I originally posted this poem a little over a year ago. A few days ago someone tagged me on Instagram sharing this and how much the words encouraged her. I was uplifted that my words could bring comfort to others and wanted to share it again. I hope you enjoy it; Emi Mimo is the term for Holy spirit in the Yoruba language.Don’t forget to share, comment, and subscribe.


You said you’d pray for me when no one else could.
Emi Mimo you said that when my heart was too heavy,
Each time my lips were too tired to speak,
My arms were weak from the tasks I took on too quick,
Emi Mimo you said it was ok, you understood all my needs.

Silence the voices

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Why are you crying?
Why are you seating in your room weeping?

Life was not meant for this
Wallowing all day in self pity.
Salewa you were not made for this,
To moan and groan in agony.
Salewa your father did not create this,
a woman made for trampling feet. (more…)

I saw a photo today that made me laugh
I laughed so hard my belly hurt
I instantly thought of you
I wanted to share it with you
I wanted to hear the sound of your voice
as your belly hurt from laughing hard too
But then I remembered I deleted you (more…)

Do not underestimate the power of your words,
the power in them when you speak,
you string them so lyrically,
punch after punch you get your point across.
You forget it is not ears that are listening,
but a heart that is breaking. (more…)

pain is not the destination
it is just a stop on the journey
I know you often go there
to the darkness, where pain thrives

It may be familiar there
You may know the rules of engagement there
But there is no lifting up there
So try hard not to linger, my dear

There is light on the other side of your pain
There is joy somewhere in the midst of rain
You have the power to drown the darkness out
Your life is not a tale of an endless drought

Pain is not the destination
it is only a stop on the journey
Regardless of its familiar embrace
do not be tempted to linger there


image credit: madame noire

image credit: madame noire

Angry black woman
Tell me what are you angry about
Is it the colour of your skin?
Strong and un-ageing like an onyx?
Is it the texture of your hair
Long and rising like the Phoenix
Is it the years of wasted toil
suffering and sweating on cottons floors
Is it the wails of a generation
Who never got to see the sun

Tell me, what are you angry about?

Is it the blood of your sons staining the dirty streets
Or the way of your brothers in choosing the fairer breeds
Is it the birth of colonisation, killing your future seed
Or the sight of your sister, running from her very own skin

They said you were angry I said they had no clue
They called you angry; I said they would be too
They called you angry I said it wasn’t fair
They called you angry; I said I was angry too


I dedicate this poem to all the women who declared 2015 to be the year of Bae or The One. Please, if the one you found or the one who found you is a clown, Hear word now! RUN. 2016 is another year .

That moment he says something that makes you want to stop listening
He says something insignificant
Something that opposes the core of who you are
something important
Like saying he was a serpent
A friend of the devil
Like saying his religion was not the same as yours
Like saying your God was not the one true God
Like him choosing tribe over heart
Him choosing lust over life
Something happens when he speaks, you want to listen
Your wagging lips sit still, and your ears awaken
He said those words so quickly to you
Though his words were not meant to harm
You must run.
Do you hear me? Pack your bags and run
There is nothing to be done here
Nothing to see, my darling do not linger there
There are rules to follow, by these laws you must abide
If you try to disobey, you will loose
If you pursue, you’ll hate what you catch
Let it go now while you have a chance
There is no grace in crowning a clown
Such efforts are futile at best
Your bae is not a clown.


Tell me a secret
a secret about me
tell me something about me that I do not know
show me the things I do not see
What about my presence makes you smile
what about my voice lifts your heart
come here, come closer
I’ll bring my ears in to hear you
whisper my name like a melody
like something the Angels sing
like my life was a love poem written by God himself
tell me a secret
a secret about me
why do you watch me the way you do
and chase me like you had nothing else to do
show me the beauty that I never saw
and the angel you swore I was
you have to tell me why
Or I’ll believe it was all a lie


watch out for the happy ones,
they cry themselves to sleep

look out for the courageous one
he is the one who fears all heights

take care of the dependable one
he has no helper to run to

beware of the honest one
she has the most secrets to hide

have you met the encourager
her insecurities keep her up at night

the one who smiles
is frowning within

the one that dances
is crippled, unseen

the stoic one falls the hardest
not everyone’s pain is plain to see


Image Credit: Henry lee battle- this too shall pass

Where are you really from; my answer, Nigeria.
His response, “you are better off here”, my retort, nothing.
Nothing because I cannot yell, I cannot scream.
I cannot at the top of my lungs speak about the sickness that ails me and my inability to speak my words.
Better off here? Better off where? Better off anywhere but Borno?
Better off here where my hair is not flat, and my skin is not soft.
Better off where? Here where my soul cannot dance to the rhythm of the rainstorms.

