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Adam’s Story: 9,30 (Death2)

More cruel
And heartless than Cain.

O yes to me it came
And me it flogged
At an age

Old Adam of 930 caps
At this time
E’noch could not be found

Thirty-nine on my top:
Methuselah a boy of my cord
Humbly broke my record

The devil may be wiser
But my seed lived longer
I know my cord.

After Noah died in genesis
Under same chapter
I waited for the next verse

But it never came, my son
What’s wrong with your generation?

I wish;
The difficult pill to swallow now
Never passed my throat

I would have written
A secret of long life
On Proverb 9:30.

Dear February

On the last day of January
My mail buzzed
A message alert… whose?

Written to me in bruise
Agony in every word on the subject
I did sense a solitary lifer

“Leave my calendar:”
What a reject;

    ‘White bandages and patches
    You’ve left me torn and battered
    It is high time
    A dumb utters
    An expression
    To tell you:

    How much I truly hate you’

Could it be that expensive?
…This I wondered

Like a toper
Reading aloud
The blue on blue lines

And soliloquizing
If it was meant for me

“Leave my calender
Dear February”,
It truly addressed:

  • Verse II
    1. ‘You have been so unfair to me
      If you may don’t be dismay
      Close your eyes and

      Hit the hay
      For I’ve had your day
      Celebrated in an unusual custom

      Sat all night and day
      Torn between you and reality
      Wondering why

      No cards or a drawn heart
      Candies, flowers, or a mere gift
      I guess I am

      A love bird
      Without a love poem.

      I hate to say it, but I know
      Several reasons I hate
      Is that my birds no longer mate

      On your fourteenth day
      Yet to me you say,
      “Fourteenth is your day”.

  • Verse III
    1. Dear February
      Why would you say
      Love be shown
      To me…
      Only on a val day?
      Why would you?

      Dear February belive me
      You are nothing but agony
      Puncturing me like nails to tyres
      My heart they call a colander
      Retains nothing
      But bruises bump by blunders.

      In and out
      Love passes me through
      Battered yet
      Cupid patches…
      Every single one of it
      Giving me a motif of colours

      I have to get use to it
      Leave my calender
      Dear February

      God saves the best
      Of all,
      Red’s still the colour
      Guess that’s the reason
      I bleed
      Dear February

      Who is my val this time
      Let em’ come in
      Love and leave.

    Tales Of A Wife: Iyawo

    Countless great men he commands
    He is like a king
    In-fact he is
    A king of a clan.

    They all see him as an eagle
    He has this majestic ego
    No one can-
    Rubbish or Imagine to

    – Or so they feel
    He can and could
    Handle an axe on a wood
    On decisions and actions

    But she don’t care
    How reddish
    Or greenish
    His apples may appear

    Or the drops of tears
    He has made others shred
    By sending arrows
    To kill or to pierce.

    In his imaginary clan
    If ranked,
    She is the least
    But she commands him

    Humbles and make him kneel
    Doesn’t matter how tall he is
    She bends him
    Like farmers do to plants

    She makes him plead
    Far above his guilty pleasure
    No doubt every man
    Has a lady who screws his nuts.

    Even when innocent
    She makes him feel guilty
    Not by an affair between
    A teenager and an oldster

    On his golden throne
    “Get me a mirror” he commands
    Staring at it, he wonders:
    “Why does she call me a boy.”

    Mayhem In My Family

    Do u hear the drums….
    “Nkem” my lovely wife
    Even Barnabas the priest runs
    Sorry we must leave the barns…
    Forget the casavas and harvest
    Forget the yams and others
    Hurry, hurry let’s leave the barns
    Forget your “asah-oke” and wrappers
    Just gather my daughters
    “Anika, Lola and Ada”
    Hide my sons “Sani, Femi, and Obi”
    Save them from the recruiting arms men
    “Nkem” hurry
    For the wind is howling
    Dust dash like its going to rain
    “Chi”, “Oluwa”, “Ala” and God
    Guide us
    War is not tasty
    Neither is it a curry
    Yet these men spice-up life with it.

