A Birthday Cake, A Poem & A Forced Smile

a circumference forms around a cooing couple,
smitten with joy on arrival of a new native.
na boy. na boy. a product of a genius coitus
earlier formed when love held two - captive.

he will stand by God by default. Bolorunduro.
a name, a mantle and a primordial caution
a reminder too, when tides haggle on his soul
from gambits of a wild wily world.

older. witness to triumphs and tragedies,
as in those which mold toddlers into men
in tussles, trysts and teenage skirmishes
from love duels and soothing human yen

traveler, still negotiating through this vastness
through this maze of beauty and filial forms.
until wizened days replace the innocence of youth
he gathers on, wisdom, with a headlamp brightness

a new decade waltzes in, bye to twentyish adventures.
‘duro. always obey your name. stay and live.
here. enjoy the love, beauty and the risky ventures
for your days will not end abruptly like this silly poem


*Bolorunduro or Duro is my first name among family and close friends. "Chris" is just a stubborn official name. ;)

What if…

An old poem of mine.

What if...

What if everything is but a dream
cast on a jagged plane?

What if the silhouette is but real
and the substance is its shadow?

What if sight is but blindness
and voice is but dumbness?

What if we’re animals in the eyes of the animal
itself – human, created in His image?

What if the womb is our grave
and the grave is but a cocoon pregnant with life?

What if white is but a precious gloom
and rose is but the emblem of death?

What if it’s not sleep after all
but Death tickly calling?

What if it’s foolery finely cloaked
masking as Love?

What if righteousness is but a sin
and Sodomy, the Hallowed?

What if we are just characters
existing only in the dreams of some gods?

What if seated in Heaven is the Devil
and fanning Hell’s furnace is The Lord?

What if…?





Written aboard a Kenyan Airways flight from Lagos to Nairobi

Castles of frosts saunter like flakes
in a vastness of nothingness

A plane tugs through, edges past airy folds,
amidst muffled cheers of a human lot.

A longing weigh on the restless traveler.
And a conscious indifference of exiting.

These folds are caricatures -
faces and fadings of familiar forms

Thoughts wade through like silent drones, in drones, as
the promise of forever condenses.

Wait, are we landing now?

Journeys are delightful pranks
only Time gets the joke.


How did we get here?

How did we get here –
an engulfing in our own map and
time-killing within the radius of silence?

We left our paths chasing rainbows
But rainbows fade.
We left our cues to act strange scripts
But dramas end.

Tell if you ever sought an exiting too from
stifling spaces.
Did you drug on hope and wished an escaping from
dreary dungeons?

These days are funked and marinaded with platitudes –
of regrets spun across dingy digital routes

And there you are, hidden behind a Caucasian cloud –
Writhing in a lovelorn, and panting loud

On the other side, the Sahara dries a stream –
of tears, and debris of what could have been.


Just fools lamenting the losses left by the side of the lagoon
And wishing a toast to new love under sultry Indian moon

An Excuse

This was written in response to a friend who accused me of never
being in touch and I didn't know how to mention how busy I am with work

Look at the distant signpost, or listen, if you will, at the hoarse distant voice
They speak of a fool, a toiler, grunting under a searing sun.
Only silence soothes him, a flighty relief from strife, and
bombasts of excuses spun to pass the torch of blame

It’s Lagos, dear. Landlady of hustles and thatched hopes. New York without lustre.
She robs. She robes. I now straddle on bare foot and borrowed breath
Here, money-slow-to-enter, and players lay siege for callous gambits
And no one asks why the bar beaches to brink as men sweat to death…

Like a fly caught in a web of mess but playing Lazarus for a meagre escape
Welcome-to-Lagos, The World’s Third Mainland Street of crap and crass
A maze of everything insane. Man’s flight in regression.


Only time will tell how far I go with my hustle (with or without the cheque)
But you must know I miss you too (even as distance keeps you from my neck)