Man's language in pleasure
The most perfect of speeches
Brings nearer the truth –
Truth seen with passion
Truth united with pleasure
Calls imagination to the help of reason
Caused by intense realization,
Life explores its amazement
The spontaneous overflow of
Powerful feelings – emotions;
Emotions put in measure
Its ingenuity translated
In to language busy about imitation
Life really, is poetry.
Saturday 4 October 2008
RAIN
With the company of thunder and flash
Where the mountains agree with the clouds
Lo in the land ‘the bard sang about'
Downpour unannounced, cold uncontrolled
Sweaters, jackets, turtlenecks and cardigans
Pandemonium, stillborn lakes and droning roofs
What is it that pelts on roses?
Dust, fog and sand all of blessed memories
And baptism wholly accomplished
For old things did pass away
As the third of these poured down
Storm, haze and rain
Baptizing and springing to life, new converts
Heartily welcomed to this sinful world.
But it sounds silly that it's just raining
Where the mountains agree with the clouds
Lo in the land ‘the bard sang about'
Downpour unannounced, cold uncontrolled
Sweaters, jackets, turtlenecks and cardigans
Pandemonium, stillborn lakes and droning roofs
What is it that pelts on roses?
Dust, fog and sand all of blessed memories
And baptism wholly accomplished
For old things did pass away
As the third of these poured down
Storm, haze and rain
Baptizing and springing to life, new converts
Heartily welcomed to this sinful world.
But it sounds silly that it's just raining
Friday 3 October 2008
MUCH ADO ABOUT SOMETHING
Done to death by slanderous tongues
Was the hero that here lies dead
In dungeon of their rights
Gives him fame which never dies
Such was the death that died with shame.
Was the hero that here lies dead
In dungeon of their rights
Gives him fame which never dies
Such was the death that died with shame.
Monday 1 September 2008
TROUBLES NEVER SINGLY COME
The winds wound round the hills and came tumbling in to the sleepy town,
carrying heavy July clouds. In this part of the country, the months of
July and August come with heavy dark clouds that causes downpour,
sometimes for days unending. It was the second week in July, and the
water aquifer was fast coming closer up.
Irish potatoes would soon be ripe for harvest, and the local acha will revel in the much rains. The rains always come with angry winds, which torpedo after crashing against the fore-slopes of the highlands. They will take off roofs of houses, uproot trees and cause fear down the bones of children.
The swoosh-swoosh snarls that engulfed the low heavens that evening, ensured that as many peasant farmers that made it to their farms that day, returned home early on to the comfort of their hearths. Some animal was scowling in the wild, probably lost, and the sound was coming from near the village gate. The winds continued to torment roofings made of palm fronds, even as the poorly made ones began to make way, and the old ones allowed water to gather inside.
Somewhere distant from the village square, close to the burial ground, about a few meters from the border of the village and the ‘evil’ forest that sits below the hills, the cry of a woman rented the air almost beyond the sonority of the winds. In defiance, the winds increased in noise and intensity, the rains now pouring down in anger and torrents.
From the north, almost in the opposite direction, lightening flashed across the grey skies and the resulting thunder rested at the base of an old dried oak, three huts away from the place the cry had emanated. The winds had died down now, but the rains continued to pour. The thunderbolt had ignited a fire at the base of the tree, and flames began to blaze in the rains, even as the wail of a newborn rent the steel cold night.
Ayuka was fatigued. She and the unborn had tussled from midday. She had prayed to the Good Spirit, to let her get a safe delivery, and the prayer included her labour, in her hut. But her wishes were not being fulfilled. She began to realize this, the moment those severe pains had started. She was tending young mushrooms on a strip of land, an echo from the thick of the forest. She thought of the bountiful harvest she was going to reap, and the profit she would make at Tallata market. And of the clothings and good healthy food she was going to stock for the baby. She would call the baby Arziki, and prayed it would be a girl.
The land was very fertile, and showed this by the huge growth of tender edible mushroom that grew from it. At first, she thought it was someone else’s farm, and overlooked it. Her repeated strolls through that trail, alerted her to the weeds that now competed with the mushrooms. No good farmer would allow his farm overgrown with this much weeds she thought. And that was when she took over.
Her tummy had been bulging for five moons now since she took note of the protuberance. As the days waned, she became aware of intermittent pains. Although she had learned from experience to be as subtle as possible, not to call up the bouts of snapping pains, she was carried away in her thoughts, and didn’t realize how rigorous she was getting with the tend.
That was when the pains started, and got unusual. Though she had witnessed similar pains in the past, they had varnished after some while. This one had forced her to abandon the tend, and head for home. She felt very sore from the pains and from her urgent pace to get home. And it was right on her way, that the tumbling winds had met her. The gruesome throes of labour right in the heavy downpour had left her muscles battered and aching.
Her under body was still on fire, like those times the illness overthrow and got worse because she had nowhere to go, and no one to call for help and had to lie in her hut till she began to feel better. On those days, the reproachful words of her father would ring aloud in her head, while Inna’s loud sobs burst tears down her sullen cheeks. She had had little time to take enough valuables before the Majjalisar Dattawa came calling. That day was austere and desolate. She had never felt love leave her like that day.
For now, getting the child warm was her utmost priority, as every bit of clothing was drenched and unsuitable for the occasion. The cold was fast settling in. She let out frequent sobs now and then, and the frequency was getting on the high side. However, she thought not of herself, as the little bag of life lay, yelling to the night.
She mustered what was now left of her strength, with a lot of gut, and snapped the umbilical, as she tried to separate the baby from her, to then clean up the mess. The scene was indeed gory, as she, in closed eyes undid the child from her, and silenced it in “first milk”. Not knowing from where the will came, she dragged, not in an attempt to get to what has been her source of shelter for nine moons now, but to get closer to the burning tree.
They both now desperately needed the warmth, but as the baby sucked, what remain of her energy seemed to drain with the flow of the milk. She had not had anything to eat, since she ate some of the tuber some benevolent passerby had gifted her the day before. She could not remember the last time she had ample food to eat, so she continued unending, to thank the man, until his bicycle had had taken him far from hearing distance. She had roasted a half of the yam, and planned to eat the rest when she returned from the farm today.
Rumblings continued in the sky, but were now from afar. The rains had now migrated, and only the Good Spirit knew what havoc they meted where they now poured. No one would complain by morning. “The rains have made repairs” they would say, as peasants with damaged houses would now go about renovating them, while those with waterlogged farms or severely damaged crops would count their losses.
But now in the cold dark night, a parliament of owls exchanged successive hoots in the not too far distance, the most resounding coming from the hills. She knew that owls told of bad augur, and hoped whatever it was, would be as distant as the continuous rumbling of the skies. Her only source of salvation was the fire, which crackled in the rich fuel of the old oak.
She was grateful to be close enough now, to provide ample warmth for the newborn, a baby boy, and to also keep away any wandering hyena whose path may seem to cross here before dawn. The fire crackled as if in response to her. And she prayed that it burns far in to the night. Then everything went blank.
The torrents had moved ahead, but drizzles continued in its wake. The heavens were just clearing up the remnants of clouds that were heavy some few hours before. On some occasion, it would drizzle on until the resolve of the people would force it to stop. This they seem to do by defying it, and continuing their normal business. Today, there would be no need for it, as dusk was already night, and the hearth would provide better comfort. Only by morning would any damage be of any significance.
Some rhythmic mantra broke the silence that ensued for about a quarter of an hour. It came from the hills that stand guard for the village. The marabou, whose duty it was to carry messages from the Good Spirit for the village, had made there his home. The place and its inhabitant were very revered amongst the people.
Between the hills and the village laid the ‘evil’ forest to which no inhabitant of the village was to step. It had human eating creatures; fathers would tell their children to deter them from hunting Agama lizards from thence. Only the Majjalis – the council of elders, after cleansing could walk the forest to the hills, where the Good Spirit lived, and the marabou made adulation daily. And on such occasions, like today’s, atonement and reverence would be their only reason to approach the hills.
The tapping of the marabou’s drum was notoriously paramount amidst the chant. The Majjalis was performing a ritual to cleanse the land of all evil and abominations. It was a yearly event. Twelve moons counted unending, and then restitution would be sought. The marabou had premeditated the day for the ritual, and hoped the Good Spirit would provide ample supplies of sacrifice. They had needed the blood of an innocent child, or of a stranger.
Now, the ritual had gone ahead. It would last till the early hours of the morning, around when the cock let out its first crow. Then they – the Majjalis, would tarry two more days to unwind, and travel down from the hills from where the marabou’s shrine laid, a watchtower for the village.
Irish potatoes would soon be ripe for harvest, and the local acha will revel in the much rains. The rains always come with angry winds, which torpedo after crashing against the fore-slopes of the highlands. They will take off roofs of houses, uproot trees and cause fear down the bones of children.
The swoosh-swoosh snarls that engulfed the low heavens that evening, ensured that as many peasant farmers that made it to their farms that day, returned home early on to the comfort of their hearths. Some animal was scowling in the wild, probably lost, and the sound was coming from near the village gate. The winds continued to torment roofings made of palm fronds, even as the poorly made ones began to make way, and the old ones allowed water to gather inside.
Somewhere distant from the village square, close to the burial ground, about a few meters from the border of the village and the ‘evil’ forest that sits below the hills, the cry of a woman rented the air almost beyond the sonority of the winds. In defiance, the winds increased in noise and intensity, the rains now pouring down in anger and torrents.
From the north, almost in the opposite direction, lightening flashed across the grey skies and the resulting thunder rested at the base of an old dried oak, three huts away from the place the cry had emanated. The winds had died down now, but the rains continued to pour. The thunderbolt had ignited a fire at the base of the tree, and flames began to blaze in the rains, even as the wail of a newborn rent the steel cold night.
Ayuka was fatigued. She and the unborn had tussled from midday. She had prayed to the Good Spirit, to let her get a safe delivery, and the prayer included her labour, in her hut. But her wishes were not being fulfilled. She began to realize this, the moment those severe pains had started. She was tending young mushrooms on a strip of land, an echo from the thick of the forest. She thought of the bountiful harvest she was going to reap, and the profit she would make at Tallata market. And of the clothings and good healthy food she was going to stock for the baby. She would call the baby Arziki, and prayed it would be a girl.
The land was very fertile, and showed this by the huge growth of tender edible mushroom that grew from it. At first, she thought it was someone else’s farm, and overlooked it. Her repeated strolls through that trail, alerted her to the weeds that now competed with the mushrooms. No good farmer would allow his farm overgrown with this much weeds she thought. And that was when she took over.
Her tummy had been bulging for five moons now since she took note of the protuberance. As the days waned, she became aware of intermittent pains. Although she had learned from experience to be as subtle as possible, not to call up the bouts of snapping pains, she was carried away in her thoughts, and didn’t realize how rigorous she was getting with the tend.
That was when the pains started, and got unusual. Though she had witnessed similar pains in the past, they had varnished after some while. This one had forced her to abandon the tend, and head for home. She felt very sore from the pains and from her urgent pace to get home. And it was right on her way, that the tumbling winds had met her. The gruesome throes of labour right in the heavy downpour had left her muscles battered and aching.
Her under body was still on fire, like those times the illness overthrow and got worse because she had nowhere to go, and no one to call for help and had to lie in her hut till she began to feel better. On those days, the reproachful words of her father would ring aloud in her head, while Inna’s loud sobs burst tears down her sullen cheeks. She had had little time to take enough valuables before the Majjalisar Dattawa came calling. That day was austere and desolate. She had never felt love leave her like that day.
For now, getting the child warm was her utmost priority, as every bit of clothing was drenched and unsuitable for the occasion. The cold was fast settling in. She let out frequent sobs now and then, and the frequency was getting on the high side. However, she thought not of herself, as the little bag of life lay, yelling to the night.
She mustered what was now left of her strength, with a lot of gut, and snapped the umbilical, as she tried to separate the baby from her, to then clean up the mess. The scene was indeed gory, as she, in closed eyes undid the child from her, and silenced it in “first milk”. Not knowing from where the will came, she dragged, not in an attempt to get to what has been her source of shelter for nine moons now, but to get closer to the burning tree.
They both now desperately needed the warmth, but as the baby sucked, what remain of her energy seemed to drain with the flow of the milk. She had not had anything to eat, since she ate some of the tuber some benevolent passerby had gifted her the day before. She could not remember the last time she had ample food to eat, so she continued unending, to thank the man, until his bicycle had had taken him far from hearing distance. She had roasted a half of the yam, and planned to eat the rest when she returned from the farm today.
