“SHADOWS OF HOPE” By Moyosola Tugbobo

From the earth it disintegrates

Bursts into bloom and branches

Colours embellish the earth

Splendour glorifies its name

The other planets grow green with envy

They move closer to be reckoned with earth

What immense pride it’s got

The bright round ball stays glued up

Illuminating every bit of the meadows

Creatures joyfully bound on the mountains

Forgetting their myriad worries

The animals waiting to catch their prey give up

The light brings forth bundles of delight

The butterflies cheerfully fertilizes the petals

Everywhere look heavenly

No one seems poignant

Hunters feel the chill of sunlight

Farmers willingly bless the anonymous gods

Sacrificing animals and plants at their own loss

Tappers ride on in pleasure

Whistling away contentedly

As their kegs form a hip at the bicycle sides.

Although the stones and sand feel the heat

They find much comfort in it

The summer ushers so much beauty

Making everyone look forward to sunrise

Even the newly born can feel the elation

Nothing is unfamiliar to it

The smiles cheer its diminutive face

As it sucks on in glee

The infants and youths are not left out

Another opportunity to meet under the tree

An excuse to escape to the stream

At least to show a sign of affection

The beams extend on their faces

It seems like it would go on for eternity

Hunger becomes a stranger

Melancholy, an alien

Summer again drags in fantasies

It trudges along with a bundle of faith

A barrel of laughter and a box of hope

With No barriers, it marches into the soul with them

And then the heart wonders away...

 

 

Slowly, there is this fading effect

Repainting the earth out of choice

It moves in, accompanied by an unexplainable chill

Jugs of sigh

And tea cups full to brim with sorrow

Everyone gets the flu of hurt

No one questions...

Although there are questions

‘How come?’ we ask our minds?

The unimaginable touch of autumn has the answers

Beautiful flowers fade to yellow

And then brown

They get swept off by the wind

And then trampled by men

No beauty! No music! Just hurt

 Pain and frailty!!

The green leaves give way to rusts

Barks to dust

The tides only as high as the hunter’s bow

Animals show no mercy

Neither do humans think twice

It marks man’s inhumanity to man

Rivers fade off in silence

Gets dry from the banks inward

Questions dangle in the air

No meaning attached

Nothing to be proud of

Fear becomes a redeemer

Death, an escape route

The dead happily welcome new comers

The grave grow so full with spirits

Moving about in needless twinge and anguish

That dreadful touch of autumn....

 

 

Just when a respite is imagined

The chill creeps in

Icing every minds and souls

No creativity, just boredom

Muses become too cold to inspire

The pen becomes a weight

Even the strongest man dare not attempt a lift

The chill sends egos sprawling

Sends honourables to the fireplace

The dreaded fire now dreads attention

Everyone sits around it to worship

Singing songs of woe

The fire stays blazing

No escape route

It’s surrounded; it should not attempt to

The disguised touch of winter

Writers beg for inspiration

Lend the muses of others

Word- construction becomes a task

Winter, the revealed monster

Producing a chill with no impacts

 

 

Alas!

Just when the worst is anticipated

We behold the shadows of hope

Like a giant blanket in the sky

Ever so dark and thick!

We shriek with fear

And say our last prayers

It slings in the sky for eternity

Leaving us in blissful confusion

No one knows what to look forward to

Neither do we dare find out

Shadows of hope!

Such a disguise!

So sinister, yet with a song of joy

Trudging along in the silence of good news

Oh cloud! Speak that we may know

It speaks...

But we seem too deaf to hear

It fades into light and bursts into tears

With pity, the sky weeps for hours

It weeps as it wipes our tears

Its tears wet our famished soil

Sweeps away the distress

Breaks the chain of pain

The ecstasy is let loose

Pleasure fleets! Let’s have a grapple

Spring brings forth an innovative trend

The sky fertilizes the earth

Let every plant be glad

Lush vegetation springs forth

Thick branches vow to stay forever

The sun peers through the sky

Lo! We have our elation back!

Miserable animals get their share

Even the ferocious lion becomes a lamb

Somebody, anybody please thank the spring

Spring has intervened

What a transition time can cause! 

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                      ‘’FRAIL INCLINATIONS’’ by Moyosola Tugbobo

LAD:

He gazes upwards to behold the sunlight hours

It feels so new and pregnant with optimism

He hopes for unsullied opportunities

Eyes tightly shut, he prays for her

With caterpillars sojourning in his heart,

He wishes her well.

 

As he rises, he gazes about with swift darts

Colours lay a pageant before his eyes

But oh! The lady might love red...

