Malik Ademola

Introduction 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&

"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

DRIPPING WORDS 0003 FOR HOME NO LONGER HARBOURS IT, WHERE THEN SHALL I SEEK IT? "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

DRIPPING WORDS 0002 STOP RAPING YOUR DREAMS 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 succ

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 friendsh

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.