RETURN FROM ANATHEMA (A collaboration between CeCe Ireneh and Ara deinde

I remember days when my lakes froze by noon
Days when the night skies denied the moon
I reminisce that cold cave of horror
nights when beastliness was thorough
Oh! How I shrank with terror

"Hello, can you hear me?" I was beseiged
I kneeled, shrieked and beseeched
White faded into grey, those told lies
I can't forget times the truth never seemed nice

Before my sight, my heart lost its eyes
Squalid vistas, plus, I crept into ice
Oh rain, fill this drain and flush me out
Life numbed my brain and taped my mouth
They took it all, even the reservoir
They made faces and said aurevoir

Lord, quench my thirst with liquid laughter
Increase my pace as that of a panther
Can't this crying critter smile again
Won't I exchange my pains for gain

Give me life, give me hope
Make me smile, cut this rope
I want flight from this nadir
Give me wings of elixir

Here comes light, am I right?
No more binds, or am I blind?
I once felt anathematized by the heavens
At present I can levitate into joy's sweet haven

Love so profound, heavier than lead
Soothes and heals like balm of Gilead
I'm translated into paradisiac relief
Even if I'm blind, this relief ain't blind for belief
Now I'm safe , filled with glee
Dead to fear, brave and free

CeCe Ireneh and Ara 'deinde
February '15
‪#‎chatpoetry‬
‪#‎empireofbards‬

SOKALE SENIOR (Plucked out of my diary, 03/01/15)

We are the most passive things in life, not time. Time has an element of harmonic constancy embedded in it- everyday will always have 24 hours each. Change is passive as well. Every second is something more appropriate to say, void of embellishments of any sorts. Maybe young people, people in my genre, need to appreciate this fact some more.

That said, I stand outside on the portico behind Abbey's Ogere house. The sun scorches and tears and boils, licking the skins of critters in sight in radiating ferocity. Down below, masquerades and people frolic, beat drums and felicitate with unseen gods. Meanwhile, inside the house, Abbey's dad keeps Abbey glued to his seat. Finally, I ruminate, he has found someone to ease him ephemerally out of loneliness' grip. He lives alone in this town house.

"Orí e to dàrú o, kò dè ní da fún e", an irked mum curses her small erring daughter and beats the sun's smearing sultriness out of her. In the distance, the masqueraders still dance and the drum lines are still wavy. I'm surprised beyond measure to find that more than three quarters of the people down here are young people, hence my opening retort. Have they forgotten this is the 21st century? There are better things to do than dance away precious time in perversion of gods that can't breathe. And there are churches and mosques here o, but the hearts here are tuned heavily to paganism. That, in a way, shouldn't surprise me. Ogere is a small town typical of Yoruba traditional town settings- old houses, nice roads, rusty roofs, friendly but less enlightened people, frustrated mums and submissive but occasionally recalcitrant kids. More surprising is the presence of many young people here... Oh, my! Have I forgotten all too soon that we are in festive periods? Many of the young men and women and kids in the local diaspora have come back home.

Abbey's father's house is large enough to occupy the quotidian lives of more than 10 people very comfortably, yet he's the only one that stays here. There's a long, large hall, a gargantuan sitting room, four large bedrooms, front and rear porches, and finally, the replication of all these features a floor below (the house is a duplex). His father is more of a sage than a man. A septuagenarian sage. I am not surprised at how wise his son has turned out to be.

Last night, I observed many little wonders in this man, his house and his community. The house might look rusty but obviously, its occupant isn't. He has a physical appearance characteristic of the shades of a once well-built man. His photos on the wall in the hall spells his debonair personality. I'm quite sure he held girls by his spell in his prime. He has an undiminished firmness in everything about him. His voice is still thick and drab. His words? Full of an old man's wisdom. His gait is pleasant and straight, a big feat for a Septuagenarian. Domineering over these debonair features is the fact that he loves to read. He reads anything and everything he finds to read, because knowledge, according to him, shapes refined thoughts. He has a lot of books that border on many subjects. I even can see some great books on fine art here...

He farms- his current occupation. When he was young, he was in the judicial service, serving as a court clerk. One thing that still strikes me about him is his depth of knowledge about many fields. A true sage he is.

Whenever he talks, he makes  chronological references to the 60s and 70s. That, I opine, was the peak active period of his youthful working life. He narrates countless experiences that reflect his philosophy in life.

The pagan rants still vibrate the horizon. Dust fills the distance. Men sing and drum and dance and eat and drink. The women are out of sight, probably weaning babies or winning new ones from their hubbies or cursing their kids in the shaded backgrounds. Abbey's dad is cooking. I stand at the back porch. My eyes still take in the sights of this solitary town and its unspoken wonders and woes.

Ara 'deinde
03/01/15
Ogere Remo
#empireofbards

MAGIC INFESTED SMILE

Boluwatife.
Size: 10" by 12"
Medium: Black Bic™ pens
Paper: Chi-board.

