Let your eyes caress these words carefully as I paint on a tattered canvas called EDUCATION.

The African child is underprivileged.’ This is not a hypothesis. Its generational phenomenon is theorized by the excessive presence of been without and the compulsive need to impress.

People to impress:

  1. Himself/herself
  2. His ideologies
  3. Whoever puts food on his table during dependency.

Seeping through life like a pulsatile blood flow is relative. We are raised with literal iron rods and flexible animal hide kissing our juvenile skin when we are still malleable, void and obscure about the world. The form we possess makes us brittle fledglings reveling in the dogma of unilateral existence and reasoning. There was a motive to be taught – everything ranging from manners, respect, obedience and reaction to your name being called. These were the tenets of absolute parenthood with constant echoing of the ‘charity begins at home’ mantra. Custom pushes us to churches, mosques and later primary school to complete the never-wavering cycle of seemingly ‘cultured’ kids who have been forced to learn the acceptable norms of the utopia which the society projects.

‘For education is not absolute but only a stepping stone.’

The fervid desire coerces the society into validating education, not as a cameo, but as a pertinent spoke in the cycling wheel of relevance which has left many turning to degrees or titles instead of value, moral and purpose. The society has channeled the fine irregularities of education and sieved only degree and self-appraisal as resolute. My father said ‘As long as you’re in my house, you must play by my rules and prove yourself’. These words keep clawing at my purpose leaving a void large enough for a love-child of doubt and fear to creep in. ‘What will become of me if I fail?’ Education has been our only escape as a people because we need to prove ‘everybody’ wrong – foreigners too. The self-admiration for the medal on your chest, while your house goes up in flames. Don’t get me wrong! Religion and forced morals is not the enemy. Our foe is simply a lack of innovation and appreciation for ourselves and our struggle as a people. The society throws stones at those who failed at school. A younger generation witnessing the rot from within has valued moves to societies built with sweat, commitment and sacrifice. These morals are a sham and they only ever preach respect – not love, selflessness or service.

Intelligence should not (not ever) be confused with innovation. Education is different from progression. In truth, they should be in the same mental pond to birth ideas suited to the realization of Africanism. It’s a shame that with so much education, we do not seem educated. A people may only be as good as its leader. We have shown that we are more prone to being swayed than taking a stand for ourselves. We may be only alumni of great varsities in several countries but beyond that no end product. We splatter the ink without precision in judgment and consideration of expansion – grave mistakes of a growing population. This stagnancy has plunged us deeper into the wanton depths of binge eating and textile swank while other youths break new grounds on artificial intelligence and electric cars. We talk of Jollof rice and they talk of robotics and ongoing research on Ebola – a disease endemic in our home, Africa.

The African child has been taught to fold his inabilities, lay them across his chest and may think: ‘It’s not my fault. Even my predecessors lived with this problem.’ Individuality is the concept that breeds the duality of underachievement and stagnation. The will to ‘succeed for one’s self and the immediate family’ breaks us apart like wind in the forest. We lose the pollen (dreams) in the process and see no need for collective goals because ‘we were not shaped by the society, so what are we supposed to give back?’ Besides, collective goals are harder to mine.

Oh Dear African child…

You were born underprivileged, poked in the chest and slapped in the face. You saw standard systems crumble – governments, offshore accounts, taxes, finances. You watched your crestfallen fathers cry themselves to sleep in the basement because his salary has not been paid. You’ve seen leaders sharing stale rice at polling booths in exchange for four years of suffering, treachery and corruption. You’ve caught the flu, almost died from malaria. You’ve seen talents buried in the grave and the wildest dreams caged by survival, sacrifice and a premeditated (albeit forceful) purpose. You’ve been forced to stop school at some point so your siblings can continue. People, systems, governments have failed you and poked at your balloons mid-air but these burns don’t heal quickly. A renewed mind can set the tone for a new course of progress. ‘Nothing easy will be handed to us if our hands are weak from idleness or brains dead to ingenuity.’

Expectation impedes the struggle but motivation fuels the drive. The weight of societal expectation creates sinkholes laced with mines that would blow you up and swallow you whole. Nobody owes you anything. Your society needs to be done right by you. Build the change you want to see.

Earthly thrones need new kings. Become it.

Olarewaju Abiola

Biola Olanrewaju


© All rights reserved. Dec. 2017.

Wishes of a Star 🌠

I am bright. I shine almost everyday, and every night. I like it, I love it. I watch the children stare at me, full of awe and wonder.

I watch the awe-filled couples as they stare at me. I smile at them, which makes them even more happy. That’s my job as a star. To make people happy.

