#banking
The news arrives as harmattan wind—
dry, clean, rearranging dust
in the banking halls where mahogany desks
once held only one kind of hand.
Now eleven women sit.
Not as omens. Not as guests.
As hinges.
A ceiling splits above the ledger books.
Let the shards fall where they may.
Still, some men flinch—
a sudden hollow in the jaw,
a myth they swaddled for decades
unravelling at the hem.
They name it collapse, their tongues
anxious brushes painting every wall with smoke.
But fear is not forecast.
Fear is the echo of a lock
that met its key at last.
They forget—
or perhaps they never knew—
that before the first mahogany desk
was hewn and polished,
before the first ledger ruled its lines,
Ọṣun sat in council with the orishas,
her wisdom the river
that fed what their iron could not.
They dismissed her once—
those gods of thunder and iron,
those lords of the forge and the road---
convened their assembly of power
and forgot to call her name.
And the work failed.
The harvest rotted.
The enterprise of heaven
stumbled on its own exclusion.
Until they returned to the river.
Until they listened to what the water
had been saying all along.
This is not new.
This is Ọṣun remembered.
This is the cosmos correcting
what arrogance interrupted.
Women belong here
the way rain belongs to March—
not by pardon, not by lottery,
but by the quiet jurisdiction of a mind
that has solved for years
what panic could not.
They are half the heartbeat of this nation.
Now the pulse climbs the stairs,
finds the boardroom,
sits down.
Nigeria, let others stumble
in their tangled rites,
still asking if a woman can hold fire.
You have placed the flame
in hands that Ọṣun blessed
before your banking halls
had names.
Leadership was never woven
into a man's rib.
It is earned in the carrying,
the bearing of weight without breaking,
the knowing of when to strike
and when to kneel—
the way the river knows
when to overflow its banks
and when to run deep and still
beneath the surface of things,
shaping the land
not by force
but by patient, persistent presence.
So to the whisperers of endangerment—
loosen your grip.
The march does not wait
for your permission.
Equality is not a gift you lost.
It is a debt whose interest
has been compounding
in the bodies of women
who carried your institutions
on their backs
while you called it support.
Ọṣun's river does not ask
the stone for permission to flow.
It finds the crack.
It widens it.
It makes of the breaking
a channel.
And the vault is open.
© Lanre Adebayo (final revised version)
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 1:55 PM UTC
Let’s talk about life and let’s be frank
All global strife starts and ends at the bank
With fake inflation and monetized debt
It Cripples our nations, controls us through threat
Now let me be formal and you might think me mental
But free markets are normal it’s really the Central
Creation of cash at a click of a button
Valued at trash, your debt they take cut-in
War for resources innocence left in lurch
While weaving clauses to suppress free energy research
The influence is deep, insidious at best
Our lives they will reap seen as figures to invest
It’s a perfect legal sin That we do not deserve
Its the evil of Central Banking and Fractional Reserve
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
Noon, I’m next in line behind an old man.
“I want to withdraw fourteen dollars,” he says.
The teller, a young woman with a soft sweater, says
“There’s only—let me check—yes—fifty-two cents.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She tilts her head. “Sorry.”
The sorrow is genuine.
He wears a pinstripe suit, frayed,
wafting an odor of smoke and earth.
A smartly folded handkerchief, breast pocket,
has a dark stain. His silver beard
is neatly trimmed.
On one wall above the safe is a giant
mural of teamsters driving a stagecoach.
The man says, “There might be—”
“No. It’s always the same.”
For a moment he closes his eyes,
a slow blink while indignities of a lifetime pass.
Without a word, the young woman slides a sandwich
over the countertop through the teller window.
“Blessings on you,” the man says with a nod,
and he walks away with a limp.
I cash my check, a big one
from three days of messy labor
for a matron of the horsey set.
“He lives by the creek,” the teller says
without my asking. “Under a bridge.”
Outside the bank, in the parking lot of glistening cars,
I look around for the pinstripe suit, the silver beard.
I might offer the man something.
He might refuse to take it.
Anyway, no matter:
he has disappeared like the last stagecoach.
Only the blessing remains.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
Motto,
"Where consumers go to borrow in aid of a common good."
...because all interest is given to social causes directed to by the publicly-elected board of directors. A true good for all mankind whom wish to participate.
A real bank.
A real social institution.
That doesn't,
EXIST
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
..somehow a worldwide trading system on future emissions worked?
What if we changed, "industry," with, "humanity?"
What if a trading-credits system existed for individual income tax against future projected earnings?
Al Gore was wrong...
Imagine being out of work and gaining credits against future tax liabilities?
...by working for a charity
IS THE MONEY REAL? DOES IT EXIST BEFORE YOU MAKE IT?
If you are a CCX member trading on Wall Street then; YES!
Why should all finance be about struggle and not about love or charity?
DO YOU AGREE WITH CONSTANT STRUGGLE?
THE CENTRAL BANK PRINTS MONEY FROM NOTHING...
Americans can do anything;
...because we control the production of, "money."
"Money...."
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
Who controls our banking?
Ruinous fees for money lending.
Who questions their investing?
Why so dear for money dealing?
Who does profit from accounting?
Our finances they're controlling,
While our economy they're ruining,
They're amassing fortunes pecuniary,
Big business for them, commercially.
Let's question their accountability
For our faceless Australian economy,
Profits overseas they're sending---
So much for Australian banking!!!
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
a lupine prayer
to bear and bull
cry wolf
cry wolf
cry wolf
now look into his eyes
until you think like I do
and then take a desperate man
for his last penny
(finance options available)
go long on a cheeky Nando's
followed by
no
inflation
constant
expansion
short the small print
and profit from the fight
against pollution by
investing in the future
but as returns don't come cheap
diversify and purify the self
the Ganges is so polluted
it has gall bladder cancer
the main economic indicators
are telling us that
inflation is set to jump, while
British statisticians are optimistic
that the housing ladder
will continue to defy gravity
as it is an export barometer
with a blue eyed quant inside
crying wolf
crying wolf
cry wolf
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC