Anxiety, Coping System, Descriptive, Emotion, Late Night, Life, Love, Pain, PenPractice, Poem, Prose, Shorts, Sleepy time, thoughts, Uncategorized, writing


The room is cold. Harsh. Unforgiving.

But it’s safe here.

It’s home here.

Everything freezes in here. Left to hang in the air like unsaid words and unresolved emotions. It’s much better in the long run.

It’s better than the fires outside that are licking the frame of the door, begging that I open up so that they can engulf me in their responsibility.

In their warmth. In their potential for great things spanning countries and changing lives around the globe.

Their fire for making everyone around happy and content that I’m not a popsicle like the rest of them, but the rest of them are here and I can tell they are cool.

But this is better. Much better than playing with a natural energy source and watching it consume me. Why would I risk being burnt alive? What’s the endgame there?

Success or cremation? And they think I would risk it all for that?

So yeah, this is fine.

This is fine.

I agree my fingers might be numbing off from inactivity and the general lack of engagement for it’s better this way.

It means I won’t be able to carry anything after a while.

That said…

It is very cold…

Anxiety, Descriptive, Emotion, Late Night, Life, Pain, Poem, Prose, Sleepy time, Thoughts, thoughts, writing

Shot Glass.

Adrenaline and emotional pain, poured into a shot glass for your heart to drink.

You’d call it poison, I’d call it life.

Life, like the pound notes entering your pocket, but bleeding through the hole at the bottom as you try to pay the debtor for “one more day”.

Like the great staircase leading upwards, whose only requirement is that you step on the head and bodies of others to ensure there’s enough space for you to claim as yours.

You’d call it deplorable. Some would say “Competition”.

Competition as basic as who gets into work the earliest to bask in some sweet brownie points of being “ever ready” to get to work. Or is it the excellence in one’s field as they struggle to show that their work is worth taking notice off above others?

Or maybe it’s the “trying-to-1-up-you-by-showing-you-how-much-I-can-provide-for-you-when-contrasted-with-how-much-you-can-provide-for-me-” sort of battle, as couples hug in public as they joust in their individual mental landscapes.

Some would say its healthy.

Others would liken it to alcohol.

But after the first couple shots, the burning feeling in your chest dissipates as your body temperature rises from the pot of emotions bubbling underneath.

Words start to slur as words decide to stop lying on your behalf. Memories merge into an amalgamation of horror and fancy as you play the “What If?” game with yourself.

Then the world spins, and you taste the exotic dish of hard granite and dirt on your lips to pass the night.

And for a moment,
however brief,

And then you awake.


Anxiety, Descriptive, Emotion, Life, Pain, PenPractice, Poem, Prose, Shorts, Sleepy time, thoughts, writing


I have to remember to release my breath.

I don’t want to die, I just want to sleep.

But the grip around my heart just tightens, as my chest heaves up and down. My palms are sweaty, and I find myself staring down the ceiling.

The once-white ceiling, now transformed into an artistic piece of daily worries, superimposed upon my inner insecurities. Fear being the curator, I’m seated at the exhibition and treated to a nightmarish tour.

I have to remember to breathe.

I don’t want to die, I just want to sleep

Forget my today’s worries and rest within the bosom of nothingness for the few hours I have between today and ‘tomorrow’

I just have to remember to breathe

I just want to sleep

Coping System, Descriptive, Emotion, PenPractice, Prose, Shorts, Thoughts, thoughts, Uncategorized, writing

Anti-Climatic Whimsy 

I do this a lot.

I dress my worries, concerns and ‘sigh’ stories in a series of unnecessary literary complexities because it has become increasingly easier to over-simplify the thoughts that race through my mind than to call them for what they are.


The thoughts, not yet spoken, bouncing around like a soda can about to be opened, and yet when the metal seal breaks it’s metal skin, instead of the expected rush of carbonated oral explosion, all I am capable of in that moment, is the gradual hiss of the sounds needed to ease off the pressure off my mind.

Carbon dissipates as the mind regulates back to norm, the coke losing the taste of what attracted its consumer.

I spend so much time navigating the whimsical nature of my mental landscape, as I and I argue the philosophical nature of the world I’ve been born in, often lamenting at how long the discussions take, and how little they manifest in reality.

Dreams upon dreams of change that I remain unsure as to whether or not they’d manifest in my lifetime.

One minute lost in the lands of Horizon Zero Dawn, marveling at the sight that a room of 100+ developers had managed to create, and the next minute, I’m sorting out the plans for my future, my scope, size and possibilities, seasoning the plate with relationship and familiar plans.

The world grows ever colder as the fires of hate burns brighter than ever. The broken branches of alliances being used to stoke the cold flame. The west and the east remain locked in a quiet battle as governmental figures joust with their words, their citizens being used as bet or worse, bait.

