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Gray Love

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He was the shadowy shallow man
who acts like a fastidious, prude puritan
Putting every man on a slate,
Sternly slating soiled sinners.
He seems to have the ‘book of life’ in his hands
And with pencil and eraser
He spells the wrath of wretched sinners
“You! you did this and this and that
You will rot in seething sulphurs”

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As He juries us,
He forgot he was also black and not white;
Now, we have spelt “Love” backward front
And it looks like “Hate.”
He has made us misunderstand God.

Grace is not actually what they have painted it to be:
Grace is spelt love
Grace appeared to all men
And love white and black as well.
Wouldn’t I call Grace gray?

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So I told gray love
“I’m a fetid filth
Whose life touse apart.”
“I know,” HE said,
“here’s red”
HE wiped my slate clean
Now, black has become white.

Bamigbola Silas

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WHO WILL DEFINE ME? 

Laying down on my bed in the middle of the night,

I cognitated and thought and anticipated

I asked myself questions,

I can’t proffer answers to;

“what’s my identity?

Who will define me?”

With all my might

I ran and ran and ran

Looking for who to define me.

 

The North Pole knew I came to it

Likewise I trudged towards the South Pole,

It  can’t deny the fact

That I came to it.

Asking “who will define me? ”

 

Shiftless mind! Shiftless mind!!

I slipped into the crowd

Trying to fit in.

Unfortunately, mama and papa

Never gave me tribal marks

And that made me lost

Deep  Into the throng.

What’s my identity?

 

When will the thought

Of my purpose and bright future

Compel me to have

That frenzy feeling of joy.

Please who will define me?

 

P. S: Questions a reasonable man or woman begins to ask him/her self are,  “Who am I? Why in the world am I here? What’s my identity?”

 

It’s a question we must ask ourselves. Our Lord Jesus too had to know his identity, he knew his definition, no wonder   Jesus said in Hebrew 10:7 “Lo, I come (in the volume of the book it is written of me,).” also he defined himself to the hearing of the Israelites in Luke 4:18-19.
If we must know our identity, then we must begin with communication; initially with ourselves, then with God our creator. He has our manual, he can define us.

TEARS OF HISTORY… 

Arike:

Baami who is that woman

Whose wailings fill our ears

Whose anguish silence the birds?
Father:

That is Itan

Mourning for her lost children 

Her sons and daughters

Her hope and life 
Arike:

Isn’t she the mother of Oduduwa the great warrior?
Father:

Yes she is . Oduduwa the great warrior

The brave and fearless man 

I remember the wars he fought for us 

Fought for our freedom 

Stood up to the white gods in our land

Alas! He is now a terror to chickens

Dreams are his battlefield 

Vituperates before his television and newspaper

His victory ends on the cushion 

A cripple that can’t stand to defend his name, identity future, and honour 
Arike:

Surely Akanbi the great farmer is alive to feed his mother.
Father:

Arike your memory amaze me

Akanbi the great farmer son of the land

His bare hands soothes the land 

As he brings her to delivery 

To deliver her of her fruits and tidings 

Out of his abundance 

He feeds the lizards in his house 

His kinsmen  in ivory coast 

He fed for years 

Akanbi  is now a scavenger 

Who waits in line to eat 

Bits and bits from long nosed men 

Akanbi begs in the street 

Depending on biscuits and indomie 

He grovels for food from strangers 

I pity him when I pass by him 

His face distorted by hunger 

Akanbi waits/looks abroad and not below 

For his satisfaction 
Arike:

What a tragedy the death of living sons Baami Segilola nko? I know a daughter will never forsake her mother 
Father:

Segilola eleyinjuege

The great jewel

Pride of her mother 

Fear of all wives

The groaning in men’s groin 

Lusted after by white men 

Segilola sold her pride for fashion 

Her royal beads for dollars 

Her beauty for sophistication

Her culture for civilization 
Arike:

Indeed Itan has lost so much . A great mother abiyamo ni 
Father:

Where did you see Itan was it on your way to the stream ?

 

Arike:

Baami it was not on my way to the stream nor on my way to the farm. 

I saw her in the wrinkles on Iya agba’s face 

I saw her beneath the dark soil Upon which she was once celebrated 

In the ancient tattoo on maami’s hand 

In your tribal marks 
Father:

Such is the life of history Itan 

Who cries and weeps

For her past conquests and victories. 
Such is  the plight of Nigeria a great mother with glorious children. 
Her Oduduwa Akanbi Segilola are no more .
Listen again as she wails 
How old is Nigeria, dimeji?
TEARS OF HISTORY 

by Adediran Adetutu. 
P .S 

A  Thought provoking poem of our past. A past that can fuel our present and lighten our dim future.

Don’t give up on Nigeria, it can still be a better place for us if you are ready to work and trust (in God).  
Comment : this is a wonderful poem written by my friend Adediran Adetutu, it’s a poem that takes us to the past and still keep us abreast with the present matters on ground. I hope we are encouraged by this?  

Enough of inaction, our little positive actions have a way of bringing Nigeria to the place it should be. 
May God bless Nigeria and take us to the right place he has prepared for us. 

Amen
Happy Independence Day friends. 
God bless you real good.