NAME: Oloruntobi Oluwakayode
ADDRESS: Zango Area, Ilorin, Kwara State.
ABOUT ME: I am a legal practitioner, avid reader, and an occasional dabbler in the art of poetry. I was inclined to write during my university days through the influence of a senior colleague who in no small means also encouraged me. I am more of a narrative poet, and my inspiration comes from the happenings in my environment.
Once, by the noontide I happen to dash
past by Alabi’s bar.
An especial day with its hoary fog.
Iya said to get Maggi,
but not balsam.
Baba said to get The Tribune,
but not Punch.
O happy day to ride my keke.
Lately has Olowookere experienced the monsoon.
Houses, families lie wasted without reprieve.
Yet, along Adeta as I traipsed on, stood one.
A proud manor with its sturdy limbs.
Ash gray, as if to mock the milieu.
Regal, as if to defy the oft-told mansions of Elysia.
Slowly did I glide past, when
I espied a shadow by the postern gate.
Drifted past, lightly sweeping aside
the fallen leaves.
Yet, I walked in.
Took care to set aside my bike
by the timeworn iroko tree.
No prowler did my foray discern.
Indeed, when chance lifted my gaze,
a pearl did my eyes feast upon.
Clothed in flimsy gossamer, methinks
a goddess dwells in.
All tasks forgotten, she beckons at me.
By itself, the door ushered me in.
Without doubt, said I,
“Thou needst turn back”.
“Mayhap, this here is Madam Koi koi,
seeking my demise”.
Like the proverbial fly, I heeded
not mine voice.
Unhurriedly, I strolled in.
Here said I, no living souls inhabit,
for all was quiet like the boneyard.
Yet, I couldn’t shudder off
the Presence that by actions bid me in.
Bit by bit, I mounted the stairway.
Questioning my sanity, I strode on
with conviction of my handiness.
“This seems unending, I said.”
As if to belie my thoughts, my journey came at end,
For I stood before
this oaken door, unknowing of
what mysteries to suppose.
AND ADEWALE DIED…
Here, Adewale lies, lonely and forsaken.
In a dusky, desolate chamber.
voluntary walls of solitude
encircles his limp form.
Nature’s pure work.
by the insidious terrorist.
Observe the fevered brow.
The slowly dissipating wisp of energy.
See there, his face
a defeated visage of hopelessness.
It is late.
Don’t touch him,
Screamed the harried spectators.
a single tear
through his wrinkles,
a manifest display
of the misery within.
Misty darkness filters through
the starlit skies.
Casting cold, grinning shadows
off the wasted figure.
Exposing ghoulish boils
on the ravaged skin.
Tightly, the bystanders gripped their noses.
“How foul the stench of death”.
Slowly, his agonized intake of breath
grows shallow by the minute.
Mercifully, the bells toll.
Another fare for the cart.
“Bring out your dead,” it says languidly.
Another notch for the Reaper.
Alas for Adewale, darkness plagues
Locked on the altar of corpses,
a match shall be lit…
Alas, abiding damnation