What did I miss?

All I really wanted was to be the girl you wanted.  So,

I cut my hair.

Wore more shoes and tried to look cute.

Your kind of cute.

I put on the red lipstick just like you wanted,

I changed my clothes and

I closed my gap,

You didn’t want that too.

I ate with a fork and not a spoon

I broke myself and all for you.

These I did and more untold

In hopes to be the one you hold.

But here I sit, less of me, and watch you kiss the girl you dissed.

Oh! What did I miss?

I think to myself and hiss.

I cut my hair

I closed the gap between my teeth

I walked on heels. Do you know how hard it is?

So, tell me, what did I miss?

You were perfect for me but I wasn’t for you.

So, I broke my rules and bended my views just to suit you

I became the girl you wanted while you remained yourself. Unchanged.



“Did I sign up for this?”
“Am I missing something?”
The rhetorical questions filled my head as I sat on the edge of our king sized bed, blanked out, watching the woman I call my wife go on and on and on at the top of her voice, disturbing the neighbours and waking our 2months old baby. She butchered me with her words like a farmer butchers his catch for the day and left me to bleed out. Brillently skilled in frustrating my soul, killing my pride and wounding my heart without physically touching me. On a mission to kill, her words, she stoned me with.
Tinuke knew where it hurt and never did she miss. But I am a man. To hurt a woman is weakness. To hit a woman is sin. To be hurt by a woman and tell is against the rule. What do I say? And to whom?

“I am a victim of domestic violence” I said.
“Your wife beats you?”
No, I mean no.”
“Sir, does your wife beat you?”
“With her words. Words so violent. Words that should never be spoken. She chains me with them and flogs me day and night. Silencing my voice in my own home.” I said with a heavy sigh.

The words were heavy and as I spilled them one after the other, it cut my lips like razor.



Most people won’t see it from this perspective, but I think it is fair to categorise mental and emotional abuse as part of domestic violence. Domestic violence affects men too, but speaking out is like a bullet to their ego. A violation of the code, so they take it all.. like society expects. It’s all part of the girl privilege. The society gives females permission to play victim while it silences the male folk with the ego talk.

My missing muse


Lately, I have been too tired to read.
Too tired to write and almost
too tired to breathe.
And  many times,
Just for a second,
I stopped myself from breathing.
I didn’t pinch my nose. I closed my eyes
and took my last breath.
Simply to have a moment,
a moment of calm,
a second of a moment
was all I got before I chocked back to life.

Lately, I have been existing
each day without hope or desire.
Zeal or will
Just inhaling,
exhaling repeatedly
Without a mission.
Waking each day with my mind still asleep.
And my muse missing

Lately, I have stared at the clock
Tik tok Tik tok
Moving forward
Never stopping
I have watched time pass
I watched it move
Never have I seen it stop
And never will I see it halt.
while I find my missing muse.
I have watched the clock
Move graciously with every Tik and
gracefully with every tok
never have I seen it stuck
just in time to search for my
mssing muse.

Too soon…


Someone once asked me if I miss or think  about my days in school. The things I did and the things I would have loved to do. And in all honesty,  I DO NOT. I do not think of my days in school simply because it is way too soon. It is way too soon to forget the places and faces. The things I did and the things I didn’t do. The people I met or the food I ate. Way too soon to remember. It is way too soon to miss simply because I haven’t gone far. I have barely tasted freedom. Barely taken the first breath of fresh air. I have barely walked a mile way from the gates. I still see it when I close my eyes. I can still smell the lecture rooms and see the hallways. I can still hear the voices and feel the atmosphere. 
                 It is way too soon. Way too soon to feel like I’m losing touch with the people and place. When I eventually do think, when I eventually do miss, when I eventually realize that I won’t see some of the beautiful souls I met, when I eventually realize I can no longer play pretend, when I eventually realize someone lied and being an adult is no joke, only then will the hurt emerge. Raging forth and erupting like a volcano. Yes, I will miss and I will miss strongly . I will miss the 4years I spent in that hell hole. I will miss the food, and the people. Then, I will laugh at the food and the people. I will think deep and pull out the secrets of the nights. The ones only the moon and stars know of. I will think and drag from my chest of drawers the shitty things I did in the name of youthful exuberance and I will laugh at my then young soul. I will laugh so hard, tears will find freedom through the corner of my eyes. When the time eventually comes, I will miss and maybe wish for one more day. But, till then,
               I shall think and plan for the tough unknown days ahead of me. I shall pray and work for the life I dreamt of as I laboured my nights and days in the four walls of that hellhole. I will spend every waking day igniting the passion and dreams, I will whisper words of encouragement to my calm yet worrisome soul as I search for the meaning of life and the purpose of my existence. I shall learn to dance to the rhythm of life and then learn to make my own rhythm. Yes, I shall learn music too.  If I must. I shall learn the importance of time before I soon realise I have little left. I shall capture the moments as I live them. These and so much more I shall do till I eventually think and miss.

