SHALLY A.

  In Yoruba language there is a saying,  ‘eni to lori, ko ni fila; eni to ni fila, ko lori, ’ literally meaning, ‘ no man can have it all.’     The undoing of man is the incessant way we scratch our heads, biting deep, in search of what we do not have. We pierce our hearts, craving to be like  Mama Titi , and savor all we see behind the closed doors of  Mama Titi’s  house.  Pause and think...  Do you really know what transpires in the cold waiting room beyond doors closed? Closed doors are the greatest deceivers – masks – refusing to unveil the divergent colors of men. Closed doors wall-up the ways we can sieve through hearts. They shut us off completely, dropping little crumbs of what others want us to see at their doorsteps. Then, we begin to dream of the pleasurable taste of their lives because we see the  masquerades.  We become   deeply lost in the crumbs that we forget to look a little deeper. We get lost in their sweet tasting words; we forget to ask mo

  I don’t want to die Stuck in the shelves of books never read Driving the routine of life I never stopped to learn A life time of hours at a job I detested A period possessed by trails, I forgot happiness A religious belief that some human is the enemy ............   I don’t want to die Like a tree withered by anger and neglect, because its soul resists to shed dead leaves A walled heart never smiling carelessly,  never loving stupidly – very stupidly   ........... An ‘I do’   life,  devoid of unconditional love devoid of hope and faith, it dies with distrust A spectator in awe,  watching the DSTV of others lives   .............   A limited world not seeing, tasting and never listening No beautiful sights, new culture  or amazing discoveries A life of the conquered  letting the world beat my dreams out my will fail  .............. A life constricted in a pony tail it neve

Waiting for the rickety bus to deliver me to my destination, my delivery time was fast approaching. The walking dead bus forcefully stops; I climb in, walk close to the window and sit down. I stick my head out – I’m dreaming of a better life – a life flowing with the swiftness of dancing, the steadiness of peace, and simplicity of hope. I dream on. Absently, I turn my hilariously hanging head with hope, when she jumps in. She slowly slides and stiffens beside me, holding her son firmly on one leg and her gigantic bag on the other. I notice her hands.  These big hands are sorely black, lined with use, squeezed from the wear and tear of hours and hours of work; strengthened by the weight of carriage, paled from the life of wash and ware. I wonder, what’s her story? Did her husband treat her hands with care? They desperately needed his support. Her palms told me they had carried sons, daughters, chores and life itself. Her face, strangely, bore little evidence of