The Celebrant

My mom’s colleague at the school she taught for over a decade says the first word I uttered was Emmy. Make no mistakes, it’s not the American award. It’s a mispronunciation of the word: Mommy. What was anyone expecting? Grammy or Oscars out of a baby’s mouth? Highly improbable.


The mind is man’s unseen eye; capturing images, light and converting them to neurons that draw conclusions from the randomness that is the everyday experience. One of the merits of being non-dogmatic is the ability to see layers upon layers of interpretations from a single scene, nowhere is this displayed than the mind holding diverse thoughts; at times contradictory or divergent. Mysteries are open to inquiries. It’s when the optical and visual are in resonance that randomness gains meaning. This is why enlightenment transcends the barrier of space and time; man’s thought Police. It gives the mind the chance to wander past the usual, seeing things beyond the accepted nomenclature. So, the world becomes the playground of the mind; becoming a network of apparitions. Once blind belief is replaced with openness, vision operates less in a specific dimension and sight becomes less invisible to the mind.

What happens when you postpone the begining of something? What really stops an action from taking place? Could it be inertia or the lurking daemons disguised as writing block? Can harmattan and the accompanying heat pass as a reasonable excuse? …

I do not worry about the past

That holds the future hostage

I cannot speak so fast

My mouth is filled with porridge

My deeds, like a knife in the woods

Haunt all things so good


Emerging clouds sweeping the sun

Freezing the air once warm

I was made…

My only desire is that
We burn as bonfires without wood
with the atmosphere filled with smoke
Like incenses, moving spirally to find a place in thin air
Some days, I remember when we walked along the lawns
Taking little steps like lizards invading the walls of a room
On other days, it is how we…

I know of someone
Who comes in two
He smiles in deceit
And compels me to believe

He says he is here
Yet, he is there
he makes you feel
Like a revolver

I try every time
To get his true self
To ignore the lies
That he weaves like a basket

I try to ignore
His face
The way it betrays his hands
And his shrinking voice

He asks why
But means how
It makes me want to fly
And land him a slap

I hate the games he plays
With all of my strength
But I try not to reveal it
I try not to talk

One day
I am going to tell it all
And that deceitful soul
Is going to know

I will build a house
Of violence and anger
And that person’s tears
Will be music to my ears

The battle line has been drawn

A year before the turn of the millennium, after the warriors retreated into their camps and handed over power to those they had seized power from sixteen years ago, a new star from the Milky Way passed through the ocean and shone forth from the shores of the lagoon. He…

We were not a thing, you were not my lover, we were beyond the bond that made two become one, and we were so independent to become a separate entity. We could override all of those old words and recreate our own world. …

It was the day of giving up

The moment I gave my heart a piece of my mind

The time I shattered the clouds of hope and searched for darkness

The day I owned my flaws and it became my strength

The month I found peace in failing and learning…

I fell in love with an accountant

She used me to balance her past

Now, my life is like bad debt

I fell in love with a lawyer

She left me in the tears

And I became a mere acquaintance

not a witness in her life

I fell in love with a programmer

She put all her bugs on me

Till I was unable to run

I fell in love with an actress

At first, it was a movie

Then, it ended in tragedy

Now, I think I am in love

This time with a chemist

Though, I am afraid

of ending up as a mere reaction

or fan out like combustion

This is my dilemma

That, I end up in another form

If it turns out well

Maybe, I turn to ashes

If it doesn’t work out


Mobolaji Adebayo

Threading through the thin line between reflection and experience. I write to take stock.

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