He dashes into his restroom

Spends half a decade in the showers

Quarter a century in front of the mirror

Admiring ever so lovingly, his own image

Shaving every stray beard

Spraying all the cologne

And singing hymns of plea

 

His heart is chock-full of love for her

She gives him a rhythm so unfathomable

She’s a light in his heart

The end of his tunnel

His golden lining in the darkest cloud of helplessness

His only distraction.

 

But how can nature be so cruel?

How can obsession engulf his existence?

How can he be so mightily blessed with a weakness?

Why is he so mousy?

How come he stutters?

How come he asks how come?

 

He determines rough edges be smoothened

Everything feels rightly wrong...

The caterpillars doing a merry- go- round in his heart

His mind playing ‘gotcha’ with him

The invincible nightingale on the tip of his ear

The alcohol in the air

Everything seems magical to him

And with a final sigh...

He steps out of his home.

 

 

LASS:

In the showers, she lets her thought speculate

How come nature tortures her?

What is missing in her?

The beautiful smiles? I doubt!

She steps out looking angelic

Nothing makes sense but him

Oh her hair! Not a stray strand must escape the bun!

She slips on her dress

‘Adonis could be away’ she thinks

‘Does he even care a smidgeon?’she wonders

He seems ever so resentful, unfriendly and unwilling!

 

She cares too much she can’t help it

 

She gives a finishing touch of blush

 

Her cheeks glow red with pain

 

With that, he might not notice the real and genuine

 

She praises it for a secret well hidden

 

 

The butterflies leave their endless sacks

 

They develop so rapidly

 

She has no hope at all

 

It seems there is no reason to live

 

But hey! She steps out

 

She makes the journey to her destination in sorrow

 

Sorrow dots her beauty

 

Nothing makes sense to her

 

She feels so ignored and sad

Thousands have washed her feet with their hair

They have worshipped her well

She adores none of them

But this one person she adores

Seem to be worshipping somewhere else

‘Why does it happen this way?’ she thinks

She feels dejected

Afflictions bow at her throne hastily

They render her true worship

 

THE ROAD:

It anticipates their coming

It sees their hearts

It feels their yearnings when they walk on it

Their giddy feet echo meaning to the road

Ever so mousy they are

Trying to hide in the open all the time

The road is powerful

‘Ona’ they call it

It reforms itself and their paths meet

From afar off, he beholds her physiognomy

The butterflies develop hastily

They fly joyfully out of his eyes

His heart beats like a ‘conga’ drum

His love grows and blossoms                                                                       

It bursts in bloom and branches

Hanging out invincibly from his frail physique

But then he bleeds!

The road bleeds too!

He is concerned about that sorrow on her face

 

She sees him and becomes elated

Happy grief fills her heart

‘’this is the best we can be...  friends’’ she thinks

She weeps unseen and unheard

 

The road contracts

They draw nearer

Their weaknesses hug them tightly

Alone in their world... they listen to nothing!

She speaks, he speaks...

No one hears...

No one listens!

They are both far away in their thoughts

They leave echo with the chore to remind

‘How do I tell her I love her?’

‘How do I tell him I care’?

How how how?

They stand there feeling both joy and pain

Neither can speak again

They become stammerers

They both try to hide the obvious

How possible can that be?

The lad dreads a disaster

The lass dreads a chaos

The road sighs...

 

It has been patient enough

It’s supposed to be a moving path

Those who stand on it to talk must be eloquent

They must not allow weaknesses pervade

It stretches itself and reshapes itself

...and they depart

 

Oh! That departure!

That fearful time in a man’s life

That thorny time that brings a minute’s madness

That ugly moment

A moment of pain and melancholy

Life....does not seem to be fair on them both.

 

LAD:

Oh! After all the preparatory measures

How could I have failed to speak?

Weaknesses often bring so much vile

‘’I just wish she knew...’’

 

LASS:

I should have known better

He cares not, he can’t be concerned

He probably wouldn’t, ever!

All he does leaves me in misery

‘’I wish he knew’’

THE ROAD:

When you cross a line

You are on the other side

Why is it such a difficult task for them?

I could only wish to elongate my patient

And so, words might have no need of actions

I wish they both could perceive...

