Happy New Year

Half of life is spent making plans, which like
Ads, stand on boards in the head, down on
Paper. For sanity’s sake, let’s make one single
Plan, to put away all that was planned in the old
Year: hopeless resolutions, lifeless plots, ambitious schemes.

Now, we are at liberty to live, really do, this and
Every tock and tick, not bogged down or ruled or
Worn out by relentless concocting, brewing, hatching, of the

Year; but this one plan dies, its
End mid night (plus some), when
All the past and its many plans
Rears its head once more.


there is something in the air

there is something in the air.
is it frankincense or myrrh?
the many hints of merry
and odds and ends that merely
flit by? mute in awe’s the mare,
the wind hums, trees sing out their berries.
there is something in the air,
of gold, frankincense, and myrrh:
the star of our saviour’s birth,
a child’s whimper, hope we yearn.
where? it is near. it is here.
it might as well be the air!
there is something in the air.


an ode to 30

never defined anyone,
temporary shelter that it is
through the decades, still I am

my lamppost through the 20s,
now a black hole to the unknown.
you crept up with fear, mine, of being

with my dreams still locked,
my hands unheld, or so I thought
till I got to be

long birthdays where I sulked,
re-wrote and replayed scripts (in my head)
of drama, suspense, and thrills.


years it took
to find my hands held
and a dream waiting to be unveiled.

cheers to the past 30! welcome to those new 30s.

ọkọ ìyàwó jídé

for Ọpẹ́

where is our ọkọ ìyàwó?

the bride has been beside herself
with expectation and a pout
straightening her ivory laces
again, pondering, on end,

“where is the ọkọ ìyàwó?”

the enigmatic ọkọ ìyàwó.
or so the bride swears:
plying us with tales
of his playful wit
following spectacular shows
of bravery and softness. but,

where is this ọkọ ìyàwó?

the bride has made a stew
of green vegetables, fierce red
crayfishes, a number of peppered
African Giant snails, dices of plush
cowhide, and kind chunks of cattle tripe
with yam pounded with fierce gentleness,
not waiting for the gifts of live goat and palm oil,
the tubers of yam that her in-laws will bring. so,

where is her ọkọ ìyàwó?

do i hear drums?
aren’t those excited cries
of “Ekáàbọ̀,
ṣé dáadáa lẹ dé,
a tí ń retí yín”
welcoming guests?
hmm, ọkọ ìyàwó jídé
(the cock’s crow bears witness!)
to take our bride at last.