Olubunmi Fatoba

Are we scared to talk about what we live with and what many desires? Can we lay a distinct monument for this magnanimous creature? Of how it overrides and keeps overriding and threw one’s to an unpleasant realm. Have you seen the umbrella halt the drops from sweeping off the feet? Is it true that the heart has home or is it a mere mirage to appease desire? And what is denial in the midst of explosive desires? The littluns live to embrace the remains of a yesterday fog. The ancient embrace the raiment from a relic. A faraway friend’s fantasy lurks for a rebirth, tossed in an ocean of realities, web of confusion, enjoying the fragrance of unpleasant sweetness, laid with fearful options and it toils in the cyclic of bouncing memories that you chased.                  

  The will to live and adjust to demands is like an endless quivering adventure. Man, at a point will have to choose the best daffodils from the unending glows of flawless daffodils. To have gut is quite relative to the species involved. Perhaps, having gut is to face, caress and hug the appealing thorns. To another, buy gut, put it on like a ‘Danshiki’, let it speak falsehood, in that falsehood, you knew it would produce tons of victories, you like it and it is okay for you. Then to another, ‘let us build a home of gut, let us embark on the dare journey’, and it goes on like a train in an ocean hovering and hovering till dawn. Truth is to take a stand and walk in the line, that uncertain lines filled with numerous uncertainties. Life lurking looks lifted you to a strange shift. Fear is being scared to accept the truth. The human mind is a composite conflict for endless strings. Perhaps, in this writing, there is a disjointed subject matter, however, to live is to see t...

 A relief to some is an obsession to another. To the artist and the creative, his voice, her voice lies in those endless creations.  The creations, although clothed unanimously, but they have souls. Anything that relates and can see into the heart, gratifies some and pierces the others with a hidden effect is a worthy magnanimous figure. To such, we esteem. To such, we allow to live  with us by creating avenues for it to lead others, to heal, expose, enlighten. Such will sustain art, such will place literature to serve its roles to the society and humanity, such will prune the craft and create a living atmosphere for like mind. To these voices, to these creations that crave for a resonance, may they have it, may we know their essence and may they grow with us.

  What is your pain? Is it when you hit a part on something or your tooth beckons for a repair? Is pain something hidden in the pillars of the heart or an open sore? Perhaps, is it how you feel when you see the homeless or your reaction to that clown cloned by his own ignorance? Will you feel a sting when a stranger suddenly strangles you for utilizing your left hand or when your eyes envy you? How about memories that end at the back of the mirror or the luxury of a missing coin? Or about a mischievous theory that locked us home for an endless time and the uncertainty of living that it births? Did you hear about Kina who ended herself because of faraway cares or  about Enitan, who, to breathe well killed his family? Is it how an addiction enchants and cunningly lures you till it dives and dines into your veins? How about life shifts and circles, how do you behold that?

Do you live in the hands of another? or in yours? or theirs? Are you fixed in a cloud? or competing with the rain and birds? are you unveiled yet? or locked in a mystery of endless uncertainty? do you believe in trial or chance? how do you react to the sparkling life in the tiny rainbow? will you live or just exist? will you come or depart with the shade? Do you remember the 'boy on a swing? Is he still a victim of apartheid or there's no longer something like such? how about here?  are there still occurrence of tribalism, riot, unprotected protest? is democracy living by its name? To shady hearts, how do we let the grains grow again? and to the future,  is this you that is now?

Literature is beyond society, but preservation of history for the depiction of the present and the reservation for tomorrow. It is a view to the world, things that pre-existed some, before some and would outlive some. Apparently, human is among the ‘some’. However, the extension of influence is a matter of unknown cooperate dependency.  Influence, The anticipated autonomy of lined cravings in a clichéd society. ‘To whom much is given, much is expected’. In a recent conversation with a pal, we widely talked about the effect of influence, what pre-existed humanity. History is what made us, Influence was presented to us from birth, a life that chose us before we could choose which we would prefer, like a nutmeg, it becomes a reminder, a consciousness to our existence and a limitation to following another path. Then, we live in lines of daymares and more mares. We lied to ourselves. Our minds became an alien, we can’t compound what we need, the definition is faraway. Everything seems v...

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...

    How do we love in flames? How do we make love when we are caged in the thorns of yesterday's fog? How do we live without love? The way providence twists at the expense of moments made in the glory of "carpedium". All lost love has a similar story, of how hell and heaven were promised, of how you felt like the most desired object in the world, of how you let yourself fly in bare expressions. Can you remember the serenity of having a soul that rightly accords you all? Like the monarchy, you are showered in repetitive tenderness and how you only see the world as the object, nothing else thrills you, not even your family. You lived in that world full of just the two of you, full of the definition of love you knew, full of the present, full of tense romantic adventures. You told yourself, this is life, this is how to live. The day you stumbled on storms, you fought it together and you felt the relief of having someone supporting you and you thought you have arr...

Manley lives in a disarrayed ton of routines; he goes about wavering applauses to the same sect that thrusted him. Where do we go when we die? A question that reigns in his mind with no certainty of getting a quick reply.  However, he works with a revelated transiency of life.  Like flipped pages lying like the horse in that green towel, he shunned away the closure of the solitude breeze and attempted to put on a paragon of metaphors.  Living life is never a satisfied one, rather, a pile of thorns, with a distance hatred towards sustaining clinched expectations. Why do we live like this here?  Manley with his pours of questions about existing would never halt his quests. His life is like a train that only breathes in a track, only, extolling the normalized life cycle, of how-to breath, of how to do and get this at a particular time, of presented responsibilities, even when to pass away. He becomes a victim of passing days created from the carcass of yesterday's choic...

My friend told me, "Bloom, Keep this blog like a diary, see it like a journey towards self improvement".  The difference here is the world would get to read this diary. Art is from within, also creativity, attimes, just allow you fly and watch. "to be the me in me is this voice"

I ‘pate to lift the weight in my whole its, comical how steadily we outgrown cloth clothed us from onset maybe circumstances environment overtly, sedately and seductively create a-self from self.      

when i die let my name live let my lines fly beyond eons. let me be remembered.   when i die, pass me across ages tell them how i lived, how i hugged pains alone in my chambers, how i prayed for the return of akanni, how i birthed words, how art held me.   when i die let me be known for something whether for poetry or christology, let my life not be in vain.    when i die take no pain take the gain in my tracks and raise another of me.   when i die. let my lines pass eons like achebe, like asakel let my poetry grow in your hearts.       

In a second,  all could turn. The process of becoming appears in stages, unplanned like a fog, misty creature.   Drowned in self-melancholic cut from the norm in a second,  the world changed, I transformed, The pandemic  ushered our shifts.   The old tales of desire of fantasy, of simplicity   and pureness birthed from the game of puzzle   To the object that left home to thorns, has also created hills of mares in that same home   May we breathe in our desire, may this era fulfill our becoming, may we find a pleasant object.   On a day of self and meditations, I discover   the totality of a long starvation,  a  foreshadow of uncertain tomorrow,  t he mind in unending caves of resolution.