Imole Olusanya

Ever bustling city life! The strident voices of the conductors of commercial buses could be heard afar off. No matter how sultry the weather, there were always hawkers advertising their goods. The traders who had stalls and umbrellas were fortunate, those who had kiosks were more fortunate, and those had shops, built or rented, were the most fortunate. Children who should be in the classrooms could be seen hawking oranges, sweets, buns and sachet water. Those who had been fortunate to be sent to school by their parents and guardians would also choose to roam the streets like orphans, in their school uniforms. At Orita Meta or Bere, you could even see some of those sagged off children dancing to the tunes of music on the streets, in front of beer parlours, shirts tucked out of their shorts or trousers. In the streets, you would find students who had reached the secondary school class smoking cigar. If cigarettes get them nauseous, they could have a sachet of alcoholic drink while their ...

Everyday the struggle harden at times smiles creep in, at times tears but none have come to stay a leap of joy and rest are countless numbers of time taken but none have showed its face for long; But with a fast spin as of pirouette on a pointé these tender hands have finally touched the switch. This is a poem I wrote from a prompt on Sharpened Vision, a poetry course on Coursera.   Writing a poem on: The (a concrete idea) of (an abstract idea).  

Flat, sober faced With two hands slow but steady, saving from ruins or announcing an approaching ruin hands stationed on the face hands controlled by the crown a crown in between allied fingers winding to and fro With numbers a dozen and a tiny arm stretched, unresting wings spreading wild wings enclosed when tamed around idle and busy wrists. This is written from a prompt on Sharpened Vision, a poetry course on Coursera.

One murderous mourning murderer murdered mourning mothers monthly. The more murdered mourning mothers mourned, the more mourning mothers murdered. Months on months more mourning mothers mourned, Months on months more mourning mothers murdered. Mounts and founts more murdered mourning mothers found. The modern mourning mothers mourned not their modern mummies, The murderous mourning murderer murdered not the modern mothers. Here's a play on words and sounds. The poem relates a tale of a mourning murderer murdering any mother that mourns.

Once white once red he is finally black Once white milky teeth sweet faced pinky lips tender hands with a heart as snow and void of ills Once red stumbles upon a stack of memories abhors to harbour the fiery feeling touches the switch and He is finally black clenched teeth sour faced cut lips bloody hands with a heart as stone and veiled with ills. This poem talks about a certain man who is once white (good) but later, he becomes red (realises some ugly incidents in the past) and finally becomes black (dangerous & revengeful). There are folks whose stories are related to this. They are the cool, easy going type until they realise what has been done to them and can not let that be a bygone.  

Tara had always loved Jones, her brother's new friend. He had always been nice to her and was always with the smiles that could speak a thousand words. She waited for him to tell her how he felt about her but for months he never did. It was Tara's birthday and she thought that Jones would let her know his feelings for her that day. She brought her male friends to the party to make Jones jealous; she wanted to nudge Jones into action. Tara's friends knew that she had fallen head over heels for Jones for months and they decided to help her. However, Jones did not seem ruffled by all they were doing to make him feel jealous and Tara almost lost all hope. The party ended and there were loads of gifts for the celebrant. Tara and her friends went to work, searching for Jones' gift. In the end, they founded it; a white flower. It was not her wedding day and she was not bereaved. To her, and to what she had been told and been made aware of, in such a situation, it could only me...

The time had come to start my journey. I leaned out of the window, waving as long as I could while she disappeared into the distance. She was out of sight and she would be for quite a long time. All I had with me afterwards was her images on my phone and more importantly, our moments together that had stuck to my memory. The bus had just gotten to the first checkpoint when my phone rang. When I checked the caller ID, it was her. “Hello, maami.” “Hello. How has the journey been? Where are you now?” “I'm having a pleasant ride and presently, we're at the first checkpoint. Bother yourself not, mum. I'll phone you immediately the drive is over.” “Alright.” As promised, my mother was the first person I phoned as the journey ended. She sounded relieved. A lanky lad was waiting for me at the car park by a black Toyota Sienna. He showed me his identity card and I confirmed that he was the one sent to pick me up. I entered the car and the ride started. During that shorter drive, I p...