The rich acquire more as the not rich bleed the remains of their monthly gain into the pocket of the tax collectors and insurers. The healthy condemn the health service, hoping for dismantling even as the sick look towards the service that reminds them that they too are human.

We are taught that we are different, even though the we bleed the same red elixir of life when we are cut.

Truth is dismissed, regarded as a tool the media utilizes to control, as the people mistake facts for opinions. Lies become the standard of honesty, on the account of being able to “trust them to lie, hence implying i can trust them notwithstanding

 Fragility is one of the traits that represent humanity, in its delicate definition allowing humans to break… And be put together again.

And with our fragile hearts in its protected frame, we toss, pass and shoot like a game of handball, hoping that our hearts never quite touch the floor, but instead, make it into the court of whom our attraction is pointed towards.

Emotional landmines litter the wall of life like a battlefield, waiting for victims to step on and watch their fragile hearts explode in pieces.

Then we spend the days/weeks/months/years carefully putting together what we saw break down. It’s frustrating, it’s hard, its delicate and tender, sore from its misuse. But we took, day in and day out at working to ensure we are protected for the next time, because we didn’t learn from the first time.

And still.

Even with all our hard work and sleepless, pillow wet nights, there always exists a missing piece to the full puzzle.

The eternal evidence that we will never really be whole again.

And that hurts.

I live in a world where my skin acts as the unwanted filter to whether or not i get particular  life choices. Like an RPG game, where I’m hindered from progression via a pathway simply because I’m of the wrong race. 

But we deal. 

We buckle down and adhere by the rules of the land. We assimilate and confirm because it’s easier. Or so we’d like to believe. 

It’s easier to listen.

It’s easier to not be eligible to buy a house because I’m not eligible for a loan of sorts.

It’s easier to work twice as hard for a position even though i already possess more qualifications than my counterparts. 

It’s easier to be shot dead simply because i appeared more threatening on account of my height and my skin colour. 

It’s easier to be profiled before speaking, then re-profiled for having a good grasp of the nation’s language, culture and art. 

And yet, I’m still hated on account of me being black. 

And then there’s you.

The average person trying to make ends meet, and better yet, achieve those childish dreams that made you colour books and play dress up.

I’m only a voice in the corner of the internet, having whimsical conversations with myself.

But you.

You can be great.

Heck, you ARE great.

Now i don’t know if anyone has told you lately, but take it from me… Me, the written calligraphic words on your screen.
I believe in you.

Go be Awesome.

Bae, Descriptive, Emotion, Late Night, Life, Love, PenPractice, Prose, Shorts, Thoughts, writing

Out the Window.

The beauty of the shiny green pastures wheeze past me gracefully, as they remain static in their growth, dancing only to the soft wind that blew across the quiet land. 

Back when it was just me, enduring the quiet rides by the windowsill of the Virgin train that ran all the way back to the place I’m duty bound to call Home. The carriage maintains a just above average hum, of the occupants discussing the day’s events, retelling stories of past memories, making plans for the weekend in London and the likes. 

It’s at times like this, where I look towards the horizon and watch the night sky slowly take over the activities it’s day sister has relegated to him. The purple haze at the horizon point, slowly painting the sky into an artistic blue, before place the yellow dotted wonders that make up the starry sky. Sometimes, if I focus enough, I remember the days when I’d sleep outside with my family, back in Nigeria, on the cars of the house, due to the absence of light. 

And we’d indulge in our dreams of the future but most importantly, the quiet companionship under the starry sky. 

Reality however, has a odd way of taking things off you when you believe it is all you could ever want. But Life, as it turns out, would make it clear you don’t need. 

The train used to be just me. 

Then I introduced myself to you, in the blue dress as you sat quietly in the corner, watching the minutes pass by on our mutual’s graduation celebration. I hadn’t thought that far ahead when we exchanged names, and I pestered for your number. 

Here you are… next to me, and as we spend the journey watching a movie as the train makes its way back down to the place we call Home. Your focus is on the scenes taking place on the small screen of my tablet surface, while my mind’s focus is on you. You. In my serenity, causing me no comfort.  

I can’t look out the windowsill anymore, to the beauty of nature that the Creator blessed the Earth with, because you now stand in the way, and any attempt of mine to look past you ends, with me just looking at you. 


I think He gave me a better view of the beauty I’d like to keep on seeing for as long as He’d let me see…




Coping System, Emotion, Life, Prose, Shorts, Sleepy time, Thoughts


​The time is past sunset now, the dark blueish tint enveloping the night sky above.

It’s a Sunday. Stereotypically evident, by the lack of cars on the road, and the orange glow of lighting in everyone’s home. It’s the day to cut back. Society would have you believe that should be a Saturday but it’s a lie.

