There is a simple beauty in the possession of a thought; a single eye; a blame scale; a faulty memory. There is a sound pleasure in wrestling with the past and conforming to the inability to conform. At times, my midnight battles are not with sleep or strange spirits; neighbours hammering on brick walls or frog croaks, lovers moaning, moon dancing or twilight’s stretch, mine are with thoughts. The thoughts to conquer and those that come conquered.

There is a simple reckoning in colours; submissive as they may appear to the eyes…eye. And then the sublime seduction to gloat freely in the boastings of the past. I see at times that most human battles are with the past. What was I that I am not? What did I not know that I now know? When was it – life – good or when was evil not naught? Sometimes, we hate from the past only to see our souls prosper the love to hate from the past. Its challenging to fight that battle here with a single eye but what isn’t it? It’s best to dwell on definition and for hate, it’s tricky but one must know that the definition of hate as the love to hate is not simpler yet this is not the battle. The battle is and has almost never left the past.

Referring to the past and its misgivings, I found hope belated and in a somersaulting plane I found the beauty of unholy chants best left uncharted. My scribbling is slow-hearted; pardon me, I suffer from the guilty of a self-love session. However, I have found it a blessing to testify of a mile of forgetfulness; for there is a beauty in forgetfulness.

There is a humble joy in forgetfulness and the musing of the act…art of forgetfulness and I mark transitions this way. I mark them by simply forgetting. This time, it is a long plane to cross: A weighty cross to bear: about forgetting and simply forgetting thoughts which battle with me at night or dream-chasing. It’s is a drug at times to forget this season: Forgetting sand-roads and mist rising from cars pursuing cars.

Forgetting rock-pathways and skyline streams; letting night sparkles from mountain caps go. Forgetting a rushing carnal which was my neighbour; forgetting music in the guise of language, cursing in Twi. Most spectacularly, forgetting the place where a sailor-at-sea curse for a voice is always eminent. Forgetting a hill filled with beggars; begging for attention, loving the shouts of conflict until the bad economy seals their lips to fend for food…or vend food for food.

Forgetting playful Lebanese bike-riders and money sucking warehouses; money stalking warehouses. Forgetting about semi-nude women who plead guilty to nudity proudly on the charges of fashion and vogue with young adults loving the trend of kneevage-showcase which is simply parallel to four-year event that reveals the shocking price we pay to get sold – the common beauty in paradoxes of fishes dying while trying to feed.

I bless the similitude of my battle for in my aimless strife to forget. I remember it all coming and leaving as vividly as they have always been. Do I bless the creator of memory for His creation? Yes, and for the single eye which is the light of the body, house of the soul.



Have you danced with the rain

With tummy-sick clouds

Overfed by the earth’s juice

Have u danced in petrichor

With senses set ablaze

In the purest lust of wanting more?


Have you

Found a place to laugh

In a place of pain

Have your heaviness

Been a scourge of hope

And how do you define a brilliant memory as this one

Have you danced with the rain

When constellations let out their clothes to dry

Have you?


Have you not seen those children
Who spit at the body
Of their mother
nude upon the streets
Which they built with her blood
Decorating the boulevards
With her widdering hair and
Her lips, soiled with curses
Bleeding away.

Have you not seen those children
Who glory in the under garments
Of their mother
Whose words are darts to the sufferings
She bore, building their minds
She swore, hoarding the pain
She tore, through fist and mist
And now, she is a score old
Unburied because she apparently knows nothing – dead

Have you not seen those children
Who whisper lasciviously
Boasting in the ravage of this land
Combed by those violent tributes
Where crude voices altar the praise
Of their mother’s pierced eyes
Her judgement impaled
I know you are watching them
By peeping through window holes
I know you are watching this brokenness
I know you know that it returns
This shame and neglect; I know you forgot







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The playwright fiddles with prophecies; recreating the premise of the heavenly discourse by simply portraying a mixed tribal kingdom. Indeed Aiyegbogbo, the kingdom, points to the world without reservations. Her feverish display of simple words sandwiched with actions which give life to the characters paints a portrait of her thought-point in the playbook.

Without caution, the play, peeps into the future with a Pre-tribulation Premillennialist belief of rapture. It is not the usual luxury product of a teenage writer from High school (at the time of writing the play). Her bold steps to make symbols of the caption-ascribed-characters further leaves the reader to undergo an internal debate concerned with the near-reality of the fast-moving playbook. Consequentially, she takes turns drastically and to the pitiable awe of the reader who steps into the tension of the plot, a bosom craft of her far out imagination.

Agony of the doubtful presents a world filled with apathy and disregards for true rewards; a world with a majority ready to sacrifice an eternity for the guise of a century-long existence. Without intentional harm, Oluwadara lampoons the unprepared and the doubtful.

Her conflict shakes the faith of the reader only to question if the king is afraid of his adversary, Fikajoye by leaving but isn’t the enemy fretful not to attack while the king is still present? The playwright is visibly unshaken and would not trade mercy with the faithless – who would not sacrifice the enjoyment of life for the strict adherence to the policies of the training – ultimately sentencing them to the fateless penalty. The play is not ignorant of the devices of the ultimate adversary in the spies of Fikajoye, but is salient to point out that the true enemy is the person willing to believe in unbelief.

The playwright is visibly unshaken and would not trade mercy with the faithless

The playwright is visibly unshaken and would not trade mercy with the faithless

At the king’s departure – the rapture – the playwright, not comfortably but almost conveniently, sustains the suspense of when the remnants – who had once disbelieved but were after the king’s departure willing to keep their stand and not compromise – would get caught. With a character like Kola even the reader shares a dwindling sense of hope until Oluwadara, the playwright, has had her fill and would engage further to the expected fate of endurance for a faith, once neglected, or doom upon the reception of the mark of agreement with the adversary.

Agony of the doubtful, a reenactment of the parables the ten virgins and many of the like, expresses God’s concern with freewill worship, the unknown knowledge of the Christian rapture, lack of conviction of believers to represent what they are; the devils ploy of penetration into the church well enough to dissuade even the elect of God, the instrument of the stranger’s voice as a mantle to dissuade the consciousness that the enemy dwells in our midst as we have lost the dominion of total control. The play posits that the Christian emblems of remembrance get dim quickly but only by the anointing from the Holy Spirit can they be renewed.

The play preaches of the ministry of the prince – Jesus – who redeems by conviction of love and has advocated that God, the father tarry this long. It speaks of hope: occurring when it should and when it must. It speaks of remnants, pre-rapture patience and post-rapture endurance. The enigma of the end is a blur that the trance of this premeditated warning in form of art has truly come to an end.

Agony of the doubtful is dotted by subtle humour and has a liberal facade with no specific religious adulation. But what could be easily faulted is the bias of basing the final candidature for departure on luck however the piece summons the consciousness of an eternal existence that humanity should be willing to be party to. It builds conviction, establishing that only the tactful who have come to terms with the lifestyle of a Royal City – heaven – can indeed enter into it and experience harmony.


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Dear Julie


Dear Julie,
sometimes you remind me of a nostalgia
of sleepless nights bound by my desire
to do the impossible. When you are filled, I am empty
of the strength to fight sleep’s slippery hands
but when you become a translucent bliss
I am filled with the pressure to do more
than a mere caffeine drunk writer.

Dear Julie,
my hands are energized
and upon this knot
a century has been rendered
never to be forgotten unless by death’s grip of jealousy.
my typewriter creaks…