I am the first star to come out at night. People make wishes upon me, you see. But I can’t make them come true. I am just a ball of gas, sitting in the sky, looking at people.

I have lived my time, and soon, I will die. And when I shoot through the sky, even more people will make wishes upon me, but little do they know, they are too late. A thousand years late.

I wish I could be a human. To find love, to have a house to live in. To eat actual food. To live. To die a proper death.

But that can’t happen. For I am a star, just existing and never to live.

An Award of Sheaths

After a little dispute with my father, I moved out to live independently. I was 35, and had it all already – there was an inheritance which was in billions, but my parents, especially dad, would not rest until I got married.I moved into an estate with a few belongings – the most basic and essentials I needed. I did not really mind, as far as I was living freely.

This was where I met a tall fair boisterous lady with an enormous behind. She drove me crazy, sensually. I was not myself. But who was I to dare the new me, the one who was now virile.

“You’re the new guy?” Jumoke asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “I’m Kator. You live here?”

Beeni, I’m Jumoke, your next door neighbor.”

“Mmmm, little wonder the brightness around here.” I teased.

She giggled. “You’re alone?”

“Errmmm, yes.”

“Hope you don’t mind me staying with you briefly?” She asked, rather suggestively.

It took more seconds answering but I nodded in the affirmative. She went into her apartment for about a minute before she opened my door and walked in. She threw some gestures occasionally and smiled even when I said nothing funny. The more I ignored her, the more signals she sent. I tried concentrating on the “Suits” movie on my laptop, but after a brief silence, she complained of how unentertaining I was, and worst of it, was the boring movie which my eyes were fixed on.

“You can change it.” I told her. It seemed like what she had been waiting for. She stood, despite the many directions leading to the telly, she chose the one from my viewing position. She bent down evocatively and changed the movie to “Spartacus!” A scene came up immediately which put me in the mood. I struggled with the thing between my legs but it would not cooperate with me. She immediately caught sight of it and the game began.

It did not take more than a day before my bed felt a stranger in its space. Although my first, with a good instructor, I was already an enthusiast.

I showered and was relaxing in the parlor, waiting for her to cleanup as well when someone knocked.

“Who is there?” I asked.

“Open, o jare,” was the reply.

I stood, hissed and opened the door. It was the landlord.

“I’m here to tell you about the meeting of tenants. It’ll be by 7pm. You must be there. We’ll all converge under the cashew tree,” he told me.

He was leaving when the screeching of the bathroom door made him turn, only to sight Jumoke in my towel, which was tied up to her chest.

“Good evening, daddy,” Jumoke greeted.

The landlord lowered his glasses, looked sternly at her, then at me, shook his head and jammed the door.

“That’s my father.”

I was utterly dumbfounded.

It was some minutes to 7pm and I walked slowly to the venue. The others were all seated, discussing who will take the usual awards – Most Friendly and Tenant of the Year. The landlord arrived some minutes after 7pm and began the meeting. I lacked composure and kept silent all through, only concurring to the points of others.

The time for awards came. The landlord started, “The Award for the Most Friendly Tenant and Tenant of the Year goes to Ndifo and Kashim respectively.” There were rounds of applause for them as everyone agreed they deserved it.

The tenants stood to leave when the landlord asked us to wait for another. Three packs of different condoms were raised by the landlord. Everyone was startled, then he continued, “And this special award goes to the Horse-power of the Year, none other but Kator!” I stood, not sure how to feel, but could only smile as the others clapped thunderously.

That Interloper is My Therapist!

My therapist is the most expensive meal that I’ve ever purchased in my life.

I mean, she’s the copy of my reflection.

I mean, she’s the only one that pisses me and I don’t care.

She has coffee breath.

My therapist says I’m negative,

But I told my therapist that my mind is a darkroom.

That I have a tough time explaining the pictures.

My therapist says that I have self-destructive tendencies,

That I take things the wrong way.

What she really means is,

The last time she performed a test on me,

She found an asylum of malignant explosions ready to destroy everybody.

I told my therapist that I’m very indecisive,

That I have a tough time making decisions.

That my mouth is a velvet rope for the things I can’t take back.

This velvet rope throws moons like a concierge for my regrets.

So I go to therapy because I treat silence as a first language,

But my therapist said I speak fluently.

What she means is,

I talk in small circles and by small circles,

She means I talk in big circles and by big circles,

She means targets and by targets,

She means I wear my victims like a brand new pair of shoes.

But I never told my therapist,

That I have to borrow my mother’s tongue to say certain things.

I have to set her tongue out of a pool of blood in liquor to say things like,





You know – synonyms.

