The Thoughts of a Sane Madman

It's 2 a.m and I am wide awake, listening and communing with my demons. My heads are filled with throes, my heads? Yeah, my heads, because at the moment I commune with my demons, I have two different bodies, one is mine, and the other is for someone, or some people I don't know. 
A dog doesn't return to its waste, is what they say, but every time I feel like the boy who has lost his way home, I give my bodies medals (self harm) and sink back into absolute nothingness. And again, like I have always failed my promises, I have returned to my waste, & my demons & and the remains of the sanity left in me is evaporating under the heat of finding a whole in the fragment of the broken shards of me. 
1. How do you tell of a boy whose body is a confluence of pains?At other point, how do you tell of a feeling the evokes in a boy to disconnect himself from everyone, (himself inclusive) because he thinks he doesn't get enough love from them? That's how he …


"Is hell enough the appropriate surrogate for my home?" the question I asked myself after the launch of the first airstrike.
That evening was with a suspicious feeling. We had finished our dinner of crumbled bread and were perching against the wall when it began. The sound humming above the rooftops was a paradox of expression - sonorous to the ears, and yet petrifying the heart.
"We leave before the dawn of tomorrow breaks!" father blared into my ears, and I nodded doggedly despite my conflicting thought of if running was actually the last resort. People would tag us cowards, snitch, and indict us, but I guessed that wouldn't matter. We'd already lost everything. Father had lost his wife, and I had lost a sister and my teen years. What more could the world say that would haunt our sanities? After all, a warrior flees to fight another day.
For a decade, father and I had been surviving amid the seething sound of bombs and bullets, bodies pilled up on the pyre …



"I am a victim, and peace no longer resides in my heart, even when I'm home. You can relate with this platitude "Home is where peace resides", but in my home, reverse is the case, peace is lost at home. Everyone lives under a façade, so to say, for I can't speak for everyone but myself. l live under a façade of a peaceful house, (emphasis is made on the peaceful house). Every day of my life, ever since the dramatic turn of event a decade ago, I've been searching for peace. My heart, soul, every part of me has been searching for it, but I haven't found it, not yet. And I know many of you will wonder what took away my peace, what had thrown me into the dungeon of self-hatred, what lowered my self-efficacy, and what disorganized my self-esteem. Those questions, I hope you find answers to it in my story, and that's if there is one.

I was less than ten when my life changed, I …




Empirically, I don't care if you accede to this or not, but we've been living under the duress of the temptation created by our imaginary minds. The duress is or may be cloaked in robes of fear that are beautifully embroidered with ornament of dreams, and a little "shaking of the table" may strip off the beautiful adornment on the duress, and it becomes naked, making your fears vulnerable, and your dreams, somewhat achievable. But we are afraid of our duress, and fears getting naked, so we keep the beautiful robes round its waste, round its body and therein allow our dreams to get raped by some unknown or perhaps known dream reapers.

Permit me to tell you the story of a boy who was uncertain of the future, but still called the shot.

There was once a brilliant boy (couch up the definition of your brilliance) who lived in fears, like stating earlier, his fears had several dimensions - fear of failing, fear of not succeeding, f…


I remember September 17, 2007 where our adventures began in that school. I can still remember how we became friends. We were newbies, so were others, and we seemed like being lost in a strange world. I can't remember what I wore on that first day, yet I can remember yours so vividly. You were on a blue jean top and a to-match blue jean trouser, a seeming Islamic cap on your head which accentuated you would be so religious. We found our seats on the second row, it was random, we couldn't have planned it. I was an introvert, so were you, or maybe you pretended to be then, I couldn't ask for your name and you didn't ask mine either, and our day went on in mute until we got to the hostel and we got to share the same bunk. I knew you wanted the top bunk, but you weren't tall enough to put your bed on it, I wasn't tall enough either, but someone had helped me. We fought that day also, and I won, but not by my might, but rather you succumbed for the sake of friendshi…


She was conceived  and born  With golden spoon
Pampered  with  the word  of possibilities
See the prodigal  daughter  born in a blind moonlight.

Her proudness  runs through  her like a single strand through  a fabric
I can be her rival as day passes by
Yet, she  has nothing  to show the world
A blind Àkéjù with no walking stick.