This is my first drawing on chi board. I think it's quite cool though. I hope to do more on this paper type in future. It has one obvious advantage: It is very large and can accommodate large drawings.

This drawing was completed in 15 hours spanning through four days.

FAMED SOBRIQUET

I'm beginning to get afraid. Is it a crime to
have a unique and easily recallable name? I
walk innocently along roads in school and in
my locality and I hear my name intermittently.

"Ara, how are you", A asks. I can't remember
meeting or seeing him before. Nonetheless, I
reply "I'm fine" and a conversation ensues.

"Hey, Ara. Wetin dey now", B quizzes. I probably
know him, but I don't know his name.

"Ara! Ara!", C calls from a distance. I don't
know him too. I walk over to him and greet
him. "Bros, good evening."
"Oga Ara, good evening", D greets in the
MANCOT bus. I've never seen her before too. I
try to make up conjectures in my head as
regards her identity, but futility takes its toll.

These are aside the myriads that know me but i
don't know at all or those I know but I don't
know their names. Most times I feel very guilty.
I try to find out people's names and commit
them to memory, but heck, I'm no robot. I've
gotten several accusations from people I meet.
They say I don't greet them when I see them.
How can you greet someone you don't know
ehn? Haba!

It feels good to be widely known within the
school's walls though. It lends a feeling of self-
importance.

Ara 'deinde
Feb '15

#empireofbards

Stars are us.

Hi, stars. I stare at you and I think I can see
mars. There are the several flickers that scare
away the dark- joyful, passionate and bold,
sparkling flickers. Some stars even have the
shape of flowers.

Hello, air. The breeze my skin doth smear. The
lover's silent sounds my ears hear, and I can't
help but wish she were here. Here with me.
Here to breathe. Breathe to live and let
depression and dirty dirges leave.

Hey dear. Haven't you learnt enough how much
I care? Does living in love have to cost an arm
and a leg? Do I have to pluck out my eyes and
lend you to see how much I love you?
I love you.

#empireofbards
Ara 'deinde
Feb '15

SILENT TOWNCRIER

When you prowl like a lion on the streets
Fainéants that prattle hide behind sheets
Over their heads hang a serene hush
As the hypnagogic fields suddenly become lush

Your whims are subtly inscrutable
Like seeing in deserts iced water tables
Your acts prove unpredictable
Who knows maybe you'll soon ride a tiger into a stable

Won't you make the macerator mad
Or cause the cursing critter to cry
Spare the young and innocent lad
And the old raconteur who shouldn't yet die hard

Death carries with it the dagger of suddenness
It decimates amidst concealed sullenness
Nonetheless, we are yet akin
To one with incorruptible skin.

Ara 'deinde
14:07, 12/02/15
#empireofbards

NB. Photo credit: wallpaper-kid.com

I'LL TELL MY STORY

So I finally decide to stall these wheels of stagnant flows. There are those times you have to tell yourself your story, times when you should lip-sync to your own song, times when only you can be your own muse.

I almost went bananas when my fingers fainagued for so long- shades and strokes got spontaneously replaced by strums and silence. The soul's silence. I couldn't speak because I didn't speak about damn too much. When words and wisdom finally chooses to flow, the knack of nature for expression makes my offal ache. I've been too silent that I probably have gone dumb, an inertial ill.

Everyone's got experiences. We can tell our stories the uncensored way they are, the way we view the world, the way we think and act. No one's against such. I'll be happy if I tell my story without bowdlerization of any sorts. If I can't tell you how I'm structured, no biography can.

Ara 'deinde 
#empireofbards

Reticence

Till we grow weary...

At the time of our crescendo, the air around us
is filled with charges of euphoria, but chagrin
seems to set in after a while. The nadir seems
so close to the zenith in most cases, leading to
tragic falls in morale of the spent mountaineer
who ends up feeling mutineered shortly after
his ascension to the summit.

I'm not talking about dysphoria resulting from
lack of achievement, I'm referring to that as a
result of lack of fulfillment. We reach the top of
the academic, economic or professional ladder,
and alongside the short-termed feeling of
achievement, we also feel like we say hello and
wave goodbye to a happy life instantaneously.

What I'm trying to picture might seem bizarre or
even profane, but you and I know it does
happen. There's a thin, blurred line demarcating
fulfillment and success. You can be a success
without being fulfilled, but what's more
important? Fancy an igloo in the desert, or
nicely engineered ships plying city roads.
Square pegs in round holes, right? That depicts
life without fulfillment.
As an afterthought, I have the delight of my
reserve. I find the finesse of life embedded in a
reserved lifestyle. I'm sure you're wondering
what my conclusion has to do with the premise
I raised. Everything. In a taciturn state, the
mind has an enormous capacity to think and
make clear decisions, so my opinion doesn't
mean I loathe the top. Why should I? It only
means I want to make calculated decisions
when I get there. To stay at the top, one needs
a cool head that won't give in to the top's
extremities.