I told my therapist that my dad had a thing where he stuff’s all of our bones.

In a bottle and he drank the spirits out of his family.

Why are you asking me about my family?

They are ghosts now.

They are gone.

They are surfing on my flesh,

And I’m on the shoreline waving them – “Hello!”

Bipolar depression is the birthmark I use to distinguish my bloodline with.

I’ve never told my therapist that I had polite suicide attempts.

I don’t leave cryptic Facebook messages.

I just cut my wrist and bleed poems.

I told my therapist that she said I have self-destructive tendencies.

So I finally decided what kind of combustion I am.

I am a controlled demolishing,

Cleaning my wreckage with a bucket of vodka and a mop.

I told my therapist that I’ve really had a tough time explaining my emotions.

She said, “but you’re a poet.”

I said, “just because I have words doesn’t mean I know how to communicate.”

Everybody needs someone to talk to.

What Did Jesus Say Concerning Homosexuality?

In discussing the biblical teaching of homosexuality, we often hear: “Jesus never spoke about homosexuality.” Sure, Paul condemned homosexuality and Sodom and Gomorrah, according to the Genesis account, were destroyed because of homosexuality. But, Jesus never condemned the practice, and, since people (wrongly) assume that his words carry more weight, homosexuality really isn’t condemned in Scripture. Of course, Jesus sent the Spirit upon the Apostles to guide them into all truth (John 16:12-14); therefore, whatever the Apostles wrote is just as much the word of God as what Jesus spoke.

Yet, the claim is still made: “Jesus never spoke about homosexuality.” While the Lord never directly addressed homosexuality, his statements about marriage clearly rule out homosexuality.

When asked about marriage, the Lord said, “Have you not read that he who created them from the beginning made them male and female, and said, ‘Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh’? So they are no longer two but one flesh. What therefore God has joined together, let not man separate” (Matthew 19:4-6). A careful reading of Matthew’s record indicates that the Lord did indeed condemn homosexuality. Notice:

God made humans male and female.

God created two different sexes for each other. God could have created only one gender, but he created two. Those two genders are to complement one another (Genesis 2:18). A same-sex relationship does not provide the depth and richness God intended when he created man in his own image.

A man shall hold fast to his wife.

Holding fast to one’s wife excludes any sort of same-sex relationship.

The two shall become one flesh.

Clearly from this passage, Jesus pictures a man and a woman becoming “one flesh.” One purpose of being one flesh is procreation (Genesis 1:28), something not possible in a same-sex relationship. Another purpose is to avoid temptation (1 Corinthians 7:5); since homosexuality is sinful, one purpose of heterosexual intercourse in marriage is to keep one from that sin.

Did Jesus ever say anything about homosexuality? Maybe not directly, but his statements concerning marriage unmistakably prohibit same-sex relationships.

That makes sense now, why Mugabe of Zimbabwe made a statement concerning a gay couple imprisoned in the country, that they will be released when they are able to procreate.

God bless!


Where is she now?

She left the world leaving a letter around.

She said it was okay,

She said life was hell and better in the other room.
Could she be in hell because murder is a deadly sin?

Or in heaven because she deserved it?

Why did she have to go?

She didn’t deserve all that pain in her soul.

She didn’t deserve to feel alone

Why did she have to feel so cold?

I feel this way but still I say.


The world says it depicts weakness like tears from a person’s eyes.

But if you knew and felt her pain inside,

You would realize how badly she wanted to die.

“She was selfish,”

But if anything, 

She was selfless.

Because she stood through the pain so long for people to go on.

Where are they now?

Hers was a cry of a teenager in a hell hole,

“Let’s leave her to her demons,
It couldn’t be that serious. 

Her life may just be a joke.”

Till we woke up one morning, and she didn’t.

 Everyone feigned shock,

“But she always seemed happy. What could have made her kill herself?”

We all pretend to have cared,
Because only then, would we have a clear conscience.
But we remain accomplices to suicide.

Remembering My Grandfather 2: by Tarkaa Moses


I grew up with religious grandparents who did all they could to bring me and my siblings up in the way of the Lord. This included no gadgets, no plaiting of strange hairstyles, no makeup, prayers every morning and night, church every Sunday and any other day of obligation, no going out and of course, some serious whooping when you did otherwise to top it all off. I’m sure most people can relate to this, it’s the typical Nigerian way of training your kids. But I’ve always
been curious and at 9, I stole a neighbour’s Hint Magazine and digested it in a night.

My sister was also as curious as I. When my sister’s menses started, she already knew how to take care of herself. My grand mum was liberal enough to teach us sex education in fairness; however I can’t forget the fast one my sister tried playing…

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