Cry Me a River

Cry me a river; 
just don’t let it touch my seat.
I know your tear tastes sour,
although you tell me it is sweet.

Cry me a river,
cry me a river,
I’ve cried a river over you.

Cry me a river,
or you could make it two.
I’d love to swim and play in it
and be free for once from you.

Cry me a river,
cry me a river,
I’ve cried a river over you.

Cry me a river, now;
you need not speak to me.
Sweet, dangerous psychopath,
must I be you to be?

Cry me a river,
cry me a river,
I’ve cried a river over you.

Cry me a river;
let’s drown our selves in it.
You beat me till I bled, you fool,
you crossed your heart you’d quit!

Cry me a river,
cry forever and ever,
I want to feel bigger
and better like you.

💜 “I beat you because I love you so much and when you hurt me or I think you’re about to, I find it hard to control myself” and other shits.
Don’t stay for the children or the anything. Run away (with your children). Throw the whole relationship away. 


She said
“…and may your daughters be treated
the same way you treat women and girls…”,
and no one in the audience could say “amen”.


Lifeless, but Deathless

Death is the new life.
Death is the old lie-fe.
Although we become lifeless when we “die”,
we become deathless when we leave.


My gentle Oladapo is okay. He fell sick and he left me but he is okay. Bolanle is okay. She was so energetic.

Uncle Ismaila is okay. He took me to write my common entrance exam at ISI and taught me Mathematics the day before. That bread and egg and tomtom though. That year. Immediately after the exam, we began to look for where to shit. It wasn’t until we got to Osogbo where my other family members were before we “shat”. I can’t believe we held watery shit from Ibadan to Osogbo. We should have been on the Guiness Book of Records. The way we were sweating. My uncle Ismaila is okay.

Debra is okay. One day, during one of the social events at the ISI cafetaria, an A-Z list of the junior and senior students was mentioned. “As attractive as so-so-so. As beautiful as so-so-o. As creative as so-so-so. As dirty as Ronke Babajide. I was going to get some food [I stopped going for socials] at the tuck shop when I heard my name on from the speaker that could almost cover the whole school.

Gosh! I ran back to class so fast and placed my head on the table. I was so embarrassed and sad. Whoever it was that submitted my name, I hope it was worth it. It was the exact thing that I needed for the low self-esteem that I had. I, for some reason, thought being different was bad and I had to keep up. I didn’t fit in any group.

Debra was a class higher but we became friends. She didn’t let me get depressed. We would walk to the main gate together and spend our money on suya or corn. Debra even bought chicken suya for us one day. Romance-novel gang. There was always one woman that needed to be “saved” through sex but it was worth it. One day, Debra took me to watch Amos Tutuola’s “The Palm-Wine Drinkard”. Debra passed on after a car hit her. Debra is okay.

My grandmas are okay- Mama Ireakari and Mamee. My grandpa is okay. Jane Davenport is okay. She didn’t stay so I could show her how I tie my scarf, but she’s okay. My cousin’s baby is okay. Gorgeous-eyed Matt is okay.

All our “dead” relatives and friends are okay. They just don’t live with us anymore, they are living, and they are okay.


Religion and Class


We were talking about intersectionality in my class today, and we looked at social locations (like as race/ethnicity, indigeneity, gender, class, sexuality, geography, age, disability/ability, level of education, occupation, migration status and religion) and how they shape the way a person interacts with the world and the way the world interacts with that person.

The reason why many white people go “what the hell are you talking about?” when you tell them that they have white privilege is that they may be disadvantaged in many other ways at the same time. If an able-bodied, straight dark-skinned African woman with a PhD tells a white, differently-abled, lesbian who only has a high school diploma and is working in a factory that she has “privilege”, she might take offence, like “what privilege?” There’s a good chance that the white woman would not be followed around a store or racially profiled by the police, PhD or not. There’s also a good chance that the black woman would be able to attend certain meetings and functions at the University of Toronto that the white woman may never get invitation letters for. 


The fact remains that a person could be privileged and oppressed at the same time- privileged in some areas and disadvantaged in some- based on the several different social locations that they fall into. I didn’t choose to be black and you didn’t choose to be white. It would be very wrong to guilt trip you based on your race, and if I say that H&M is terrible when it comes to hiring, I’d expect you to understand where I’m coming from.

What stood out to me, however, was religion. My mind drifted off and I had to try to bring myself back to the setting because I focused on it intensely- religion.

