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




When he ordered drinks for us,
I could tell that he was hurt.

“I’m with another woman,
an other woman,
a ‘not her’ woman,
but by God, any woman will do.”

“What do you mean?”, I asked.

He looked away.

“I couldn’t get Queen out of my head;
someone else had to.
I couldn’t get Queen out of my bed;
I needed a rescue.


Roses Die

Women who talk back when they are spoken down to are “mannerless”;
they have “bad attitudes”.
Men who don’t talk back when they are spoken down to are “morons and retards”.

She served him dutifully because she wanted to; most importantly, because she was led to. It was the Lord who led her. Now, her psychic friends say it was some karmic obligation she had to fulfill, or some shit. Whatever. She had a “very good attitude” then. “imeyatekcorawulo”, wasn’t it? 

It was a very undefined relationship, extremely confusing. Today, they’re sexting; tomorrow, they are just friends- siblings in the Lord. He never wanted to talk about what they were, His Royal Highness, The “Dawonlopoloru” of Mind Game Kingdom the third. 

It’s her 21st birthday and she asks, “if I lived in the same country as you, you would take me out and buy me a meal for my birthday, wouldn’t you?” He says “no”. She gasps. “Well, why not?” “Why would I? Yen yen yen yen yen yen yen.” She’s upset. “I would do everything I can to make this man happy, and he wouldn’t even buy me a meal on my birthday if he could. I’m not even worthy of a plate of rice.” “Aye le, aye ma le, oro aye yi, otoju sumi.” It’s a wicked world we live in.

She’s getting even more upset. She says, “it’s not about your money. I would buy myself a meal. Don’t flatter yourself. I just wanted to feel that you cared about me. Yen yen yen yen yen.”

He snaps. The egoistic, ungrateful man writes a whole fucking epistle on how rude and bad mannered she had been to him. It’s funny how bad-mannered men can’t stand bad manners. He says he is done with her, talks about reporting her to his parents. What is he? Two?

She begs. She doesn’t know what she’s worth. She says “okay, forget the meal and everything else I said because I was hurt, I’m sorry. For two years, we’ve been in this ordinary friendship [cough cough] and you want to just leave. The devil (that’s you, moron) is about to scatter all we have (’cause of your immaturity).” He doesn’t listen. She cries, attempts suicide, cries again, doesn’t eat for days, then overeats, but she heals, quickly and fiercely. They haven’t spoken since. 

Oya came in to scatter and rebuild her life. “Eepa e!” Osun came to cook and decorate. “Iyalooode!” He was stinking the whole place out. Good riddance!


Unre-QUIT-ed II

Staying with someone who doesn’t love you because you love them.
Being okay with it because you think you have them, at least, but you don’t.

You have him or her but they’re not yours. You can touch them and pet them and feed them and kiss them but they’re not yours. All those things won’t make them yours. You know that quite well but you wish you didn’t. 

For some reason, for love reasons, holding on seems a lot easier than letting go. You know you’re treading on a futile, wrong path, but you’re not stopping. You’re lost. You have to stop and turn back. You can’t find the right path if you don’t stop.

It’s hard. It’s hard to quit this unrequited love…


Love Lives, Love Dies

Every love is a risky gamble.
A person might need you for a thing,
for something, for anything,
but it’s for a set amount of time.
They’ll be the butterfly;
you’ll be the flower.
They might bring beauty to your life;
it’s what butterflies do.

When they’re done with you,
they’ll give any excuse to leave.
They’ll be very manipulative;
they’ll turn it on you.
They’ll play with your intelligence
and blame it on you-
their desire to flap their wings,
their need to explore.

“Your petals don’t smell as nice
as they used to;
I’m leaving you.”
“Your breasts aren’t perky enough and
you are not as tight as I want, down there.”
“You have thorns and they’re poking me;
oh, if only you were a red rose!”
“You were rude to me”,
so I’m saying ‘goodbye’ now.”
“You are letting the breeze
blow you from side to side,
and I can’t deal with that.”
“If only you were a few inches longer.”