Rumblings continued in the sky, but were now from afar. The rains had now migrated, and only the Good Spirit knew what havoc they meted where they now poured. No one would complain by morning. “The rains have made repairs” they would say, as peasants with damaged houses would now go about renovating them, while those with waterlogged farms or severely damaged crops would count their losses.
But now in the cold dark night, a parliament of owls exchanged successive hoots in the not too far distance, the most resounding coming from the hills. She knew that owls told of bad augur, and hoped whatever it was, would be as distant as the continuous rumbling of the skies. Her only source of salvation was the fire, which crackled in the rich fuel of the old oak.
She was grateful to be close enough now, to provide ample warmth for the newborn, a baby boy, and to also keep away any wandering hyena whose path may seem to cross here before dawn. The fire crackled as if in response to her. And she prayed that it burns far in to the night. Then everything went blank.
The torrents had moved ahead, but drizzles continued in its wake. The heavens were just clearing up the remnants of clouds that were heavy some few hours before. On some occasion, it would drizzle on until the resolve of the people would force it to stop. This they seem to do by defying it, and continuing their normal business. Today, there would be no need for it, as dusk was already night, and the hearth would provide better comfort. Only by morning would any damage be of any significance.
Some rhythmic mantra broke the silence that ensued for about a quarter of an hour. It came from the hills that stand guard for the village. The marabou, whose duty it was to carry messages from the Good Spirit for the village, had made there his home. The place and its inhabitant were very revered amongst the people.
Between the hills and the village laid the ‘evil’ forest to which no inhabitant of the village was to step. It had human eating creatures; fathers would tell their children to deter them from hunting Agama lizards from thence. Only the Majjalis – the council of elders, after cleansing could walk the forest to the hills, where the Good Spirit lived, and the marabou made adulation daily. And on such occasions, like today’s, atonement and reverence would be their only reason to approach the hills.
The tapping of the marabou’s drum was notoriously paramount amidst the chant. The Majjalis was performing a ritual to cleanse the land of all evil and abominations. It was a yearly event. Twelve moons counted unending, and then restitution would be sought. The marabou had premeditated the day for the ritual, and hoped the Good Spirit would provide ample supplies of sacrifice. They had needed the blood of an innocent child, or of a stranger.
Now, the ritual had gone ahead. It would last till the early hours of the morning, around when the cock let out its first crow. Then they – the Majjalis, would tarry two more days to unwind, and travel down from the hills from where the marabou’s shrine laid, a watchtower for the village.
Thursday 28 August 2008
INITIATION
I sit half awake, half amok
Carried away by the chants
Of empty scary black masks
Droning chants of nineteenth century druids
Seasonal migrants to our lands
Coming with the birds to breed
Souls and life taken with them.
On the day gboya* and I made four
Exchanges of souls, oaths cursed
Dust mixed with the ceremonial broth
Cooking at the square, now four days
Humans used to skin drums
Bones made in to khalils^
remnants end up as bodily markings
Away to a place strange
Where dementors are harmless
And back through an interswitch
here am ushered in to manhood.
* - masquerade in Nupe (A Nigerian dialect)
^ - A Jewish flute
Carried away by the chants
Of empty scary black masks
Droning chants of nineteenth century druids
Seasonal migrants to our lands
Coming with the birds to breed
Souls and life taken with them.
On the day gboya* and I made four
Exchanges of souls, oaths cursed
Dust mixed with the ceremonial broth
Cooking at the square, now four days
Humans used to skin drums
Bones made in to khalils^
remnants end up as bodily markings
Away to a place strange
Where dementors are harmless
And back through an interswitch
here am ushered in to manhood.