Sunday is when you rest. Sunday is when you reflect.

In a few short hours, the subsect of the world of which it remains night goes quiet as the mind relegates to it’s battery saver state, preparing for the morning wake and the subsequent actions that follow. Clockwork really, as the body gets set back into its routine of making money and pretending to look busier than they actually are in hopes of making more.

Typical stuff.

When I was younger, I used to fantasise that I’d be sitting at the edge of a building, or beachhead or balcony, watching the sunset in the horizon. This…dream would usually be populated by close friends and a girlfriend, conversing, laughing, socialising and eventually being comforted by the silence of being next to loved ones, as we gaze into the distance of where our deepest dreams lay accomplished. The sunset would usually be in its earliest position, the orange glow bathing us in that warm hug of loving goodness, just before it dips below the horizon.

The sunset is different now. My fantasy having being transformed by life experiences, the orange tint is absent. Now? It’s just me at the edge alone, sitting with my eyes closed.

It’s relevance in being open is useless here.

After all, what’s there to see but the dark purple mix of warm and cool, painting the sky in the uncertainty of what the future might hold. I had once believed that my path onwards would be one taken together with a group of like-minded people, walking hand in hand.

My naivety has been cruel to me. I once led myself to dream that we’d all congregate in years time, together on that edge but even I knew that to be a lie.

Maybe it’s time I get up from the view before me and return back to the house.

Descriptive, PenPractice, Prose, writing

“I don’t know…”

The chill outside hung in the air like a white misty blanket, my breath swimming within it. I pulled my jacket closer and kept on walking.

It was just 4:30pm, winter season.

My steps made little noise on the ground as I stomped my way hastely to my destination. I had a dinner to get to for 8pm and it felt like I was running late already.

A scuffle to my left perks up my attention, as I glance to see a group of boys surround a cowering smaller boy. I don’t break my stride, as the sound of the first punch hitting the smaller boy in the face got to me. If anything, they quickened to escape the scene.

After all, I don’t know him. I’m not involved.

A few mins of fast walking away from what sounded like a flurry of continuous punches and kicks, the screams of help had finally dwindled to a faraway whisper that I can ignore.

I don’t know him. I’m not involved. The ends are rough, I didn’t see shit.

My pace eventually slows back to its original tempo, left right, left right. My hands temporarily leave the edges of my jacket, as I bring it together to warm up. Hot air touches them, as I rub them together furiously, hoping that the friction keeps me warm.

A whistle blows through and I turn to see a lady being cat called by a few older men. She was covered up well but even from here, I could tell she was a babe. Date-able to be sure. More for the sex than anything, possibly.

Of the three men cat-calling her, one steps out of his way to block her. My pace had slowed now, a steady rhythmic pacing. She looked pretty enough for me to step in and pretend I knew her.

Well, until the one in front of her made a grab for a lady parts in Donald Trump fashion and she slapped him. He retaliated, his heavy counter causing her to hit the floor, blood spilling out of her mouth.

My walking pace almost immediately sped up, my focus forcibly torn away from the sight I had seen and back onto the road I was on.

I don’t know her. I didn’t see shit.

Or I hoped, that would be the case as I glanced back and made eye contact with one of the men who was standing over her now unconscious body.

It was brief but it felt like eternity, as the gears in both our minds clicked into place. My walk turned into a run, and I heard the footsteps behind me.

My stamina did not last for long, resulting in me being dashed against the wall of the back of a nearby retail store.

I don’t know him. I don’t know her. I don’t know anything. I’m not involved.

I say, repeatedly, stumbling over the words, sweat and spittle that dribbled over my mouth, with my hands up in surrender. The guy manhandling me slaps me and tells me to shut up. I obliged as he proceeded to threaten.

He made to punch me half way into his monologue of what he would do to me if I said anything when I noticed a staff member of the retail store at the end of the alley way looking in.

I tried to stop myself from shouting for help but the words had left my mouth before I could gate it.

I opened my eyes to the dark street. It hurt like hell to move and I am guessing something in my body is broken as it is severely hurting to breathe. My damaged watch reads 8pm. my right hand goes to search for my iPhone but I already know I won’t find it.


I finally manage to sit up after some mental coercion. I briefly wonder why I had been left unconscious for so long without any help when the realisation hits me calmly. The staff that saw me. They took themselves out of the equation like I would have.

I sighed and shivered before forcing myself up.

The officer I spoke to at the hospital questioned me about my attackers. As I was about to reply, I see a man rushed in on a stretcher through the ward. Something about a bullet wound. It was brief but I saw the face and something in me shivered in some version of primal fear.

The officer reiterated the question, more slowly, afraid that some concussion had dulled my hearing and response. I turned back to face him from the bed I was sitting on.

“I don’t know him, sir. I don’t remember much.”