Pitiful  voice of the world fills her deaf listening ears
Yet, she  believes  in imagination far beyond reality
Àgídìgbo drums fill her deafening ears
Nevertheless her maturity  is behind  wisdom.

She looks at herself with a softening and loving smile
The world  looks with pitiable voice
She  use the èwà(beans) to call the ìwà(character).

Let's leave the  walking Blind  Àkéjù
with no stick to her destructive part.

`` ​​​Egbelade onifade​​​ ```
​@Dancing pen​

Egbelade Onifade is an African Traditionalist Practitioner and a Yoruba student of Obafemi Awolowo University, ile ife.



In the heart of winter some decades ago, there was a woman in the obstetrical room. She's a newlywed, and that was sixteen months ago. She groaned and grunted in the room, the nurses paced back and forth, their marches beating heavily, and threatening the peace and instilling fear in the hearts of her relatives at the reception. After few hours of unrelenting efforts of the doctor and nurses, the heartily cry of a young baby emerged from the room. There were smiles on their faces, and everyone congratulated them. Moreover, it was good to reckon with people who make successes, and she just succeeded.
Despite the cry of the young baby in the obstetrical room, the paces of the nurses had not stopped. They dashed, and rather than the heel of their stiletto beating soft drums of joy, it made the raging cacophonous sounds of survival, of a surgery going wrong, of the scalpel cutting deep in her womb, of the wrong (the baby) being riped out of her belly. The walks of…


The tower of life; higher than our reach, 
And the battle for survival is fierce, 
That many lost, smouldered in the air, 
Even before the inception of the duel for life.

Ignorantly, they had got along, 
To birth generations of offspring, 
But unconcerned of the peril that comes
As the foetus trudges to life. 

Now my world, no, our worlds are our antagonists
Without ammunitions, they fight us, 
Depriving us of a little prosperous life, 
That may be gone even before we arrive. 

Our archenemy, they make, 
The "illness" we brought not unto ourselves, 
Cum their advocacy of a world free of us, 
We live as a ghost that only make up a population. 

What are imminent to them and us - love, family 
Are what they get with buoyancy, 
But lecture us on the peril of tasting it, 
To be something as grave as our "death." 

Unless you raise placards above the chimney tops, 
And your voices echo miles beyond the seas, 
And your marches of awareness beat drums of survival, 
A world f…


You wake up from the comfort of your home
On your four-poster bed
With a cup of cappuccino by your bedside
And missing someone to kiss your lips.


We wake up to the gruesome inimical street
On the stacks of rags that lie beneath our feet
With the heavenly pap bequeath on us by mother nature
And missing someone to console our confidence.

We walk under the scorching sun
And work in the oven of the blazing fires
Where it's radiations pierce through our skins
Tearing our hearts apart
Melting our brains like lemon drops
And the inferno beneath our feet
Evaporates the humanity out of us.
Subtly, our hell begin right here
While your heaven begin right there
From the top of those storey buildings
Where you watch us die with comfort.

And without guns and ammunition
Among yourselves, elite
You fight endless wars
The battle to be the first among your equals
And the intelligence in your cerebra
That is supposed to save us all
Is rather used to battle for sheer lustful preeminence.

Don't you ha…

Literary review of "Blizzard - Hunger is cold"

Blizzard - hunger is cold

Blizzard is a novella authored by David Onyemaizu, which chronicles the vacation of an adventurous auditor in chief, Terry Droop, who is consumed with the ecstasies from his recent promotion at his office and the divorced suit filed by his wife, Martha. I have mountainous reasons to be dithyrambic about the book. In an apparently congent view, if the male lead character is displaced in the book, Blizzard tells a chronological story that captures the catastrophic situations most of us find ourselves and tend to survive, emerge victorious at all cost, and not being hypocritically myopic, all sapiens will do same or more to survive irrespective of the cost attached.

Also, one may wonder if definitely hunger can be cold, as the book begins with unparalleled abstruseness cum uneven exhilaration to read on, but someway doggedness and unrelenting tenaciousness has made the theme of the book fall in place in the long run of Terry Droop's odyssey. The book is tra…