A Bad boy meeting a Bad girl
In the Village Square enquired,
Do you know any good babe?
Am I not okay enough for you?
The latter replied with a query –
As is the wont of most Nigerians.
The Bad boy, after sizing her up,
Calmly responded, that’d be incest;
We have the same surname.
Once upon a time,
The Devil, to occasion
A wrangle between bosom
Buddies, sewed an Abeti Aja cap
And furiously cycled betwixt them
As they chatted happily along the road.
The first cussed and queried,
Is this rider beside himself
That he rode furiously so,
With his skewed black cap?
Thereupon the other replied,
It’s not black, but crimson-red.
And thus the two friends bickered
Till the Sun went it’s setting way.
One got himself a broken nose,
The other a dislocated limb,
While the devil fondled
His di-colorous cap.
Three dogs met in the village square,
Two were best of friends, estranged;
The third a trained unbiased arbitrator.
Feeling his task of reconciliation
Was done, the arbitrator called for
A hug and a pawshake to seal the deal.
To reward the two for a swell job,
He threw them a big bone to share;
And that was the last peace he brokered.
Hope thinks all will be well,
But often goes to bed to rest;
Faith hopes that all will be well
But goes behind to try its best.
If you lose a lover,
You may find another;
But if you love a loser,
It’s a different matter.
A lost lover could be replaced,
But losers love to hold their place.
I once wondered why dead fish float,
And the live ones often remain below –
For it struck me as ironic that the dead,
Which are weightier by nature should float.
So I thought it the norm that living things
Should remain below, while the nonliving
Float like jetsam atop the water bodies.
But then I thought of stones and sands,
Which sink when thrown in the waters;
So I concluded that it is not the weight
That keeps the dead fish afloat but the will;
For the living can go where it pleases but
The dead remains at nature’s pleasures.
Modern-day kettles and pots,
Enjoying the luxury of cooking gas,
Would sure be at sixes and sevens
Whenever they hear the idiom:
“…Pot calling kettle black.”
You may miss the game,
If you take long to aim.
And if you rush and miss,
You may console yourself
That nothing is yet amiss-
For there is as many fish
As ever came outta the sea.
Since the communal blueprint
Isn’t perspicuous to the common man,
He sets about building his own press;
He perspires like Iya Basira’s black goat –
Now, all handkerchiefs are China-made –
And combined with his wife’s tears,
The atmosphere’s redolence reminds
Of the valley of Lot’s wife’s remains.
You saw me taking cover
From the rain under the yew;
You rushed in and re-emerged –
With a brolly in your left hand,
And a steamy cup in your right.
Then you led me in like a queen,
And ushered me to a cosy chair;
When you darted into your room
Like lightning, my heart skipped-
I remembered stories of long ago:
What if he returns with a pistol,
I chided myself in an interrobang?!
You came out armed with a blanket,
And my lips parted in a broad smile
And my eyelids released a prisoner.
The rains ceased, and you led me out,
A broad smile caressing your face
Like a lucky English peasant who
Was opportune to entertain his queen.
This is 21st century! Who does that?