 

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A DANCE OF HUMOUR ¬_ by Moyosola Tugbobo When we pay attention to the word “madness”, all that comes to our psyche is insanity and dirt. In our minds, we create images of someone in tattered clothes, tangled and tousled locks of hair on their heads with dandruffs falling out like the snow; we picture them with tyres on their necks and buckets on their heads running about the boulevard and singing anonymous hymns. We turn madness into the utmost of isolation and shame. Oftentimes, we make an effort not to perceive them as tattered people as madness has begun to drift into the cooperate globe; we visualize a crazy person- almost certainly dressed-up, only this time, the person incessantly talks to him or herself and startle the crowd of passersby with intent. He is then taken as an object of comic respite. I seek to spot on this perception of madness; it doesn’t give you an idea about itself any longer and it is in all probability that everyone has received the spirit of madness one way or the other- in the literal sense. When we grow to have an aversion to someone, we act mad when we see the person approaching, we see imaginary demons with two horns and a pitch fork when we look at them and then we begin to exhume fumes of fury. When we win a car or get a house, it becomes a total flaunt of madness as people die in the course of rejoicing. When people die, it’s an apparent display of madness because it would be tremendously difficult to make a distinction between the conduct of the mourners and the normal life of a mad person; sometimes, madness made more sense. To enfold it up in the veil of vision, when we have a crush or fall in love, there’s only a half- size- of- the- thread- line between love and madness as one would do unreasonable things in the name acting in love or even lust. Madness is ubiquitous and I sense the pain and twinge of my mad people. We don’t have to break down the already broken ego of the mad people; madness can be fun and necessary! Let’s join in the dance of humour as we all have the tap of the spirit, if not the grapple!

MY MIND’S CHARACTER

_ By_ Moyosola Tugbobo

I sat in front of the Lagoon and stared intently and far off into it. I relished the way in which the soft and placid wave slowly transcends me into another globe of Creativity. I didn’t come up here to write but to read and at this point, who am I to bamboozle nature?

The water at the edge was greenish. A sharp pain cut in through me like a sharp razor would cut-in through a raspberry. I bled for nature; nature was being messed-up by nature. Items lay floating upon the waters and I felt rather blue. The water calmly forced itself in waves and circles....and in some places; they seemed like a bowl of flour that has been stylishly messed-up by a little baby.

It moved in waves and curls like long hair carefully spoilt by a quack and inexperienced hairdresser with the help of a very blunt razor blade in a bid to make the customer a “beauty-by-experiment” specimen. The wave was beautiful and it was like my new muse, the look of the water was heavenly except of course the dirt the waves kicked in aggravation to the very edge of the bank.

I would say “in aggravation” because there was always a divergent wrinkle on what seemed like the face of the waters whenever that happens and it was usually followed by a profound and grave thrust. The dirt would then hastily scamper to the periphery of the Lagoon before the waves got infuriated and worse than it already was.

I felt the waves were the servants of the water since they entertained the onlookers who have come to have a field-day and feed their eyes. Their melody was heavenly, there was musicality in every whoosh of dirt and every movement brought a rhythmical sound. They could serve as a Lullaby to rock a baby to forty winks and they could also serve as an entertainer to bring back one’s “long-lost” muse.

I relished every moment I spent in the frontage of the lagoon experimenting with colours; the water changed its colour occasionally with every movement it made. It brought into view stunning colours and it seemed approximately like a figment of my imagination because I could see grey, black and even white!

A part of me Shrieked unheard as I saw something that looked to me like a snake...I deduced from that that when you begin to live  in the bush, every movement of foliage begins to appear like there was a snake beneath it. It was curly and it wriggled under the vigour of the water and the force of the wave. Beside it was a part of the water that pixelates into bits like someone had just sprinkled a handful of sand on it...my attention was divided but I felt the snake was more important.

I sat resolute and conscientious and with an intention to disentangle the obscurity following the water. I took a closer gaze and an enhanced view, stayed focused and indeed the whole thing came into a lucid vision...I leaned forward and  what I thought was a snake was in point of fact a long piece of cloth that was probably stuck to the ground beneath the water like a tortoise to its shell.

Once again, felt bitter- a piece of rag was stuck to nature and creativity! It seemed to me like there was pandemonium and chaos in the creative world and there was something worthless in every piece of creative writing. It spoilt creativity just like the pirates bungled the movie industry in Nigeria. The worst was that it couldn’t come out without much effort from the creative writers because it was STUCK!!!

 

Well, I got cheesed off of writing about the Lagoon so I turned around. I had written about the water, waves, the dirt in the water and the sound of the wave and I wanted a break .I turned around and all I could make out was Brown; the soil, the bark of the trees and most especially, the “once- green” leaves. The Leaves were brown and dried and as people walked on them, they made a rustling sound that was rather pleasant to the ear. The sound was soothing; I felt tenable under the sound of “dry nature”-no one was there to put it to effect so it dried up...and became trampled under feet by men.

