Olubunmi Fatoba

What I need,  what you need, what we need is a mystic path of deceits. What to do is to switch your hand, let the gun meet your eyes let it configure you,  arouse your sense and create an inner tense. Let it take you  on an unplanned trip, to unlock locks, to retake a path, to open an opening, of all from the vibrant pin to that ocean of thrash.

Springs of desire burning  in a well. The days trail in rage like a sudden climax playing the game of puzzle in a veil of confusion with arrows of unanswered questions  like, Am I living in a dream? Or the reality of a dream? This space is cloudy, Quest that lived from papa to his offspring’s offspring It came before time passed time surpassed time like a troubled rupture And, Again, Endlessly The quest trails in a circle.

The solitude amidst the diaspora of a disarrayed sect to send torrents of unrelieved relief. Actually, this ought to be a simple story, of a society, of the people in it, of their lifestyle, of happiness, of sorrow, of beliefs, of wants and desires, of pain, of beauty, of escapades, of attainment, of all the composite quest of beings. But this is how the story will turn, like a kite, it would fly and live above the curtains of the soul. It will coil and attract like the lily, like a ballot, it will be a sudden sight, that arrest the eyes, not only that, it would emerge as hills of reality. embedded with undiluted truth. Not as assumption, rather, it will be bathed with unpredictable rawness of words and opposite, desired situation and shifts, of syntax and semantics, of painting and needling, of relic and now, of here and there. Suddenly, like a splash, we would emerge from the shell to uncover the lock on our faces and marvel at the moments spent in societal clone. Society, the fa