* - masquerade in Nupe (A Nigerian dialect)
^ - A Jewish flute
MOONLIGHT TRANSACTIONS
Tonight would be full moon
Anticipations are high; anxiety lurk in street corners
Foot paths are busied all day
Though farmsteads receive less tend
Guests sojourn from afar; palm trees break early kola
kegs leave as souvenirs, cocks come to roost early
And hearths shall be without fire
Things would move as whirlwinds
And the moon's ugly face stare
Its gaze defiling the night sky
With uproar set agog downstairs
The village square blossoms with exuberance
Only the young and old be marked absent
Even the King swirl but for a moment
And in his entourage, another damsel when he leaves
The moon's burning desire sets loose
His radiant face adulated
Mirror for plenty a damsel
Freed from the mother's fiery watch
Only for the night's dance
Many to be given off after now
Cowries to be counted on their heads
And libations poured for their sake
Not until a tiger spots the game
Commotion borne in another compound
Turmoil brought to roost after sunset
Hatred gone to the porter's place
Strengthened, now carried by the gazelle
Full of zest, cheated to the game
Denied only by a potful of cowries
bribe already set ahead
Deal sealed after nightfall
The coveted object off to slavery
Dignity for the womenfolk soiled
Swept under the raffia mat
Fresh sap of love, sublimed
Elixir for the rampant gazelle
Slaughtered on the alter of lust
Twain pairs of unmatched legs
Nailed to a soiled matrimonial bed
Another death victim deboured
Anticipations are high; anxiety lurk in street corners
Foot paths are busied all day
Though farmsteads receive less tend
Guests sojourn from afar; palm trees break early kola
kegs leave as souvenirs, cocks come to roost early
And hearths shall be without fire
Things would move as whirlwinds
And the moon's ugly face stare
Its gaze defiling the night sky
With uproar set agog downstairs
The village square blossoms with exuberance
Only the young and old be marked absent
Even the King swirl but for a moment
And in his entourage, another damsel when he leaves
The moon's burning desire sets loose
His radiant face adulated
Mirror for plenty a damsel
Freed from the mother's fiery watch
Only for the night's dance
Many to be given off after now
Cowries to be counted on their heads
And libations poured for their sake
Not until a tiger spots the game
Commotion borne in another compound
Turmoil brought to roost after sunset
Hatred gone to the porter's place
Strengthened, now carried by the gazelle
Full of zest, cheated to the game
Denied only by a potful of cowries
bribe already set ahead
Deal sealed after nightfall
The coveted object off to slavery
Dignity for the womenfolk soiled
Swept under the raffia mat
Fresh sap of love, sublimed
Elixir for the rampant gazelle
Slaughtered on the alter of lust
Twain pairs of unmatched legs
Nailed to a soiled matrimonial bed
Another death victim deboured
BOY STORY
I met a boy of school age
Who ate up his heart
Bound his mind, and gave it up to hell
What was his dream?
He wanted to be fearless, immortal
Revered amongst Skulls, Black Axes, Mungikis and Sea Dogs
Carried away to terror's lofty high
But got tied to the hangman's stake
Already signed up on death's toll
Friday 25 July 2008
The making of Wealth
I had a knack for books as a child, but I repelled motivational books - Memoirs of Marshall Zhukov, Kevin Keegan, All the Best People, Kenneth Kaunda - which seemed to dot our petite library. I had even attempted Philosophy, but not the leadership thing, and autobiographies. As a teenager, I went for romance, bestsellers and thrillers. Then I entered college and met a friend who was addicted to Napoleon Hill. He'd tell me, he want to make it big in no time, and I gareed with him. Myself, I could not recount the time I had enough to spent and make meaningful investments. So, I nurtured that dream of hitting the jackpots very soon, but very soon was taking ages. Before I knew it, I was already in my final year.
My friend started doing forex before I knew it, then started withdrawing money from his domiciliary account - I was still in a bottleneck - only prizing some share certificates I have which I still have not been able to verify. I then began to scour the internet for investment success formulas, and began to see people with the book, Rich Dad Poor Dad. My dad had been reading a copy the last time I was home, that was before he started his fishery investments. But I told myself, no one would teach me how to make money.
I continued my search for the golden fleece though not with much vigor, and attempted to get addicted to the financial stations on cable like my brother have, but still to no avail. Then I bumped into Donald Trump on Good Morning America, where there was an advert of his "The Apprentice". I liked what I saw, but immediately discarded him from my mind. Then, I visited a friend and was offered 'Why We Want You To Get Rich', written by Donald and Robert Kiyosaki, and my life was never the same. Within 24 hours, I read Kiyosaki's sequel to Rich Dad..., the one that has the four quadrants: E,S,B,I in another friend's place, then I began to piece the pictures together. Perhaps it was time I put on my investment shoes, and create a better life for myself. Probably, it was time the foundations were laid for the building of my empire. I read only the first chapter of the former, and the first three chapters of the latter, and was never in my life challenged about my personal goals on finance in my life, as Kiyosaki and Trump continued to.