    “Obi” my son
    I’ve failed to protect you
    Cry if you need to
    But I can’t be there to dry your tears
    “Chi” guides you
    All the way
    Your feet must now stamp boldness
    Unto the dusty lands “Nkem’s” body forever sleeps
    During the dry seasons
    Hammertan and dire rains
    “Grant Biafra its realm…”

    “Femi” my son
    “Oluwa” will see you through
    For I’ve failed to protect you
    Talk if you need to
    But I can’t control your emotions
    You will walk on hills,
    Stony valleys and rocks
    Fathers you are made to kill
    Same sons, mothers
    And daughters you rape
    Just like they did to your sisters
    “Militants, hoodlums and communal crisis”

    “Sani” did you set
    Fire on holy crosses?
    “Obi” my son why vengeance
    Now Shira… religious conflict”
    Matter of power
    “Sani” battles “Femi”
    Brothers turn fierce enemies.

    The sandy game of power and rule
    Set in bombs and Boko Ha’ram…
    “Sani, Femi and Obi”
    My sons
    Call for ambulance….
    The green and white gown is blazing

    My children never mind
    The sandy game of power
    Just ordered
    State of emergency
    Mayhem just increased in our family

    “Sani” my son
    I’ve failed to protect you
    Go for rehab if you need to
    I’m not there to call you to order
    “Ala” see you through.

    With all their snug riffles
    And evading blockages
    Not to forget
    Aimless shooting and shouting
    Which brings nothing but soak eyeballs
    My three sons sourly soar!!!

    Like beetle my sons command on land
    Like flying butterfly in air
    They spray dragon fire down like rains
    Like soldiers which they are
    Robot their hearts is mean
    Fighting for the nation and self-centred me,
    On sandy game of power
    Who claim to be too old for battling
    Yet young for embezzlement
    Guess we all sourly soar!!!

    “Anika, Lola and Ada”
    May these words not fall on empty ears
    Save the green
    Ooo Save the white
    Mind you the green is double
    Share even
    For responsibility not dis-unity
    For your brothers
    the Unknown legends’
    Just ghost away in battlefield..
    Raise your kinds
    To live not in splitting Biafra
    Or abide by the river boundaries
    Or set sequins for head-shot
    My daughters grow your kinds
    To live as one.

    The True Poesy

    Don’t Call Me Mad: Pregnancy

    What if there is a secret in putting to birth
    That actually the child is sent.
    And pregnancy is an optical illusion
    Real image is choosing the chosen ones.

    Like in the movies, the actors know all the film tricks
    While the viewers are left being intrigued
    If life is a building mask
    Pregnancy its upcoming signal
    To be sent to just but the seekers
    That pledge to keep the secret on.

    Indeed, the up-comers believes in all science laws
    And no secrets to conceding a child.
    But, what if the furtive is down-to-earth?
    Would the eyes be open or ignored by veto?
    The chosen ones or riot of miscarriages
    Which would be preferred?


    To the bells and whistles blockbusting life
    All that smile out is benignly.
    Limitless to action
    Not as black as it’s painted.
    Intriguing superhuman
    Breathe forever Bionic.

    (C) 2009

    written by Onyeche Vincent Onyeka

    Native Fly: Childish Superstition

    Childish Superstition

    I played a lot like other teens

    Indoors and outdoors soiled my clothes

    I got my tooth broken

    In childish combats and play.


    Up my little cranium, I closed eyes

    Crying bitterly, I backed the walls

    Then threw the wrecked tooth

    As the crow flies to the rooftop


    Curious and frighten

    That it may be eaten

    By birds, lizards and all

    I prayed to God for a guard.


    “If eaten by birds it will never grow!

    So I sang good songs, to the birds.

    Then; brothers and sisters were young

    Fathers and mothers old; friends and I were all teen.


    To be intelligent;

    Cocoanut juice dare not drink

    Play on kids but for your mothers’ sake

    Dare not draw lines along the streets; by dragging sticks.”