Where are you really from? Oke Ado! A place I have never known, where my blood is from, and my palate was born, yet it is a place I have never seen.
Better off where, here? Where my name is absurd and shortened for fun. Better off where? Here? Where my empty bed is deemed a curse, and my flattened nose is called a snout.
Better off here? Where the impression of lies is better swallowed than the truth, and I cannot behold my love in the eyes.

Here? Where nowhere? You are right. I’m better of here though the stares freeze my bones yet it’s not the harmattan that chaps my lips. Though my love is rejected, I don’t have to claim the one that doesn’t exist.
Though my intelligence is questioned, I don’t have to bend my knees before I speak.
Though my solitude is exaggerated, it is better that the noise that muffles my voice. He asked me where are you from? I said Nigeria. He said to me you’re better off here. I said nothing. He assumed I agreed.

the law of shut-up is not hard
practice it often, and you will become a master
shut-up every day and you’ll see
the law of shut-up will set you free
not all things need to be said
not all offences must we tell a friend
when this law is part of you
others will learn to shut up too
the law of shut-up is not hard
practice it often, and you will become a master


image credit; humanevents.com

Tell them I’m still here
Tell them that I am still breathing
Tell them that I still fear
Yet my feet are still moving

Tell them you did not find me there
lost among the shadows
Tell them the vacuum did not overtake me
Tell them I did not dwell there

Tell them I smiled at you
though the sorrow was scorching
it did not steal my my joy
Tell them that I’m still laughing

Tell them when you return
that you saw me struggling
You saw me stretching and yearning
Tell them I did not give up

Tell them I know what my blood smells and tastes like
Tell them blood does not frighten me
Tell them death came and did not kill me
Go ahead. Tell them


she called me beautiful,
it sounded like a question;
how dare I be mistaken as a beauty?
it was an accusation,
I had no right to be so audacious.

she called me beautiful
my origin was in question,
my skin had not been scorched
perhaps my blood was diluted?
Africa must not have birthed me.

this beauty she praises, were does it belong
this beauty she sees, I fear it’s painted on
this beauty she laments it’s never been glorified
this beauty she admires, admirer’s never sought to buy

she called me beautiful
I called her a liar
how dare she see things that weren’t there?
she called me beautiful, I don’t know why,
I said to her, beauty was never here.


Dear Illusion,

Do not assume that because I seem strong I am so
When cut I bleed red too
I have seen it, and blood is not cute
If you hate me, tell me, I’ll learn to deal
If you want me, tell me, I’ll take that too
Do not use me as predators do
Do not come here and trample on my heart
This life is a garden I have been tending to
I have nurtured it and protected it
The flower that blooms is the only one I have
Do not come to take it away
Do not thrill me and take me for a ride
Do not use me only to dispose of me like rags
If you do not need me and do not want me
Do not come close do not approach
I was fine before I stumbled upon you
I was alone, but never lonely
My secrets kept me company
My dreams kept me alive
Do not come here to take my life
Do not come here selling false hope
I was me before I met you
Please leave quickly if you intend to
So I can still be me when you are gone



Credit: tourism.gov.ng

Credit: tourism.gov.ng

‘Nigeria we hail thee.’ That is how the original Nigerian anthem began; my mum always preferred that version; probably because she grew up singing it and could identify with it. I recently looked up this version, the one she would sing from memory with a smile on her lips and a glint in her eyes. It often seemed to me that when the subject of the national anthem would come up, she reflected on a Nigeria when times were better and when the future could only be brighter. I read the old version I began to feel something I had never felt with the ‘arise’ version! I felt a pride and a hope, it seemed foreign to me. I was proud to be a Nigerian, I smiled and I easily began to recognise why my mother prefers that version. Let me tell you why. (more…)