If I had any pride left in my measly financial life, it vanished after I read about his dad, whom in wealth, still died a pauper. It set me thinking, one which I have not been able to decipher how and what to do next. Indeed in Thomas Edison's words, the greatest task is "thinking".
Now, am set on a newer perspective, and geared towards getting a formula that would mould my financial life into the I quadrant, even as I know am presently not in any of the four quadrants at the moment. I am thinking, and I will find a place to set my feet on. Watch me...
My friend started doing forex before I knew it, then started withdrawing money from his domiciliary account - I was still in a bottleneck - only prizing some share certificates I have which I still have not been able to verify. I then began to scour the internet for investment success formulas, and began to see people with the book, Rich Dad Poor Dad. My dad had been reading a copy the last time I was home, that was before he started his fishery investments. But I told myself, no one would teach me how to make money.
I continued my search for the golden fleece though not with much vigor, and attempted to get addicted to the financial stations on cable like my brother have, but still to no avail. Then I bumped into Donald Trump on Good Morning America, where there was an advert of his "The Apprentice". I liked what I saw, but immediately discarded him from my mind. Then, I visited a friend and was offered 'Why We Want You To Get Rich', written by Donald and Robert Kiyosaki, and my life was never the same. Within 24 hours, I read Kiyosaki's sequel to Rich Dad..., the one that has the four quadrants: E,S,B,I in another friend's place, then I began to piece the pictures together. Perhaps it was time I put on my investment shoes, and create a better life for myself. Probably, it was time the foundations were laid for the building of my empire. I read only the first chapter of the former, and the first three chapters of the latter, and was never in my life challenged about my personal goals on finance in my life, as Kiyosaki and Trump continued to.
If I had any pride left in my measly financial life, it vanished after I read about his dad, whom in wealth, still died a pauper. It set me thinking, one which I have not been able to decipher how and what to do next. Indeed in Thomas Edison's words, the greatest task is "thinking".
Now, am set on a newer perspective, and geared towards getting a formula that would mould my financial life into the I quadrant, even as I know am presently not in any of the four quadrants at the moment. I am thinking, and I will find a place to set my feet on. Watch me...
Thursday 24 July 2008
Breath of relief at last
Yesterday I was in Minna, 4 hours drive away from my campus, in a bid to solicit for funds to attend a motivational seminar in Brazil come August 2008. After the official duties, I steeled down to other pressing issues, which included most of all, trying to sort things out with "my princess". She was of course, tired out by the time I made it to her house, because she's been busy of late, organising and starting some financial advisory job. She's actually a member of the Board of Directors, and so, needed to be up and doing.
Well, I had to put up with the fact that she was tired, as I needed to be as caring as possible, even as I sometimes try to define the word CARING without getting a headway.
We had some time to talk, and of course stare at each other for long moments in which chemistry burned, then her roommates showed up. From then on, I could only relegate myself to the background and refuse the spotlight, as my spirits were already dampened by some realisations before her roommates came.
Then the time for me to leave approached, but the all were ruing the fact that I was leaving. However, we spent almost an hour together, after she offered to walk me to the road. We talked about ourselves and most importantly, why I wanted nobody but her in my life.
We had a long talk, and she finally persuaded me to take her as a friend (a very special friend), and get to know each other more. This should materialise into a strong relatiponship that will culminate in her becoming the nucleus of my empire.
I liked the idea, as it would not only help me concentrate on my studies, but also build myself to the challenge of the situation. Something I learnt from it, was that when I get a conviction, I must follow it till the end, and even if I must leave room to negotiations, it must certainly be the last resort, and to my benefit.
Now, am back in school writing this post, preparing to work on my project title, continue a project development framework, and face my courses with gusto.
Well, I had to put up with the fact that she was tired, as I needed to be as caring as possible, even as I sometimes try to define the word CARING without getting a headway.
We had some time to talk, and of course stare at each other for long moments in which chemistry burned, then her roommates showed up. From then on, I could only relegate myself to the background and refuse the spotlight, as my spirits were already dampened by some realisations before her roommates came.
