Turn Up!

Who wants to retire their holiday in grand style?

Let’s do it together at OpenMicReloaded.

All your favourite artists will be there.

And yes, yours truly will be spiting poems on the mic.

Turn up!


Sometimes, I walk into an expensive restaurant, sit down and buy the cheapest item in the menu. It could be a bottle of water or a simple snack. I nail my finger to it like a rich customer would nail a bottle of champagne or some exotic dish. I don’t feel shame at all. The thing is, we are all here now. We all walked through that door.

We all felt the harassing gaze of the doorman dripping from his lavish vane praise. We all held a menu – same paper, same ink, same items. And except we pour our wallets on the table to compete, none of us would know the extent by which any of us is rich or poor.

No, this is not me trying to show off. No. This is me flowing into exotic spaces to feel the environment and see how it feels to be rich.

“Environment matters,” a wise man told me yesterday. It is not a thing I do not already know. But, it was a cherished reminder.

I make sure nothing bought is taken home. I eat it all there, sit a little while and head to the door and out. I leave with a story, a step on my journey. I return home and sleep like a baby. This is therapy.


A little girl took this shot with my phone last Sunday. We were driving in her parent’s car for lunch in their home and she asked for my phone, played some diplomatic stunts for my password – she couldn’t get me – but, I let her into the phone and she fired this shot at me. Her name is Jadel.


Art must not be a particular thing or genre to be art. Art must not be everything or all genre to be art. Art just has to be art to be art.

Zainab Sule , thank you for your music and stage. Bash Amuneni , thank you for your poetry. Deji Ige , it was nice meeting you. G.T THE GUITARMAN , thank you for your music and voice. It was a great honour meeting you all.

You all inspire.

With Bash Amuneni
With Zainab Sule.
With Deji Ige.
With GT The Guitar man.

Turn Up!

This evening, I will be performing at Zainab Sule ‘s Fine Wine and Rock, Club Indigo, Sheraton Hotel, Abuja. You don’t want to miss it! Turn up. Show some love.

Bring a heart, hearts and hearts. Don’t forget to bring a smile. And yes, grab your ticket. Me? I will bring a poem to the stage.

See you @6pm!


“When the man you love becomes the tyrant you hate, and the tyrant and lover live separate lives with the tyrant loving you like the lover but, pouring his venom on the world you love so much, what do you? What do you say to this? You can’t save the lover without killing the tyrant and saving the lover means death. You can’t ignore the world and its burning walls. Your humanity won’t let you. And you can’t leave it all alone and walk away into the night leaving your body beside a poison vial. You just have to do something or the spirits will murder your soul when you get there. Again, what do you do? Connive with the world or perish it with the tyrant?”

“There are many in this boat,” said the soul that came out of the first body at the first shipwreck.


Pray. Work. Change. 🇳🇬

This country belongs to all of us. When it falls, it is ours to raise. When it cracks, it is ours to mend. Whatever happens to it happens to us and because of us. This land was ready for us before we got here. Whatever name it wears, it was ready for us. So, pour your love on it. Pour more today. Say a prayer. But, don’t make praying all you pay. Work. Be a good citizen. May it not fail on account of your failure. Trust me, it is worth saving.

Pray. Work. Change.



“She approached me with plastic smile, a loan from her duty. She wears it every morning at the entrance and dumps it right back after spending the last drop of duty. I knew this because I have heard of the many exploits of her peers in the trade elsewhere. I stood like a rock ready for a prayer. The worship leader had fed soul-lifting music, like logs, into the fire that burned on the alter. It was the Pentecost. We were marked by tongues of fire. Her touch woke me from the peace that stole me from the worries in the world. The world outside the door was choking with vitriol worries. But here I was, wearing immunity, unaffected by any of the plagues of the world I left at the door. They are supposed to go forever, to be torn from existence once I got here. I woke and found a plea in her eyes. It stood a note before her breasts and caused dry earth to shake in my pocket. It was the 8th category. I scooped some dust from the aftermath and fed her hungry palm. Sleep died in my eyes. I knew all she said were lies. All she said in that smile. For when she tore her stare from me, her steps were bolder than they came.

She conquered me with her duty by the duty she demanded of me. It was not the Paraclete that robbed me. It was beauty. After the fire had died on the alter, I waited for her to be my chaperon in the world that rioted outside the door. I was wrong. I watched her retire from duty. I watched her pack her things. I watched her March to the door. I watched her take off her mask. I watched her hand it in to the door man. When she crossed that door, she was dressed like me, like everyone else. She unpacked her worries and hung them on her face. Just like everyone else. At that moment, I forgot the robbery. I felt pity for her. I forgot myself and thought only of her. That the beauty that gave hypnotic peace within is the ugliness that reeked of hellish sulphur outside, is one truth I have not the resources to buy. I watched her walk away without a smile like an actor mourning a beautiful unpaid performance. It was beautiful. But it’s beauty was sad.”



I kissed night in a song to morning
I held its lips
It held mine
We danced our lips in a gully
A world was left behind

I looked loneliness in the eyes
It held mine with it’s lies
We darted thrice panting like tries
It held a mirror to its face
And showed the world from behind.

📸 Iyke Ibeh



Strong hands have shy faces
There are dimples in their palms
Their limp breasts catch the moon
Their eyes dim the sun
Their stars are endless scars
Salty rain mark their seasons

A strong hand has no doubt
It gnashes the distance in its mouth
A cult of teeth for a smile
Carts of toil journey down
Wait for its time
A strong hand will climb.

📸 Iyke Ibeh



What is truth?
Does anyone have an answer?
Does anyone care to enter?
Is any tongue ready for the bitter? (X3)

We came from truth
For when emotion rode on emotion
In the breath of passion
A slice of truth rode down the aisle
We live in truth
Night and day, an untiring race
Birth and death in steady pace
War and peace like wedding lace

Truth is the hand of the rainbow
On wrinkled soul
Dimple in the sky
It wakes the rains within
To smoothening stretch
The brightness of the soul
Is the envy of the sun.

Truth is life
The breath of essence
A dance of bees
A compass of motion and light
The swing of nature’s buttocks
Ecdysis, rebirth of its skin
A rose’s beauty in sun’s runway
The rustic notes of abscission

Truth is hemlock
It rode the path of a meal
To the heart of the voice
Dissident in tone and poise
Unwavering in its dance
Not unsteadied by chance
Till the deed is done
Though the veil be torn.

Truth is the soul of a tree
It knows the pace of the murmur
That roamed, naked of voice
Rising from the essence-glowing form
Lodged at its feet
Where the elements merged
On sun-lit night.

Truth is hammer and nail
Ninety-five theses on the door.

Truth has not a tough skin
But, a tough heart
It knows the stuff of whip falls
Hears the tongue of deep curls
It bleeds its soul
Like plastic on red coal
Staggers a mile
Sleeps a while
And waits three nights to be reborn

Truth is responsibility
It counts its gains with pride
For when truth was conceived
It was not by mortal seed

‘And yet it moves,’
Sang courage on the road to the pit
The rails of Pisa saw the death of lies
That truth, though it cries, never dies
They know that what stands today
Never stood a chance yesterday
But, the foundations of truth are true
They never sink though the expanse be the blue

What is truth?
Does anyone have an answer?
Does anyone care to enter?
Is any tongue ready for the bitter?

Truth is hammer and nail
Ninety-five theses on the door.

– happyprince