I looked up to observe the Original version of the dried leaves looking at their desiccated brothers and at the same time beseeching nature to be compassionate. They swayed under the influence of the blustery weather and still, they tried to stay put in order not to end their lives in a “brownishly-dry” state. I felt sorry for the leaves but I knew deep inside of me that just as every human being will breathe their last breath someday, so will all the leaves drop and dry one day. I saw the clear disparity between the lifeless, comatose, dry, brownish and dead leaves and the fresh, bouncy and green leaves....bet it’s got a lot of oxygen to run for days.

 I felt a movement in my heart and it suddenly began to race for no identifiable reason. Alas! I spotted the reason .I figured out that my imaginations actually race faster than my mind. A snake Lizard appeared from afar off and hopped in my direction....while a red and probably poisonous crab hovered around its hole for a while and made straight for where I was sitting from the other end.

I flinched as I realised I was marooned in the middle- approximately defenceless, almost vulnerable. I jumped up and stood looking at the two creatures almost at the same time and surreptitiously on tenterhooks for help...Out of the blues, a dead leaf that has been dried up and waiting to drop unexpectedly figured it was time to depart and swiftly dropped......I was glad, help was here. It chased the crab right back into its hole and as for the snake lizard, it was nowhere to be found. Oh! How Nature Saves Miraculously!

I figured out it was high-time I left, I packed my books mutually and like a ghost, I walked away without a sound and you can lay a wager that even with the trepidation that was still very visible and perceptible in the depth of my eye, I still acted like nothing happened.

THE VOICE OF THE DEAD by Moyosola Tugbobo

 We know them! At least that is what it seems like when we observe them. They have white cotton wools in their ears and nostrils and are laid in a white or coloured wooden or metal box depending on their position in the society. We know they would be said to have been killed if they were meagre and assassinated if they happen to be wealthy and highly positioned. Some are even wrapped in mats or raffia while others are cremated.

They lay comatose without their breath... they gaze up towards home with a wintry look and lay patiently for their dust to add to the earth’s already plenteous sand. The box is lowered and everyone gives a wail or a squeal of pain and pending or impending doom. Gradually, the flowers are dropped and bags of sand are emptied into the white pit of eternal suffocation and they are bid a final goodbye as they make a safe journey...homewards. Sadly, the troupe gather their already fallen wrappers, pick up the pieces of their broken shades and heart and lean on one another for a comfort untold; a way of taking a stand as the thought of losing someone has paralysed and melted their veins and ligaments... they appear flexible and spineless.

No one turns back to look at the residue of the one they cherish but whose path has been pitifully decided for them. This is sad because there is more to death than all these; you can die while enjoying the riches of life! In the box in that white pit lays a man full of life and energy; a living man in a dead man’s apparel... obviously some kind of brilliant mistake!

He suffocates in that confined box of fame and cries out in pain and anguish, he cries out in pin- drop silence. His breath becomes really noisy inside of him. No one can hear his silence; who will call unto the dead people above who have just dumped a physically dead man into an eternal pit and have made their ways out of the grave yard in a bid to get on with life? Who? Who will come to his aid? An underground neighbour? Who?

Questions hang over his head like a ripe nut and unfortunately, the answers are unreachable because his hands have been positioned at his sides in an almost undeviating manner. He suffocates in hush and prays for the man in him to die. Just above his roof top are dead men walking about with the breath of life and with the thought that they are alive.

Realistically, everyone alive is dead one way or the other whether they know it or not and in one field or the other. Just take a good look at the man who has been buried with life; although not physical life. Intelligence and wisdom lingers on with his memories and he’s yet to die the real death; the loss of wisdom! The wisdom in him lives in his sweet repose alongside his credits while the dead man on the top brandish riches with a basket head. Little wonder why they say the Grave is the richest place and people are dying to get in.

A CLEAR CONSCIENCE: A SIGN OF BAD MEMORY? _ By_ Moyosola Tugbobo
Sometimes we sit miles away from the truth and beacon at it from a distance; we order it around like a slave and never give it a chance to fraternise with us as it wanted to. Only the factual flesh of ethics can keep our minds from digressing into the unknown world that keeps pushing loads of guilt into our temples. Away from all the mysteries of nature, far from all the errors of life, beyond all the expressions of love, there’s always a line of deception when we think having a clear conscience is having to exist in life without prudence and having to suffer in the hands of deriders in the name of having a good memory.
If you remember hurts and sorrow, you are scolded for holding on to the past with vigour and indicted of concentrating on the unnecessary. On the other hand, if you do not remember those hurts in the presence of the most valuable analogy, you are said to have a terrible memory- in point of fact, if your memory is said to be very bad then the speaker appears to be altruistic. When will forgetting of past hurts be an act of letting go and not a sign of bad memory? Should we stick to the past like a leech in the name of appearing intelligent? Should we just let go of our pride and ego? Whatever the case is, I choose not to wound my sensitivity.
Torn between the cloying clutch of reason and the upsurge of sentiments, we find a gulch of overflowing thoughts and ideas; foggy ideas seem to come in batches and queer flow and it seems like the full moon in the afternoon and a pool of snow in summer. It appears as a mix- up in our mind and we can either choose to have a crammed conscience or a clear one.

