Leaving & Cleaving

Leaving the world and everything it has to offer while cleaving to the Word and

Everything He has to offer is the culture of being transformed.

A simultaneous spiritual exercise for those who have accepted Christ’s proposal

Verily shall a man leave his father and mother, cleave to his wife and become one

I in Christ and Christ in me.

No compromise, no lukewarmness till Christ is thoroughly

Glorified even through our mortal man.

 

 

 

Accepting and allowing the Truth of God displace the lies we’ve been fed

Now that’s how we leave and cleave.

Devoted bride of Christ, no longer dabbling in harlotry with the world.

 

 

 

Conformed or transformed?

Lusting after the world or enjoying the love of Christ expressly made available?

Expect our Husband to come searching for his betrothed one day,

A shame it will be if a cleaving bride He could not find

Vanity upon vanity, all is vanity! Let’s step out of darkness

Into God’s marvelous Light,

Nearer to Life and far from death, nearer to Life and far from death. A

Godlike generation actively fighting Godlessness and the ‘good’ that isn’t God.

 

                                              ©  O.M

P U R P L E

Purple skies and yellow lights,

Peaceful nights and sweet meat pies.

Vanilla and elderberry fill the air,

Mr Shobande’s favourite combination of scent.

Disappears one minute and fills the next.

Just. Like . Him.

 

Mrs Shobande storms into the room

Complaining of the heat from the candles.

I think it’s the memory of him she’s really angry at but okay

This cup of Lipton tea is too sweet.

She waltz to Lara George playing so softly from my phone as she makes her way to the kitchen.

The sweet smell of her ofada sauce no longer bangs on the door.

Celebrating its freedom, it wafts through the corridor to my nose and makes its home there.

Only for grumpy Mr Salivary Glands to demand damages in immediate satisfaction for being awoken too soon.

 

 

Purple flowers and brown clay,

Ade Shobande o ma ti dele and it’s been three hours.

Patriotism and service to his country is all he knows.

I’ll try his Airtel number first then his 0809ja for lyf.

I hope he is in no trouble, I did warn him about wearing his camouflage t-shirt in these hostile streets.

Ready to limp off that thought I hear the sound I’ve become accustomed to,
His Honda Accord coughing and coughing before dying at the turn of a key.

I hear the wings of worry flutter away and anger makes a splashy entrance into the sea of emotions in my heart.

Ade ti dele sugbon o ti yo!

Before I open the door I can smell the city’s night life all over him.

From the Gulder to the paraga and Ireti’s cheap perfume, Ew!

“Buy the naira to grow the naira” he shouts in my face and I want to slam the door in his.

This is his way of service and grand showcase of patriotism to his country.

 

 

Purple vessels and pink jojoba,

Ayo Shobande sits and settles as I weave her koroba.

She tells the usual tale of her grandfather, the Oba to her little brother and his body relaxes as sleep captures.

A soft breeze caresses my neck and arms,

Luring me to the realisation that my neighbours aren’t as royal, magical nor mysterious as they appear.

 

 

I walk over to my house with a bowl of ofada rice and sauce safely tucked under my arm

Leaving that house with a deeper appreciation for the colour purple.

Knowing that under close scrutiny, what is purple on the outside is just red and blue on the inside.

Very much like my neighbours, the Shobandes.

 

 

 

 

©  O.M

E y e s & L i e s

Is it true that your eyes tell a story?

Is it true that they hold the glory of your past?

Is it true that they display the shame of your yesterday?

Or do they just hide the lies yet untold?

Your love for her yet to unfold.

 

 

It was those same eyes that gave me joy to behold.

No wonder she finds delight in them too.

And boy do they shine for her, glisten and light up for her.

Now I’m left with blank spaces lacking capacity to love my galaxies.

How did we get here lover?

 

 

Maybe my eyes were bursting with so much colour and dreams that scared you.

So you chose black and white, brown and white.

Something calm, someone whose fire wasn’t wild.

Maybe my eyes witnessed your every flaw and still had much love for you and you felt undeserving.

Or maybe we never saw eye to eye to begin with.

 

 

Even though my eyes have cried tears for you.

Even though my eyes have been shut tight in prayer for you.

Even though my eyes have lost sight of the truth for you.

Even though my eyes tell the story of a lost lover.

Even though,

I want you to know that

These eyes will always behold you with your imperfections yet still love you.

These eyes will beautify your soul and shine for you.

These eyes will be waiting for you to come home.

                                                        ©    O.M

Dear Princess

Princess, pick up your crown.
It’s not meant for the dirt where it lies.
I know life will never stop trying to knock it down.
But there is so much beauty to admire when out of the ashes you rise.

