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.


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.

Save Justitia


Let us save Justitia;
let us rescue the Lady of Justice.
They have blindfolded and enslaved her,
and taken her voice away.

They command her to strike
even when she can’t tell who is who,
who is right or wrong,
and who is innocent or guilty.

Things are not being done fairly,
but how can she tell
if she cannot see for herself?

They tell her blue is white,
and white is black,
and black is red,
and red is green.
The assigned kidnappers have
been trained to deceive her.

She holds a sword in one hand
and a scale in the other,
but bigger and sharper swords 
constantly threaten to attack her.
She feels the bigger swords’ pinch on her back,
and she takes their orders without question.

So, dispose the sword and toss the scale;
we must do it, have no fear.
We will not let evil prevail;
O̩ya will take over from here.





Ilè̩ n je̩ ènìyàn.

A farmer plants and reaps his harvest.
He places seeds into the ground
and gets food in return.
Then he gives 99% of his food
to the ones who sit on the highest chairs.

Ilè̩ n je̩ ènìyàn.

One day, the ones who sit on the highest chairs
will be placed into the ground too,
properly buried, like mere seeds,
six feet under the ground,
but they will not grow back.
They will become food for the earth.

Ilè̩ n je̩ ènìyàn.

The earth feeds them,
then it eats them.




The Art of Stephen Hamilton

Protect me from life’s vanities;
guard my soul against its insecurities.
Whenever my heart goes weary and weak,
Mother, protect me from myself.

Against depression and its similarities,
in my spirit, build immunities.
Make me make a world a better place,
and breastfeed me yourself.