If you do not practise Christianity or Islam in Nigeria, you could very well be looked down upon in different social settings, and that is a fact. If it is not Christianity or Islam, it is demonic, and it must be cast and bound. One could wear a hijab or wear a necklace with a cross pendant in most parts of Nigeria without any problem, but as soon as they come out with an opele ifa or wear their ide to main settings, there would be a problem.

With the “you and your generation will go to hell” threats and all sorts of harassment and fuckery, you almost have to hide in a way. I see it now, that religion is very related, not just to culture, but to class, hierarchies and discrimination.



Image by Unknown

Words are rods;
they correct,
they teach.

Words are swords;
they cut,
they hurt.

Words are cords;
they connect hearts
and heals souls.

Words are so powerful;
without them,
we wouldn’t exist.

They beautify,
they destroy,
they are the free assets
that we can’t afford.

Words are the greatest;
the best and the worst of all.


What Happened Today?

I did a quick spread before it was time for me to take the bus, just to know how my day was going to be. It was around 1.20 pm or so. I hoped that a reference would be made to the test that I was about to write, and whether (or not) I would do fine.

When I flipped the first card and got the 8 of Spades, I got very uncomfortable. I don’t like seeing spades in my spreads so much. The 8 of Spades is a card of disappointment, illness, imbalance and restriction, depending on the context, and it wasn’t what I was looking for, but since it was a 5-card spread, I flipped the rest of the cards to see what it was about. I got the King of Diamonds, the Queen of Hearts, 10 of Hearts and the Jack of Clubs. 
I knew that I was the Queen of Hearts immediately. The reading was about me and my day, so I appeared as the middle card.

“Who is this King of Diamonds?” The 8 of Diamonds is also an “unreciprocated love” card [imbalance, remember?] Since the King of Diamonds wasn’t facing me, I considered an unreciprocated love situation. Mtchew. “That’s not going to happen”, I thought. I have been through so much emotional turmoil in the past months that I don’t see myself falling in love with any man anytime soon. It had to be something else. 

“Who is the third person that is being represented by the Jack of Clubs?” The King of Diamonds could be a doctor- a professional. The Jack of Clubs could be a young male or female. The Jack of Clubs could be an active person, since clubs are “active” cards. The 8 of Spades could be a medical exam. ‘Oh, wait!” I began to hope that the Jack of Clubs was not my brother, and that the man- the King of Diamonds- was not a doctor performing a medical exam on him. My brother engages in sports (clubs), and I was invited to his school a year or two ago to take him home when he had a kink. The 10 of Hearts made me assume that it was my brother, since it’s the “happy” card, and I do share happy times with my brother. I don’t have an active sister; I don’t even have a sister.

“Come to think of it though. The Jack is so far away from the 8 of Spades. They should be side by side if my brother is going to have the wound. It can’t be my brother.”

Matt 1

I positioned the cards so that the 1st would mirror the last, and the 2nd cards would mirror the 4th, to make life easier for me. Could it be that I would come across a man who would be suffering from a sort of imbalance, and that the Jack of Clubs would have something to do with it, since the Jack of Clubs was mirroring the 8 of Spades? 

I couldn’t tell, so I chose to wait. The question I had asked was so broad that I couldn’t understand what my guides had told me. 


The King of Diamonds turned out to be my professor. He was so hurt and unbalanced in class today- so emotionally upset (8 of Spades). I was looking at him and he was trying to look away because he was crying, which explains why he had his backed turned to me.


It was because one of my classmates had passed away. He fell into a coma [mental imbalance- 8 of Spades] after he had a car accident during the weekend, and he crossed to the other side a few days after. The 8 of Spades mirroring the Jack of Clubs meant that my classmate was the reason for my professor’s hurt.

The 10 of Hearts is happiness, amusement, victory. My professor’s class is usually very fun, but that he was turning his back on “happiness” today and facing the 8 of Spades meant that something was going to/had gone wrong. The 10 of Hearts card between me and Matt, his name was Matt, meant that we had shared happy times in class. We had enjoyed my professor’s class when he was alive. 

I cried; I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t close to him but I’m still very visibly shaken by his demise. It’s 3.30 am and I feel very weak, physically and emotionally. He was such an intelligent, peaceful guy, and he had a very dreamy way of looking at a person whenever they were contributing to the discussion in class. He didn’t really say much when it was his turn.

Oh, his eyes! His eyes were so beautiful. I only got to know today that he served in the military a few years ago, so he was a “clubs” guy- active.

Matt, I will miss you. You were so precious; you will always be.

Matt Vintinner

Matt V.


She Took the Midnight Train Going Anywhere


…and she let out a mild giggle as she looked out the window [😂 the one on the other side of the train, smartass]. Yes! It was finally happening. 