Take a walk with me, let’s talk child.
There is this beast roaming about.
You might be familiar with it, however mild.
It eats you from the inside – out,
Whispering noisy nothingness into your ears that you mistake for truth.
While waging war on your sanity, dignity and identity.
It will be a prominent feature on the mixtape of your youth.
Nonetheless, listening to my voice is how you gain immunity.
Hear me now when I say
Your beauty is not defined by the number of boys asking for your number.
Nor by the comments beneath your pictures claiming you slay.
Now, there will be days when your strength would rather slumber,
Causing that ugly beast called insecurity to rear its head again.
Rest in me, I am the One who watches over you. I neither slumber nor sleep.
And when you think you can’t do without makeup, originally your beauty was never plain.
No child!
Know that your beauty is wild.

Princess, you are royalty
You are blessed and precious in my sight
You don’t need to beg for their loyalty
I want you to learn to depend on my might.

When you value you, they’ll catch on and value you
Most times when we converse, you ask…
King, where is my boo?
King, where is my prince? Why is finding him such a task?
Allow me to explain.
I have created princes but some of them have traded their crowns for snapbacks
Denied my freedom only to be bound by the lifestyle of heavy gold chains.
When I look at my supposed image, all I see is a mirror full of cracks.
Doesn’t mean I love them any less, my redeeming grace is made available.
Just know that the one I have chosen to cherish you is being refined,
And once he’s been bent, broken, shaken and made malleable;
Will your paths become aligned.
Listen now, your body is my temple.
Holy and sanctified. Purchased with an immeasurable price.
So stop giving it out as a free sample.
Just look to me, your friend and Creator
Your go to person and mediator.

Princess, there will be dark days.
Tainted with brokenness, hurt, rejection and pain.
Days where it will be so hard to sing my praise.
Keep calm, I will water your soul and send down rain.

Whether you’re chipped, cracked or shattered.
Failing, faltering or falling
You will matter, you matter and you have mattered.
My daughter, listen to my voice, I am calling.
I will piece you back together, part by part.
Let me in, I am your persistent lover.
Don’t shut me out, I am knocking on the door of your heart.
Please come to me, I am your shield and cover.
Dear one, tears are okay.
I hear them too.
Simply another way you pray,
But know that I always hear you.
Granted, you have trust issues,
But the many evils you could have avoided if you let me steer this boat,
And I’m not just talking about when to wear which shoes,
If you could just give me the liberty to gloat that your entire story I wrote.
Let me have the deciding vote.

Princess, can I tell you something?
For you,
This world has absolutely nothing
I am the eternity and satisfaction you seek and that is true.

You were created to shine.
So also that princess over there and the one right next to you.
Her beauty is divine.
Why not hold her hand, pull her up and be true.
Rather than spend time bashing another princess,
Polish her crown,
Don’t stress,
Help her blossom and don’t hold her down.
Once you accept me, my spirit will help you with these things.
If you would let Him, He will renew your mind so you may be transformed.
So you can fully recognise that nothing can separate you from my love, not even your endless sins
Or how bad or well you performed.
Love, joy, peace and kindness
My fruits you will demonstrate
Patience, goodness, faithfulness, self-control and goodness.
Lastly, remember it is never too late to amend.
I am your loving King and dear friend.

©   O.M


Isaiah 43
King James Version (KJV)

But now thus saith the Lord that created thee, O Jacob, and he that formed thee, O Israel, Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine.

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.

For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour: I gave Egypt for thy ransom, Ethiopia and Seba for thee.

Since thou wast precious in my sight, thou hast been honourable, and I have loved thee: therefore will I give men for thee, and people for thy life.

Fear not: for I am with thee: I will bring thy seed from the east, and gather thee from the west;

I CANNOT WRITE.

I’m sure if this backspace key could speak, it would say ‘Let me be.’
A bin in the corner of the room overflowing with crumpled paper, yes the typical image.
Mine is however on the left side of this desktop and in this new age, Microsoft calls this a page.
I cannot write and I think the problem is me.

My hands attempt to hold my head in place.
For fear that it will explode with all this unemployed creativity.
You can trace out the frustration on my face,
As I struggle to free myself from this poetic captivity.

I cannot write.
How apt that this is my natural response.
Now watch me reluctantly rhyme write with right.
Oh how I cannot write.

Sometimes it comes to me like rain, trickles in.
Sometimes like a ray of light, it shines through a crack.
Other times I’m found in total lack.
And writer’s block claims the win.

“It’s just a phase.”
“Look for inspiration.”
My ears are exhausted by such phrase.
Wait, maybe I’m afraid my writing is truly a product of a phase.

Oh doubt, not you again!
I watch you grab my artistic confidence and strangle it till it’s barely there.
Maybe with years these verses would be worth calling poetry,
Or maybe they’ll never make it out.

I cannot write.
And the reason is me.

