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Showing posts from February, 2012

It's my day

Just because I don't feel older or don't really want to celebrate today doesn't mean I do not know understand what it means. Just because there has been a bump in my journey doesn't mean I wouldn't celebrate how far I've come. Just because I've been so busy in the past few weeks that my head constantly spins doesn't mean I shall not take a few minutes to show myself some love. Don't ask me my age, where I am, or what's happening to me. Today, I shall write myself a damn good poem that's going get published someday. And when people ask why, I shall say "because it was my day, and I had a few hours break from a hectic schedule." Tonight, I shall be in poetry class. I shall have the fun of my life critiquing colleagues who do not see every critique as hatred, but a step to get better. I shall return home and prepare for my presentation tomorrow. Until then, I wish myself a happy +1.


By Atilola Olubela
At the crack of her dawn,
she took pride in swings of Joys,
At her sweeping power of freedom:
A relief of characteristic Fragility.

Months bled into years.
The sun shone.
Leaving reflections of hope; 
Laced with grandiose illusions.

Legend of the Tarot Man

Written by Oyewande Alimi. Sirens blaring on a warm September noon, a familiar sound to the workers and visitors at St. Patrick's Hospital, Port Harcourt. Jacopo Harut Visconti walked through the corridors of the renowned hospital, pacing around restlessly. He certainly looked out of place, a young nurse hurried past him. Turning abruptly, she studied him and rushed off. He was pretty sure she thought he was insane. It was over 40`c with the blazing Port Harcourt sun. He was clad in a beige trench coat, black turtle neck top walking in awkward manner with his yellow wellington boots.

Dec 1, 1998 VII

Continued from Dec 1, 1998 VI
Today is going to be different. It seems like it is just yesterday that I stood in this very room for this very reason. I pull the left collar leaf of my shirt to my lips with my right hand, stalling close to my lips so as to not get my very light pink lipstick on it. I let go. I rest my index finger on my lips as I look at the judge’s seat, not seeing it. I move my back of my hand across my lips, not caring much for lipstick smearing. I bite my lower lips, snapping my finger gently.