Why do you think a person who has
treated you so badly still deserves you?
You have to snap out of it!
Make new friends!
You owe it yourself to heal;
you owe it to yourself to feel-
to feel free.
You owe it to yourself to breathe-
to live.
From the imaginary relationship
that you’re still holding on to?



If the stars come together as one,
they’d make a gorgeous display.
If the little moons left the Moon
to spread across the sky,
they’d create something beautiful too.
A twinkling, giant disaSTAR,
and its little MOONsters.

It won’t last for long;
stars aren’t built to not crave for attention.
At least one would pop
out of the group often and complain,
“I’m not being noticed enough!”,
and in no time, there’d be no group.
The moons are better together as one Moon;
things are good as they are.


Letting Go, Letting Grow

Love proves to you,
and quite painfully,
that letting go is not always
a lot easier than holding on.
The former requires all the
strength you can give;
you give everything you’ve got to let go.
You lose the things you once held dear,
you loose yourself,
and you lose your old self.
It’s like death, and death is scary,
but resurrection is beautiful.
Go through the pain
and resurrect beautifully;
it’d be a shame to die and stay dead.


Love and Pride

She always went back to plead
every time they fought,
whether or not she was in the wrong,
because she had swallowed her pride
alongside his semen a while before;
her self-esteem was wounded,
at the very core.

He didn’t want to be with her;
but he didn’t want to lose her.
Thoughts of her filled him with pleasure
when she was far away,
and with disgust each time
she came back to stay.
There’s only so much one’s pride can take;
my people often say “one day na one day”.

If Love and Pride could have sex,
she [Love] would always like to stay on top.
Pride would obviously be
more sexually active;
Love won’t be in control for long.

They fought again;
they were both in the wrong.
He waited for her return,
but she’s wasn’t going back anymore.
She had coughed out her senses;
she had rescued her drowning pride.
Now he huffs and puffs because
he wants his stray bitch back,
but “again” is a gain,
and this time, as always, it’d be whose again?


Image result for the devil card                                                                        Image result for the eight of cups card


Discharged and Unrequited

You let me listen to your heartbeat,
but I didn’t hear my name.
You don’t like to listen to mine
because you know it’s not the same.
I have fallen for you,
but how can you rescue me

if you keep pretending I’m not here?
I daydream about us two, 
but how can these things come
to pass if you don’t draw me near?

Why do you call me ” my dear”?
Why do you even dare?
You make me believe our destination is near,
on this smooth path that leads nowhere.
Why do you look into my eyes?
And ask for more of my rice?
Why do you bend the knee if you
have no desire to make me your queen?

Why do you make me come
if you don’t want me to stay?
Why did you build me this home
in order to send me away?
My nipples get hard when I think of you;
you should have left me dead
if I’m not the one you want to wed.
I don’t know what to do;
how do I just let you go
if “us” grew long ago?

Why do you make me come
if you don’t want me to stay?
Why did you build me this home
in order to send me away?
I daydreamed a lot about us two;
you should have left me dead
if I’m not the one you want to wed.
I don’t know what to do;
how do I just let you go
if “us” grew long ago?


The Hands, the Vase and the Flower

If you ever think you were wrong,
you’re right.
If you ever think you did bad,
you’re doing good.
When you broke the flower vase,
you had to take care of your cuts,
but you have quickly forgotten
that my home was shattered too.

A dead flower needed her vase.
A dead flower would begin to decay soon.
A red flower died because of you.
A red flower died because she loved you.


You let someone hold you, and because of their carelessness, or because they’re just tired of how heavy you can be sometimes, or for “no” reason, they drop you. Your heart’s broken. Your vase is destroyed, shattered into many pieces that you can’t possibly put back together on your own.
They say “oh! I was cut! She’s in the wrong and I’m innocent.”
Well, what about the poor flower? What about this poor flower? You got cut. Yes. You got cut but I died. Sorry to you but adieu to me. I don’t bleed, I’m a flower, but I can get very badly hurt too.
Also, I’ve not been resting in perfect peace; I’ve not even been resting in one piece.