    By Onyeche Vincent Onyeka

    © 2010 https://vinzpoetry.wordpress.com



    In line 8, ‘As the crow flies’: stands for straight. That is; “then threw the broken tooth straight to the roof top”


    p style=”margin-left:13pt;”>

    Childish superstition is all fun. Then we were told that when we break a tooth, we shouldn’t just throw it anywhere. We were asked to cast it to the rooftop. And when doing that we endeavoured to close our eyes. If not the broken tooth would never grow. There was this childish false notion that drinking the juice from cocoanut shell would make us (little children) unintelligent so we ate only the milky part. We were also told that if we drew lines with sticks as we ran by the road, our mothers’ breast would grow to long.




              The University is a rich planet with three pregnant women, One carrying a good child, the second carrying a bad while the last carrying a slightly bad and a slightly good child.

            The university is as organized as the economy as they are governed by a student governing body; SUG, which protects and fight for the students.

    On the other hand, most student politicians strive to hold a post all for the sake of ‘hammering’ and looting ‘cash’ from both students and the government.

    ‘Freshers’ they call the newly admitted. The matriculation day is a memorable day to them.

    ‘BRING THE MUD AND GET THE CAIN!’ they received a beat ‘but after the wince keep my gift’.

    The matriculates match in with their matriculation gown to sign an oat. If the oat swearing was done by an oracle many if not all would have been dead. God so kind, ‘It’s just a paper signing and after it they go for refreshment with parents and well wishers.’


                 Students seem serious only when examination is at the collar of their shirts. For most, having a first class is a misery especially the sophomore and the final year student. To the fresher, first class is all they see but shortly after the first semester examination, majority of them FLOP; “DREAMS ARE MISERY”.

    For those who are heading down the prohibition grade, often at times become next to a priest. Indeed, Lecturers are of different kinds, thinking about the bad ones, SPOOKY!!

    But a student surprisingly can go to a nightclub even at the night before their examination.

                 Moreover, the social life is mostly captured by the ‘JJC’. Students who are not bowling love feel not wanted and often at times become ‘winos’. While those who are attached, hooked or even searching, feel the globe is theirs. For the males, jabbering and using fancy things is a common way to trill ‘babes’. Those who got ride cruise the block wining the ladies laurels.



             Most males also won theirs by becoming JACK THE LAD and flying high maybe because they got one two electrical appliance in their room. Unisex in the campus becomes good, bad or stock somewhere in between; it’s MURPHY’S LAW. From observation, 70 percent of the males while 30 percent of the females go around smoking with the idea; ‘SMOKING IS DANGEROUS TO YOUR HEALTH’.

               Though fighting is sporadic in the university now as compared to the passed, they still indulge in cultism but frightened by the cord of rustication.


                     Factually, “I ONLY WISH I CAN MARRY A VIRGIN”. The females so wrongly read freedom by choosing prostitution and lesbianism as their flair, which they cover up by name ‘RUNS GIRLS’ unknown to them that they are ruining their life.

    ‘How would I associate with a pansy?’ The careless ones even got pregnant, ‘Was it an incubus?’

                Once a gussy gorgeous looking girl says ‘I HAVE JUST A GUY’ then she is either a cripple or she is married. The average and ugly girls are mostly blessed because graduating is a certainty while the ravishing ones have ravishes stories to tell. Girls who never would have worn an anklet or used a brooch of such glamour receive expensive JEWELRY, LOCKETS, BEAUTIFUL PENDENT, MEDALLION, and PEARL NECKLACES AND HOOP EARRINGS from guys who wear cheap wristwatches.


                  As the males believes in words like ‘your pleasures are mine, your request are lined….’ even with nothing in their pockets and as long as prostitutes would never get tired of gussying up for the road, social life would never seize from the Universities.