My dirty little obsession


He was a different kind of beautiful
Intensity intensified.
Different not lost.
His eyes spoke to me.
They were strange but not misplaced.
An enigma of some sort.
I fell for something I didn’t know or understand.
And wanting to know became my dirty little obsession.
The thing about putting pieces that aren’t yours together, you get lost.
I did get lost.
In him.
The more I knew,  the more I thought I wanted to know.
It’s a frightful task
But that’s the thrill.
Like a high
The good kind.

I was careful.


I was not one to drink.
Largely because my mother constantly told me not to be like my father.
He drank.
My father was a drunk.
He wasn’t there for most of the time
and for the few seconds he showed his face,
he talked funny, would stumble and fall
reeking of alcohol. 
So, I swore never to be him.
I was not one to drink.
Even on the celebration of my graduation , 
I went to the bar with a couple of friends
and had a glass of non alcoholic drink.
You see, they laughed because to them, a real man is about his liquor.
But I was more than liquor.
I was not one to drink.
So, I left the bar sober to my car.
I was careful.
I was careful not to drink and drive.
But somebody wasn’t. 
Now, I feel sand thrown in my face and the words dust to dust echos like the sound from a drum.
I see my mother in tears and I shout the words”BUT I WAS CAREFUL” .
I was not one to drink so why am I the one to die?
I knew better.
Someone didn’t.
Someone wasn’t careful.
And now, my life lost
is a life lesson for those who were never told to
be careful

Living is better than dying, until…


Living is better than dying.
Until it’s not. Until you hear the doctor say “WE DID ALL WE COULD”. The words ring in your head and you want the world to swallow you.
Living is better than dying, until you lose your wife in labour. It really does seem better, until you watch your son or daughter die of starvation because you lost your job. It seems better until you watch the one you love get taken by Cancer. You watch her fight and lose the battle. Each day, losing a part of herself. From her hair to her soul. You watch with little or no power to stop her from breaking before your eyes.
     Living is better than dying, until your husband gets blown up by terrorist that call themselves believers of a religion. Living is hope that’s what “they” preach. Living means there is hope. But living isn’t living until there is something to live for.
    Living is better than dying, until you go through that one thing that makes death seem less scary. That makes hope a painful thing to feel. A sickness or loss that makes you bold to face death and say “Pick me” “Choose me” “kill me”. Life is funny in the most unfunny way. Have you gone through something that makes death peaceful? It makes it a friend. A freedom walk. You walk into nothingness and never come back. Living always seems better when you have it all. But does death become an option when you lose it all? Is it a sign of weakness? Of defeat?
     Living is better than dying, until you become that boy selling on the street to feed his mum but just got beat and mugged. Until life hands you so much that your shoulders start to dislocate due to the load on your hands. Until you have to eat grass like the children in Syria. It may look like hope, until your 13year old daughter’s birthday becomes remembrance  day because no one knows where the Chibok girls are. And you cry and cry and cry till crying becomes normal and then you laugh and cry and people think you are not normal.
      “They” say to live is to have hope. But living isn’t living till you have something to live for. Someone to live for. Living is better than dying, until death becomes an option.

