Olubunmi Fatoba

I woke up today with our memories staring and smiling, I stared and smiled back. 

  It was yesterday I saw a lad; he couldn’t have seen two moons; he was moaning in a solitude disposition. His shoulders bore a luggage of everyone’s bigotness and desires. His eyes, distant, void of blood and soul. The same eyes glowed in abandoned state of unseen perception. His wit halted the roaming and roading of the objects around him, including beings and species and all and the shadowed serenity he exposed. I made an attempt to either help or withdraw, again, as if in a cage, he lurked amorously to a cyclic state.  His state like a mirror exposed us to us, the life we live, the life of another.

Dear you, it's a new year.  Live. Glow. Create springs. Flaunt the springs. Flaunt you. Flaunt your prowess. For these days are the future you envisioned.

Have you ever been on a cyclic cycling of endless uncertainties? Of how oneself turned absurdity to self, you keep searching for the core, but nothing to grasp. You highlighted all the options, yet, you couldn’t pick one, because all seems to be like that mysterious cake. Mares, whether day or night, are likeable to torment, stir and enlighten. In a misty world of smiling harmattan and pleasing cold. Words clove in a faraway diaspora, of a cliché routine., fear of how, not even why nor when. But of how to sweep the world, make it bare and mere embark on the ‘voyage’ to strike the strikers, the world on your shoulder and thine in yours and you live to sweep the world that covers you with its flashing veil.      

 For writing, I have an unending eager to dance to your tune, take me and walk with me. May we always remember, may we not forget our prime and its destination.

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 throu

 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 vague

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