s the part
that makes me sick.

Because what if you mean it?

What if love doesn’t have to be
a wound I pick at just to feel alive?
What if you stay?
And worse - what if you don’t?

This is my mourning sickness:
grieving safety I never had,
while choking on the possibility
that I could finally
be held
without having to shatter first.