Then the time for me to leave approached, but the all were ruing the fact that I was leaving. However, we spent almost an hour together, after she offered to walk me to the road. We talked about ourselves and most importantly, why I wanted nobody but her in my life.
We had a long talk, and she finally persuaded me to take her as a friend (a very special friend), and get to know each other more. This should materialise into a strong relatiponship that will culminate in her becoming the nucleus of my empire.
I liked the idea, as it would not only help me concentrate on my studies, but also build myself to the challenge of the situation. Something I learnt from it, was that when I get a conviction, I must follow it till the end, and even if I must leave room to negotiations, it must certainly be the last resort, and to my benefit.
Now, am back in school writing this post, preparing to work on my project title, continue a project development framework, and face my courses with gusto.
Thursday 17 July 2008
Life's Backswash; Blessing's hurt
In Geography, when you study oceanography or marine science, you become familiar with such words like swash, backswash, tide and the likes. I have not really taken oceanography into much considerations as I have an interest in Tropical and advanced climatology and macro-meteorology. But the word backswash will remain in my brain - it has to, for me as an intending geographer, in the study of climate.
However, backswash would be used here in a different context.
I don't know how many of us meet someone for the first time, and we fail to reason well, until we have had time with the person, letting some flow of chemistry between you two.
I was away from school for a training on entrepreneurship, and I met this damsel. She was too articulate. You can never take away the fact that she was a beaut.
I was taken away immediately, considering the fact that for three years, I had stayed away from relationships. And when I thought the time was ripe to start afresh, something would come up, and disrupt the whole thing.
But it was not so with her. She was named Blessing. Her dialect name called her Princess, and now, I call her "my Princess". However, the story is not as juicy as it is becoming. We had a chat before I left for school, and she reiterated how hurt she was, from the last relationship. It was on the 1st of January, of the previous year, while everyone was rejoicing for a new year, she was all drenched in pain and tears, when she received a text message from her boyfriend signaling the end of a 5-year relationship. It has now taking her time to heal, and although she can now enjoy herself without much thought of it, she wants another year off relationships before she commits to something new. However, I am obsessed with her.
She is to articulate as I earlier said, and she suits what I want in a woman. I found her, and I want to share my life with her. We have alot in common, and I am learning from her. But above all, she is giving me something I don't have - LOVE.
Even though she doesn't know that she helps make my day by filling my every thought, I know she wants me but is skeptical of the decisions to take because she feels she may get hurt yet again. She thinks I don't love enough to guarantee her happiness, but I want to prove it.
I am almost distraught because of the replies I get for my SMS, but I find hope in that there seem some silver lining at the end of the clouds.
I only hope they be for good for me, her and US.
However, backswash would be used here in a different context.
I don't know how many of us meet someone for the first time, and we fail to reason well, until we have had time with the person, letting some flow of chemistry between you two.
I was away from school for a training on entrepreneurship, and I met this damsel. She was too articulate. You can never take away the fact that she was a beaut.
I was taken away immediately, considering the fact that for three years, I had stayed away from relationships. And when I thought the time was ripe to start afresh, something would come up, and disrupt the whole thing.
But it was not so with her. She was named Blessing. Her dialect name called her Princess, and now, I call her "my Princess". However, the story is not as juicy as it is becoming. We had a chat before I left for school, and she reiterated how hurt she was, from the last relationship. It was on the 1st of January, of the previous year, while everyone was rejoicing for a new year, she was all drenched in pain and tears, when she received a text message from her boyfriend signaling the end of a 5-year relationship. It has now taking her time to heal, and although she can now enjoy herself without much thought of it, she wants another year off relationships before she commits to something new. However, I am obsessed with her.
She is to articulate as I earlier said, and she suits what I want in a woman. I found her, and I want to share my life with her. We have alot in common, and I am learning from her. But above all, she is giving me something I don't have - LOVE.
Even though she doesn't know that she helps make my day by filling my every thought, I know she wants me but is skeptical of the decisions to take because she feels she may get hurt yet again. She thinks I don't love enough to guarantee her happiness, but I want to prove it.
I am almost distraught because of the replies I get for my SMS, but I find hope in that there seem some silver lining at the end of the clouds.
I only hope they be for good for me, her and US.
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