©  O.M

images

My First Time

A lot of people look forward to their first time.
Well so did I.
Until such dreams were snatched from me in my prime.
His hands slowly creeping up my thigh.
Such innocence forcibly ripped away,
Four hands pinned me down.
They said it was the way I let my hips sway.
A white gown; clawed, tainted and thrust in the muddy brown.

My first time, the less painful memory was the puddle I had cried.
Raw, sore, hate seeping through every pore.
I can’t even wear white if I ever become a bride.
More, more, four, gore. Back pressed firmly on the floor.
One at a time, they sequentially stripped me of my dignity.
Vocabulary diminished to these recurring words: Stop, Please, Stop.
Their friction threatening to snap the bands that keep my sanity.
But my pleas seemed to inspire them to swap

.

Memories buried tend to evolve into monsters.
This boogeyman comes out to play each night I close my eyes.
These scars never heal, they’re more like swollen blisters.
Please take this pain away, Anyone? Heaven hear my sincere cries.
The clandestine truth, bound and padlocked.
This monster needs no parole.
My very bedrock remains rocked.
I cry theft, my soul they stole.

My story is told and gradually I watched it unfold.
To my Creator, and in His loving embrace I securely stand.
In Him, I rise from my defeated state as a sheep, to a lion- bold.
It might be difficult for you to understand,
Why it was to him I ran.
When initially I blamed Him for after all He was God.
Well, its because He has the master plan.
And in His love, I remain awed.

Background: I spent a lot of this session studying about rape and I just had to conceive something regarding that. I know how I feel about such an atrocity and I pray for anyone out there who has experienced this heinous crime and I hope you find comfort in God because His love can erase all traces left behind and He can heal all scars.

©   O.M

1-800-Can-You-Hear-Me

H-
Hel-
Hello?
Hello, can you hear me?

Can you hear me call for freedom from the bonds that cage my tongue?
I seek liberty like the air unconsciously entering and leaving your lung.
What excuse do I have for squeaking like a mouse when my roar can be heard from miles away?
People pet and domesticate my tenacity, like a poodle they command me to stay.

H-
Hel-
Hello?
Hello, can you hear me?

Can you hear me when the truth spills from my eyes?
And I hide it behind a wide smile, remember I am the master of disguise.
These brown circles reveal enigmas Einstein himself couldn’t figure out.
Be careful though, my gaze has a reputation for leaving in its wake a dreadful speech drought.

H-
Hel-
Hello?
Hello, can you hear me?

Can you hear me demand respect and dignity from the men that linger on the side-walks?
I think you should be very afraid of the one that never talks.
For you might laugh and look down at me from your position at the top of the ladder.
I know you’ll get mad when i begin to slowly rise,  save it. When I begin to pay your salary, then you can be madder.

H-
Hel-
Hello?
Hello, can you hear me?

Can you hear me beg you to stay after pushing you away?
Because I adore the roses that line my center table, a lovely bouquet.
Please be patient with me,
I’m still learning to love the parts of me that no one claps for Jeremy.

H-
Hel-
Hello?
Hello, can you hear me?

Can you hear me seek grace?
To discern those “friends” with masks yet to fall off their face.
Nothing is deadlier than a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Publicly smiling but secretly loathing.

H-
Hel-
Hello?
Hello,can you hear me?

Can you hear me when I become one with the placard that says “justice”?
Because it isn’t too much to ask, Hold up, I’m not asking for world peace.
Regardless of social stratification, choice of religion or skin pigmentation.
Discrimination and segregation isn’t something to boast of in this age and generation.

©  O.M

 

J A N E.

To you,
Her cup of tea.

Like her early morning tea, she let you in.
One sugar filled sip at a time.

Like her math assignment, you kept her up.
Wondering, calculating, yawning.

She thought her mind was made up from the beginning.
She thought she had it under control.

Like a predator, you started slowly.
Took your time to figure out the weak spots.
How she likes when you call her full name.
The way she loves when you ask her to stay.

Till time progressed and she couldn’t detach herself.
Merged.

You took up her morning and night.
Her noon and her evenings too.
Her smiles, her sighs, her eyes.
You were the reason behind that too.
Abandoned friends, dead conversations.
She left everything for you. Just focused.

I think the tower came tumbling down when she asked for clarity.
But all I got was that you hit her in the face with the friend tag.

Clamped her heart and towed it to the buddy zone.
So she ignored the buzzing of her phone.
She tried the happy tone.
Trust me, no one would have known.

Now I’m walking in while you’re walking out.
Left to take care of the tears that come after the pout.

She still can’t get you out , like a stubborn stain.
And I hope you never forget Jane.

I think she finally settled for her water.
Plain, tasteless and safe.

Love,
Her dear friend.

© O.M