The Writer’s Pen

GOD The undefinable definition of all things. GOD The undeniable designer of the Heaven and Earth. The earth is His footstool; The Heavens, His throneroom. Enthroned in majesty, No room is room enough for Him. The sky is His canvas; The rainbow, His palette; The clouds, His animated drawings. Animals are a show of His prowess; His powers are un-phantomable. He prepares food for beasts in the field. No pans or plates, Yet they’re fed fine like kings. Have you seen the butterfly? A flying wonder, Splashed with vibrant colors Like a carnival in procession. GOD! The one who numbers the innumerable. ‘Cause how are the strands of my hair numbered? Why does every flower have an aroma Like a unique blend of perfumes, Piercing the nostrils, Soothing the noisy heart. Omo! Even the Big Bang theory must agree someone made the bang bang. ‘Cause even banger no dey bang on e own. So no yarn me stories that make no sense. Make it make sense, That out of nonsense Came man with such sense That Earth and...

Weakened fists, Pleading feet. I slumped into my chair’s wide open arms, Soaking in its warmth, Its cool frame absorbing the stress of today. The day had been some feat, And although it’s time to feast, My lips are too fatigued to eat. So I close my eyes, I lock my ears. Lights out. Noise out. I shut the world out. Then my tongue danced to utter a love letter to my God; The ritual I’ll never miss: A little commune, A little intimacy, A little singing of my heart to Him, And I slipped into the sleep He gives. My dreams welcomed me home.

I heard there was a challenge So I pulled my sword Clutched it between my fingers Like the warrior I was. I ran through troops of thoughts Slashing the lines and curves Stabbing the dots for pause I warred with precision and speed. Each day, I drew the battle line It was me versus a theme And I ensured blood flowed Blood blue like the seas A reflection of my world Carved by tool The sword of my right hand. Oh, not one day went by Not one day I didn’t war to finish And on this day, the war will end. I return with a victor’s strut And a ton of spoils: Poems posed for a show Prose praised for its grace And a new feeling I never knew. Now, I am too hungry for stories And my sword too hungry to spill its ink To tell my tales The tales of God, The Writer. My name: The Writer’s pen.

He hit her today like before, but unlike before, today went south. She slammed her fist into his face like Muhammed Ali, and before he could digest the punch, she aimed for his belly and delivered the blow that stole his breath. He crouched, then rose, red-eyed, ready to charge like a vexed bull. But she pulled her feet back and flung them into the air whoop they landed between his legs. He stood still, mouth wide, eyes open, like a paused scene but this movie just began. Tearing his shirt, she hit again and again, her fists landing like the pestle for pounded yam and his tummy was the yam. But just when she was about to stuff sand into his mouth as the final show of victory, someone slapped her from behind. She jumped off him, landing on her room floor. That was the day she knew she was mighty in dreams.

My heart rages like the ocean— yet my tongue is stagnant water. My eye speaks while my lip just sees. Don’t judge me, ’cause even I want this gate flung open. I wish I could spill the words I swallowed, pain heavy like a dry, hard yam. I wish they’d burst out like dams, sparks flying, striking them dead. But then I remember: I’d be a murderer if those words ever escaped. The guns in my thoughts already cocked to kill. So I guard my tongue— and trust the Lord to fight this war for me.