                   The most glamorous event is the getting together of students both from within and other universities. Excitingly, students get together for occasions like fashion pageantry, Miss campus, Most handsome guy, most beautiful girl on campus, best dressed, best couples and other stormy awards. All these energize the electrifying atmosphere that for an angry President; the charming smile of a tall slim, spinning waist and cat-working model would make him smile for miles. What an African abundance with talents unmentionable. Your mouth must joyfully blare when your eyes set on them. Secondly, the NUGA games aids in uniting universities and searching for young talents as well as developing sporting activities in the country. All competitors are aware of the arcane role of games and tend to avoid blubbering like little babies when they hear side comments. Students mostly the females who play basketball aside other sporting events like field events, football and track events; dribbling, passing or even making a dunk while holding the hoop isn’t it all but those with bad legs and blemishes had no trousers nor make-ups to cover them, as students who were supposed to be cheering them jeered at them. At the end of the academic run, the graduates are blessed with water and after the scream is the party.

    Finally, the university is a memorable fantasy that seizes not but remains in the minds of those who are presently in it and were there; singing ‘it worth to be tasted’, chosen because it tells of the future. The university has opened the Pandora’s Box of evil deeds.




    © June 2008


    Dingo the Doggy Dog


    Men refuse to give them blood yet used them in detecting bloody scenes.

    The hood grew in transactions and tranquility, but he vibrated and immersed fear in the hood.

    Dingo the doggy dog barked deep and captured the smaller cats… that made more of the soprano sounds.

    Tails standing, with the strength of that hatred of man, they all barked in same rhythm.

    The chains hurt. Isolated, they felt shame and hungry of taste.

    ‘I’m leaving here this summer’, Dingo the doggy dog hummed as he battling with his hind and forefoot.

    ‘We haven’t eaten the meal of our choice. Too bloody, man is wicked.’

    Just as he cried out in pains, a beam of light flashed at his face. It was his master.

    He raised his ear and muzzled pumping his withers.

    Dingo the dog who understands ‘sit and remain quiet’ jumped up and fed on his masters’ flesh.


    Oh local, mixed bread and foreign cats, arise let’s see to our freedom.

    Beasts of the dark ages, alien, and vampire cats come taste fresh self-hunted blood

    Men are gnomes and deserve to die. Out there is our peace of eternity.

    Our Otiose services must end. We helped most them gain independence and they despised us.


    Arise oh Eskimos, American cocker spaniel, Irish wolfhound, and Labrador retriever.

    No more gnashing of our whitish teeth, rebuff swaggering and wagging of our manly tails

    Arise oh Rottweiler, Bloodhound, Akita, Bullmastiffs, and Bulldogs. Let the claws twinkle like stars willing to turn red.

    For the period of otiose loyalty and stupidity is dead.

    No cats shall be kicked out of the house if a new pet is bought. Beautiful Saluki shall grow fat and you Pekingese, tall you will become.

    We’ve secured them for way too long. They rather watch us die than to grant us freedom. We were torn, beleaguered, and beaten up. They drove us from the wild forest of sheltered freedom. The chains hurt and contribute to our early death, now we wonder if father cat would return. At least to tell them that we are the king of the forest not the out and out humbug epitaph on their gravestones.

    Now it shall not be miraculous, their flesh is ours. With our golden eyes, we stared at them as they fed on our fellow cats.

    ‘Same Blood…!’

    Same Blood that feeds our hearts; we have been humiliated

    Even the ants tussles our bones and operate made fool of us, as they tossed the bones at us.

    Arise from the deep forest, copse, homes, and streets. Strong, steadfast, and superior we are.

    Brave die in the battlefield, fools watch their kinds chained by men.


    The summer had come, Dingo the doggy dog, led all cats killing men and gaining freedom forcefully.

    Battle won; they celebrated standing on their hinds and showing their brisket.

    They passed on bucket filled of fresh human blood. As Dingo was about to sip, something pulled him backward.

    His eyes opened; it was all a dream. Dingo the doggy dog and the only father cat brood would never be free until the sky falls. He barked; ‘the chains hurt… I’m leaving here next winter.’

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