Oh  Lord who made the
Whippoorwill,
And sprinkled Wild Flowers
On the hill,

And set aflame the starry sky,
And painted Rainbows wild
On high!                

Oh Lord who stained pink,
bleeding Mars
Who fashions  
Worlds and countless Stars!

Who understands the  
Mountain Storm,
Yet keeps the
Tiny Dove from harm!

You who’ve guided countless ships,
And Astronauts on epic trips,

Look now upon my
Helpless plight,                                                          ­                      
And keep my 'putor running right!

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.

If we’re God’s paintings,
I want to ask him
to stop adding layers
to mine;
that I have always liked
incomplete finishes.
That I need no more
lights–
no more life–
Than he can please
bring me to an end.

-A Psalm Of Johnson


Before I rest my head upon my bed and sleep my stressful troubles away,

I pray to Yahweh to guard me and allow me live to see another day.

I want to keep quiet today.
Keep quiet with me, please.
I’m tired of screaming in pain.
Today I choose peace.

I want to breathe today
In tandem with you.
I’m tired of screaming in pain.
Breathe with me, I beg you.

I want to greet the dawn
Today only with you.
I’m tired of screaming in pain.
There’s no more point in rue.

I don’t want to wait for gifts
Today from my fate, you see.
I won’t scream in pain.
You are here with me.

You are my amulet today.
You are my peace.
Hide my pain far away.
Say a prayer with me, please.

Slipping from a dream into a dream
and waking up to a dream,
The painter and I shrugged off
our blanket of cherry blossoms.

The tree was asleep; its song sung
The sun peered from among the clouds
careful not to disturb that pink slumber.
And we walked down the hill.

We ambled sans destination or purpose
going where whim or wonder steered our feet
We ate in the shade of broken monoliths
and rested in the halls of ruined castles

Fellow travellers we met a few
each walking in their own reverie.
Some shared a song, some bread
some offered their soul, some a bed

We came in time to the edge of the plain;
Below us was a wide valley
A road ran along its centre
stretching from one end to the other

And though we saw people
on the plain and in the valley,
not a soul ventured onto the road,
walking instead on the bare earth

"The Road of fates," said the painter,
"A road for the impatient..or the despondent."
We sat at the edge and watched;
We were not the only ones.

Presently, there came along a man
holding a pen and a book.
With an agonised look in his eyes
he stood in the valley, pondering.

With a sigh he stepped onto the road.
He started writing in his book,
his hand flitted from page to page.
Feverishly he wrote as he walked

A slab of the road came loose
and landed on the man's back
weighing him down like an ideal.
And the man walked bowed

Dogs came running up the road
and without knowing how
we knew what they were,
what they embodied.

As Responsibility clung to a calf,
Loneliness and Sickness took turns
and bit and clawed the man's legs
causing him to stumble and weep

He picked up a stick of Faith
and tried to fend off the dogs,
but soon the stick was lost
and the man started running

The dogs chased and harried
and took away chunks from the man.
Not scraps of the flesh,
but pieces of his soul.

Still the man wrote in his book;
bowed and in pain,
losing strength and vigor,
still he wrote.

Rain started to fall on the road
and the dogs scampered away.
The man sighed and sat down
and started writing again.

The clouds poured out their balm
and his pains melted away.
The man started walking again.
But it was a short respite.

A scream filled the valley
and we stopped our ears.
But the man fell down
as Loss struck his heart.

The sound of barking far away
as the dogs gathered again.
The man sat up and wept
and picked up his pen and book

Buffeted by the echoes of loss,
dreading the jaws of woe,
weighed down by his ideals,
the writer sat and wrote

The mongrels came into sight.
The man started walking again.
A snake slithered between his feet
and sank its fangs into his being

The man stumbled, stopped
and writhed as in torment
as if the poison of Regret
burned his life blood

Onto the road he fell once more,
his pen flying away from his hand.
The dogs kept drawing near.
Giving in to despair, the man cried

He lifted up his head and yelled.
And brought his face down hard.
He kept smashing his head
until he rended it open

And as his blood flowed across,
the book was soaked red.
Silver figures rose from the red -
the man's fictions, his dreams.

All along the stream of blood
stories from his travails came to life;
And looking at his creations
the writer smiled and died.

The carcass would be dragged away
The blood would be washed away
But the shimmering silver stories
Would remain floating on the Road.

tenement roofs illuminated not by stars, not by grace, but by the flickering hum of a busted neon sign, half a block down, where the laundromat breathes steam into the night, and someone’s mother folds shirts like prayers.

the tar is soft under bare feet, summer’s last gasp clinging to the gravel, and the pigeons, they don’t sleep, they just blink slowly as if remembering something from before the city learned to forget.

a boy throws a paper plane from the sixth-floor fire escape. it loops once, then dives into the alley, where a cat watches with the patience of old gods.

the air smells of fried onions, like rain that hasn’t arrived yet, and the sigh of a man who’s been waiting for a phone call since 1993.

someone laughs, too loud, too sudden, and the sound ricochets off the satellite dishes like a warning or a dare.

the roofs glowed, not golden, not holy, but with the kind of light that makes you think maybe ghosts wear sneakers and hum pop songs while tracing the outline of their old bedrooms in dust.

and somewhere below, a radio plays a song no one remembers the name of, but everyone knows the words.