WHY CAN’T THE DEAD DIE? _ By_ Moyosola Tugbobo.
I habitually wonder why the dead can’t remain dead... Why do they have to linger and loiter in our memories? My heart is chock-full of emotions and my language is heart-felt; this is so that all and sundry might have a glimpse into the future of my words. Every so often, I stand with my eyes raised- with streams of blistering and smouldering tears struggling for liberation thus conveying a shiver down my humble spineless spine. I stand on a spot and yet my mind is ubiquitous and my heart keeps going in and out of my entire being- that, I suppose is Awkward!
I feel the pain and anguish that they face during the one-minute battle between life and death; they remain in my heart like a leech that is set to spend eternity. I try to get rid of the pain and the more I pull away, the more the sharp-edged-two-pronged-fork drive itself into my heart and pull out my entrails; I try to avoid tears from blurring my vision but they fail me and come pouring in showers.
The dead are dead and gone but their memories fail to die even after many decades; I go on a journey into my own thoughts, I find fossils of thoughts and deeds lying wasted in my mind. I look earnestly for the memories of the dead and I find none. I get set to make my journey back to reality when I stumble upon this fresh image; it was the memory I had exhausted my energy searching for. I pick it up and set it ablaze as I wait for the ashes to form- it was a long wait.
It burned for years and when the fire begins to die, I search for an urn in which the ashes of the memories of the dead will remain; I return to find the memory fresher than it was even before I saw it. I broke down and allowed the tears to flow- it was indeed a storm that would break the mightiest ship into bits but I let it out once and for all.
The journey out of my thought was even more painful as I realise there is nothing I can do to stop the whole insanity. I sit down to think and I end up with an extreme idea that might help me out; I travel down my thoughts once again with all the tools in the world- I break the walls around my mind, dig out every memory of thoughts and deeds, I gather them in a sack and I stumble upon the memory of the dead once again.
I reach out for this dreaded memory and stuff it into the trash sack of my soul and behold, there was an even fresher one underneath it. I pick it up too and find another beneath, I pick the third and I see another; it is bloodcurdling to realise I’ve been picking up these memories that seem incessantly ample. I hope one day there would be no more memories and I’d get a chance to travel back to reality, I just hope the dead would remain dead!

BELIEVE IT OR NOT _By Moyosola Tugbobo
I leaned forward and rubbed my face against the cloud, I couldn’t believe I was there; the cloud use to be an ordinary illusion and now it felt so near and authentic. I could almost not sense my head on my diminutive body as I moved along in marvels; I was beginning to get pleasure from being in the sky. I thought of those who had given up the ghost earlier in the years and I wondered if they had the opportunity of moving so close to the sky- I felt privileged.
My legs didn’t get feeble because I wasn’t using them, I only use my legs when I had to and I soon figured I didn’t even need to use them; they felt so infinitesimal to even tender any help at all. I just relished the vision that stood before my very eyes. The fresh breeze blew against my face like the outpour of arctic water on a burning appendage; I felt the tap of nature. I went along looking down at the earth and the magnificent and bravura edifice that were there.
“Those alive on earth have no idea how beautiful what they have is until they see it from up here” I whistled to myself with pain and regret in my voice.
It was a truly pleasant sight and I enjoyed it for as long as I could. I saw some others like me coming from a distance and I waited for them to get near, we sang together for those who were alive to delight in as well as those who were dead too. We all knew we couldn’t live with humans in their houses because we had been deprived of the capability to do so one way or the other. I still thanked God for making me who I am right now; I strongly believe there’s a reason for everything.
It was beginning to get dark and murky and I had nowhere to go; I did not know whether to roam about like an evil spirit till dawn or just go up to heaven- I knew that wasn’t possible though... Slowly, I descended and bid others a goodnight; everyone went back to where they came out from and others even disappeared into the evening. I wasn’t sure anyone had a house. I had nowhere to go and so I took up the courage of making a place of rest for myself; I went to the top of a tree and gathered dry strings of leaves with which to make my nest. When I was done, I perched on some crumbs and went to sleep... From then on, I knew being a Bird was more fun than being a human.