Ara 'deinde

IF THE LORD LEFT ME A WILL...

From contemporary times, I have been
inevitably schooled in the light of parenting
that there is an omnipresent father who resides
in heaven and accedes to my constant
development in life. His is a love even the
heavens find tactful to explain. I grew up with
my one foot in mud and the other in a pool of
purge. Even then had the consciousness of His
greatness been etched in my then mindless
heart. I didn't love God or didn't love Him
enough, but in place of the reprisal I expected,
He showed me unconditional and undiluted
love. He simply had a complex penchant for
blessing people, and that didn't exclude fags
like me that deserved exorcism.
Jeremiah 29:11 says it all. He's always had big
plans for my life, a big picture had He in mind,
but I was too mindless and eyeless. I couldn't
see much of His love, extravagant in bearing.
It's more than what I can quantify in literal
terms, because it's something even beyond the
comprehension of the supernatural. That great
love comes to bear in His disposition towards
His children. He says we are the apple of His
eyes. "Isreal have I loved, Esau have I hated",
said He. Don't forget in a hurry that we are
descendants of Israel (spiritually, at the least).

I felt hurt and very distraught when I ruminated
over thoughts of all of God's promises, and of
course, the consciousness of His nature of love
vis-a-vis my retinue of regrets and constant
woes. These weren't the things I expected to
behold, afterall God isn't a man that He should
lie. God said I'm treasured, but deep down, I
felt like an overused piece of rag. He said I'm
free because I know the truth, but I rather felt
still in chains. Wasn't He the one that claimed
He would supply all my needs according to His
riches in glory? Why then did I feel like a
church rat with attenuated fur, running through
life's dark crevices?
His nature and promises just didn't
comensurate with my ill fate. I just couldn't
comprehend why even if I felt I was on the
godly, goodly track, I still felt like a piece of
crap. I had to search the Scriptures for solace.
I stumbled on John 6:27. It is only through
Jesus Christ our life could have fruitful
meaning. Moreover, Jesus said "I am the way,
the truth and life. No one goes to the father
but through me". There! It dawned on me I had
been going behind Jesus' back to try to obtain
God's blessings.

I liken it to having in our possession a will
endorsed by a rich man, with us as the major
beneficiaries. I obviously need a lawyer, or
better put, a solicitor to help me claim my
inheritance, if not, external dissenters and
aggrieved people will be against me. The devil
and his cohorts are the aggrieved here. Christ
is the lawyer and solicitor who argues my case
before a grand judge, God. Jesus paid the
ultimate price for whatever blessing we might
be requesting from God. He even paid more
than the value of all we can ever need. All we
have to do is just go through Him and not
attempt a short circuit. To receive the promise
of the lord, we need someone who can fight for
us and serve as a mediator between God and
us.

Self righteousness is greatly insufficient to
bridge our divide with the sovereign lord. If the
lord left me a will, which He did, I need Jesus
to claim my inheritance.

Ara 'deinde

Dilemma of a nocturnal artist

I've been at this "night class" drawing. Several people walk up to my
table to admire my ongoing work, but their approaches differ, in very
amusing ways.

A comes, peers hard at me, then at the work, then at me again. "You be
wizard, baba", he exclaims. "How una dey use biro dey paint?"

B is a lady. She looks at the work in utter disbelief and before she
passes her remark, she takes the pen out of my finger's faint grasp and
stares pointedly at it like it's a mystical object. "Like seriously, is this a
normal biro?", she asks, still dazed.

C comes by too (and there are several pure clones of this C guy tonight)
and asks, "abeg bros, shey na you dey draw this thing?"
"Yes", I tell him.
"Like, shey na biro you take do everything and you sure say na you dey
draw am?"
Now that makes me feel slighted, but what can I do?

Worse still, D drools to my table and says "guy, you print this thing?"
You go fear questions fa. FUNAABites can really bite harder than Suarez
sometimes o.

Ara 'deinde
#empireofbards
Feb '15.

FACEBOOK

I take a break from my nocturnal drawing, and
here's where I spend my 10 or 15 minute
leisure. I observe the posts and pictures. Some
people just don't change. They just can't.

There are the men's ladies that post flawless
pictures, you could swear they never slept
without electricity or they never did anything
involving drudgery since their birth. Their
pouted pictures ganer hundreds of likes from
toasters and admirers alike. Hmph!

There are the ever garrulous and braggart
fellows that simply have the online commission
to make noise. They say so much but have so
little to relay. They, in their minds' eye, are the
only wise and wild ones.

Then there are the "online underachievers",
those little crop of people that actually say
things that matter in many positive ways, but
the target audience is always targeting "hotter"
sources of info. These underachievers hardly
get credit for the truth they administer (well, we
hate the truth shaa).

Facebook is really a book of diverse faces.

Ara 'deinde
February '15