• Tumisi

    Forgive Me Dear Blogging Counsellors, I Don’t Have a Niche

    I once loved being called a blogger. Like “singer”, “songwriter”, and “poet”, “blogger” is a name I’d wanted etched on my personality. Blogging seemed like a forte, like some shield against the insults society hauls at unemployed graduates. The Facebook profiles of some friends are worth considering. Somehow, these job seekers get “gainfully” employed as CEOs of anything.com. While some people may consider this a sham, I do think otherwise. “Blogger” is hope- a new way of advancing an already stagnant life. The first set of blogs I read were online diaries. I stumbled into them during my penultimate year in the university. I was intrigued by how much people…

  • Tumisi

    THE LOVE THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING

    You are a lion. Your folks told you so. They did when they discovered your strengths, and the zeal with which you maximise them. They observe, as you with finesse devour obstacles- a feat cowards despise. They are proud of you, of all that you represent. As your uniqueness glistens in their eyes, they fall deeper in love with you. What they didn’t realise however, is that you do not share their sentiments. In your eyes, everything is an illusion. Your strengths. Zeal. Finesse. Uniqueness. . . Everything. You don’t feel like a lion. You feel like a chicken. You want to scream this into their consciousness. But your folks…

  • Tumisi

    POETICADO: AN OFFSPRING OF SELFLESSNESS

    Towards the end of our national service last year, my friend, Unoma Akiti, called to seek ideas about a poetry gig brewing in her head. She wanted to organize a spoken word event which would infuse other aspects of art and literature. She kept repeating the word, “Poeticado”, a portmanteau of poetry and…. avocado, I guess. I listened patiently as she rattled excitedly about it. When she was done however, I was a bit startled.     I know my friend, the stuffs she’s capable of. I understand her strong drive for excellence and her passion for impacting lives with all of her being. I do not doubt her event…

  • Poetry

    Laraba

    Laraba, She that was born On a Wednesday, What will you do, When the fires starts to burn, When the harmattan wind Blows the hot coal Into a raging bushfire? I wish fires were obedient But they don’t heed to mother’s counsel They don’t remember resolutions Even when you mean it. So what will you do pretty one, When your belly churns and turns Leaving you on the floor Like you had a seizure, A lightning of passion Setting your body aflame?   Tell me, what will you do? Will you put a bible over your heart and thighs, Hoping it will stop his stares And unholy caresses? Maybe you…