We yearned and yawned for change;
And the heavens heard.
But somewhere along the way,
The Prince of Persia intervened,
And exchanged the change for chains:
We carried it, unwrapped, delicately,
Till it became too cumbersome
For a Serendipitous bestowal;
So we removed the metal foil
And then we saw the mischief.
Daddy, daddy, daddy!
I think the under of my tongue is leaking!
You need to call the doctor!
Baby, baby, baby?
Don’t be silly, you’re only salivating.
There’s nothing to worry about.
But mummy isn’t cooking daddy,
So why would I be salivating?
It jetted out in a stream as I yawned!
Do you mean to say my cooking is bad,
Don’t you devour my food voraciously,
Whenever mummy isn’t around?
That’s only when I’m starving,
And mummy is not around, daddy –
And it’s mostly noodles and egg.
Lord have mercy! What an ingrate!
Anyways, you were only gleeting,
You may proceed with your home work.
“Does hard work really pay”?
Asked the donkey of the horse,
“For I labour ten times harder,
But you get all the ribbons.”
“Hard work does pay, my friend,
Replied the haughty horse,
But smart work pays more,
For the smart cut the cheque.”
The whole earth is composed of water,
Declared the fish with a near-scientific
Exactitude, as it swam to and fro in the river.
But the fisherman would have him learn
The hard way, the result of his stark ignorance,
By inviting him to have a taste of dry land.
So the fisherman placed him in a bowl,
Filled to the brim with water and said,
Now my friend, you are in a bowl of water:
Then the fish laughed and laughed and laughed,
Didn’t I tell you the earth is made of water?
Even your own bowl bears witness of the fact!
Then the fisherman threw him to the ground,
Sprinkling water every now and then to keep
The errant fish alive to enable the former gloat.
Now your back is to the ground, does it feel like water?
The fish replied, even my riverbed is made of sand,
When will you tire of your foolishness, teacher?
The fisherman lit a bonfire and dropped the fish,
The latter moaned softly, now you may retire,
Your foolishness has brought you to hell-fire.
He is not given to purloining,
He only adds zeros here and there,
Now and then, to round the figures
And also fill his belly to the brim,
For he is a pious man.
If you chance upon him in the mart
Be assured your goods are safe,
For he pays for whatever he picks –
But as his Baban riga sways,
It may hook a smoked fish,
For he is a pious man.
He is the symbol of fidelity –
He frowns at promiscuity;
But every night he prowls the brothel –
Come on, it’s not what you think!
He only inhales the air to relish
The pungent smell of adultery,
For he is a pious man.
Two young Iguana lads stormed the yard
Yelling atop their voice enough to rouse the dead;
The mother Iguana discarded her apron
And rushed thitherward to underseek the cause;
Thereupon the lads relayed their news –
The Boa, mummy, the Boa is born again!
The mother Iguana laughed uproariously,
And told her young, the Boa has only molted;
But the youngsters would have none of it,
For in their mother they see a diehard cynic.
So they made a mentor of the molten Boa,
Took hunting lessons – though they feed on grass;
The mother Iguana cried herself hoarse,
But the lads insist the Boa would harm them not:
Isn’t he of the same Kingdom, phylum and class?
And the third day they rested in the bosom of the Boa.
Love is an object in motion,
Which like every object in transit,
Keeps on moving till it hits it’s target
Or loses velocity; but unlike other objects,
Even when it does hit it’s target, it mocks
The law of motion by moving on and on and on;
Love is a living thing; it moves, breathes and feeds,
But unlike many other living things, love is undying;
It only metamorphose from one state to another.
The Lord is my Barber,
I’ll pay no barber a dime;
He maketh my head a desert
That I might not lack fresh air.
Even though I devour a bottle
Or bath with Virgin hair oil,
My hair level remains;
For He is my barber.
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.