Letter to Obiageli


Dear Obiageli,

        I have been meaning to pen this for years now. I was shocked when I realised the year is calmly coming to an end and 2016 is graciously approaching and I still had not written you a letter. So, I write this letter that’s long over due on a Monday afternoon to tell you how beautiful you are.
        I have known you for years and I know YOU. I know how strong you act in spite the struggles you have on the inside. I know some people look at you and assume you have it all together. But you and I know you don’t have shit together. Lol, and it’s OK. I know the pressure you put on yourself, and how terrible you end up feeling when you don’t get it right at all times. And it’s OK not to get it right at all times. Even though I know you would make one hell of a sexy superwoman, it’s OK to not always get it right. You grow from the wrongs you’ve made. I have watched you fall and bounce back more determined than ever. And that is an amazing force to have.
         I know we have not had time to sit and talk. To talk about your worries and fears. Oh boy, your fears. You need to get over them. Your fear of not getting it right, fear of criticism, fear of being alone, fear of being mediocre. I know fear can act as a catalyst for you,  but it is an unhealthy catalyst. This I have told you. A new year is waltzing in, I need you to be bold. Fearless and calm. I need you to take a deep breath and own 2016. I need you to take the pressure off yourself. The future has got nothing on you. God has got you in ways you can not even begin to imagine. I need you to start and finish a project (we both know how bored you get and how easily you switch without finishing.) I need you to be resilient. Patient. Dauntless. Because you are beautiful, smart. Classy. Sexy. Brilliant. Caring and so much more. You are one amazing piece of God’s creation.
        I remember when we talked about you graduating from university invisible. Four years ago, we mapped out a plan on how you will take the English department by surprise by graduating as one of the top students. I remember you crying and reading in fear of not achieving that, look at you now. God had your back. He always has and always will. Don’t you ever forget that. Don’t you ever forget God’s love or doubt it. Keep His word close to your heart and praises on your lips as you let him take you to a world you never envisaged. Oh my darling, I feel it deep in my soul, you are a force to be reckoned with.
          I really did have it in mind for this to be a short letter, but how can it? There is so much to be said. So much to be written. Speaking of writing, I hope you hold on to the big picture you have for poeticrandomness. It is going to be awesome I tell you. Please do not stop writing. Ever. Keep the pen and paper relationship going. Write and write. Touch people with your words. Change the world with your words. Even when it seems like no one is reading, write. Still.
I know I seem far, but I’m only a letter away. I pray to hear from you in 2016. To hear all the good things and not so good things ( do not delude yourself, there will be not so good things to share. And it’s OK because it is life. We only can pray the good days are more), the love of your life who has got you “electrified” ;);)and the many other things in details.
          I feel so fulfiled penning this, I write with a smile and so much joy, simply because I know how much this means to you. As 2016 graciously walks in, I need you to be a warrior Queen. Encourage your soul when no one seems to, believe in your strength and stand strong. Brace yourself for the coming year and stand, not alone, but with God.

You are Blessed….
And, have a merry Christmas.😙😘

                                                        With 💝 from



I walked alone.
I lived alone.
I laughed alone.
I ate alone.
I slept alone.
Till I got hit.
He shot me, arrow deep into my tiny heart. Making room for one.
Wounded and needing healing,
you walked in.
With your little kit, and stitches & drips ,
you carved your name on my heart and closed me up.
You walked with me
Lived with me
Laughed with me
Ate with me
Slept with me
Till you got hit
She hit you.
She hit you hard,
and left you on the cold hard pavement.
Wounded and needing healing,
She left you for dead.
Alone I shall stand. Again.
At your funeral and
Alone I shall be,

No butterflies…


For some, when they met the one,
it was butterflies in their belly.
For me, when I met you,
it was electrifying.
For the first time, I felt alive.
You shocked me back to life.
When you touched me,
it seemed like a thousand volts,
flashing through my veins
hitting a nerve in my brain
Waking me up, and
making me insane.
I knew I was madly in love.
I felt light,not butterflies.
For me,
it was an electric kind of love.