She breathed the air in slowly, and although it was not as fresh as she had dreamt it would be, it was not that bad, plus it did not smell like human’s sweaty and dirty body, and his musty clothes. 

“A bitch has no collar. A bitch has no owner. A bitch has no name. A bitch’s not the same. A bitch has no soul. A bitch is, at last, on her own”, she muttered, before closing her eyes.

She thought about going to doggo’s house, kissing his butt and licking his ears, then lying down, with her back on the ground, and as soon as he came closer, releasing hot urine into his face. She giggled again. 

“A bitch is free. This bitch.”


The Lady of His Dreams


He calls for her sometimes,
whenever he closes his eyes,
wherever his body lies.
Impromptu, she takes take him away,
be it night or day,
even when he lies with bae.

She hopes he would stay one day;
she cannot get enough.
Right before he goes away,
right before he opens his eyes,
she wipes his memories of her off.

She is his mistress,
but he does not know her yet.
She has gorgeous breasts and soulful eyes,
and we all call her “Death”.

On the night of his 75th birthday,
after many years of sweet sex,
she will propose to him while he is asleep,
and, of course, he will tell her “yes”.


The Man of My Dreams

Many times a week, after we stopped talking, I would have several dreams of him- terribly stressful dreams that would make me cry. In those dreams, I would anxiously wait for him in the church that I grew up in, that we grew up in- where we first met, or in an unknown, deserted place, but he would ignore me.

He never remembered our initial meeting when we first began to talk, as much as I tried to get him to, but I did, very clearly. He was with his friends, and since they were so tall, they looked intimidating to me. He stretched his right hand out towards me and I put mine in his briefly, before asking my question. The question was about a creative-arts program that was to be held, if I remember correctly. I thanked him, and walked back to my guardian or friend, I cannot remember which.

The dream that made me cry the most was the one in which I was talking to him but he was avoiding eye contact and walking away, leaving me in an unknown place.

I had a very similar dream before we stopped talking, and I narrated everything that I could remember to him. I had not been in contact with him for over a week at that time and I was beginning to worry, and as soon as I remembered the dream, after he texted me, I gave him the details. I did not understand that it was a prediction then, and that a little excuse for walking away was all that he needed. We had a little, insignificant quarrel, and he milked the argument so much that my heart lost its perkiness.

Nine months after, just when I thought that I had moved on, that my soul was healed and I was free, although I had occasionally, very intensely hoped that he would text me, I saw him again. It looked like a children’s program was being held at the church. I sat and waited for him in one of the seats at the back, and I saw him pass me by. He did not notice me.

He looked very sad, and his hair was so full and unkempt. I had never seen that much hair on his head. I watched him sit on one of the chairs at the front of the hall. I wanted to walk over to him to say hello but I could not. In the first few dreams, I did the talking. In all the other ones, neither of us spoke to the other. I only watched him and hoped that he would talk to me, but that was it.

After he sat, I went over to the speaker who had the microphone and whispered something into her ears about the children she was addressing. The few sentences that I made were acknowledged- she nodded. I walked back towards my seat and out of the hall, hoping that the distraction would make him notice me. I made sure not to look at him this time.

Ileke idi

I went into a little room with a sleeping mat on it and I laid down. Immediately I dozed off, someone banged on the door. I jolted out of my sleep and screamed his name. I looked up to see if it was him, but it was not. It was my younger brother. He made fun of me the way he does every time any reference to him- the him- is made in my home.

I woke up, and asides the perspiration and tiredness that I noticed, my muscles were sore. My whole being was sore; I cried like never before.

This is me coming to terms that it is over, that he is not coming back, that I have left that church, that he does not love me as much, or at all. This is me letting go off the broken karmic tie and resigning to fate. This is me dying, accepting that my yin will never be balanced with his yang. This is me at the funeral of our attraction and love that died long ago. This is the ninth month, and when I had the dream at around 8 pm today, I birthed my stillborn.

Winslow Homer - The Gulf Stream


Love Can Now See; He Wants Everything.

"Bouquet' by an unknown artist

Love is not blind anymore;
I worry about the things he can see.
He does not want to talk some more;
he wants me in bed on three.
I consciously mask my imperfections
so he’ll choose and stay with me.
He says my boobs and butt are small;
I think about increasing them by three.
Our boat is on rough seas
but all he wants to do is flee.

He says he wants freedom, 
and she’s not me.

Requited lust.
Unrequited love.
It’s interesting how the lines between love and lust have been skewed.