Dear 23

You arrive at a time I have developed a new obsession. A thrill for sun rays brushing through the rain. A mystical fantasy I relate with. Defiance, even at the slightest hint of how nature should flow in a specific pattern. The sun rays affirm that maybe, we do not have to settle for less. My rebellion just like that of the rays, best saved for situations deemed impossible to me before. We can penetrate the biggest of storms, set our thrones and dominate. Just like you are about to do with me. A little glimmer of hope and a ray of light that sets calm to my storms.

Dear 23

I want you to come in like a storm because I am ready to tackle the challenges you have in store for me. I am not going to cower like I did months before, neither will I swear at the souls that get a rile out of stepping on my toes. I want you to come hard at me like a tornado because I am done playing by the comfort-zone. I want to swing my petite hands at the tasks you assign and hope somehow, they get done. Squeak, clean, and neat. In another world, I would say I am ready for the big fight.

Dear 23

I know this might sound crazy, but when 22 came around, I felt a cloud. I felt like the clouds of uncertain smoke puffed off a cigarette, blown by the wind from one place to another but bounced back safely until it fades away. Smoke would never get hurt by bouncing off on walls, but imagine my wretched soul.

Cigarettes are not my niche, but then the act can be fascinating to watch. He blows smoke and plays with it in his fingers, trying to crash it while it slips away from his grasp. While his fingers would be a threat to the smoke, no matter how hard he tried to grasp it, the dancing waves of white slipped in between his fingers laughing at him wickedly as he tried to grasp again. The reckless tangles we dance to with our lives and escape alive. It’s nothing short of a miracle. Smoke is defiant you know. So sure of itself. As it gets blown, it dances with the wind back into the arms of its slave and slips away one more time.

Dear 23

Frankly, when I said 22 was challenging, I was speaking from a state of delirium and self-pity. I am over that now. Speaking positivism into existence- well and acting on it too. I hear it is the way for us demigods. Despite what I thought was a challenging year, 22 was just the best stair I ever climbed. Two jobs in a year, my graduation, I became an aunt… Let’s say it was a year of finding self-love and happiness. I would go on but why dwell in the past when I await your arrival. I feel content with the steps I have made this far, but I await more; granted they are deserved. Those little steps a babe makes arouse happiness within us and we do not mind if they slip, for the first step is what we wanted. I promise to rejoice at every little step, for often, instead of being proud of those small strides, we get tempted to covet that which seems greater yet not our own.

Dear 23

A little advice for you. I do not promise you a smooth sailing. I will burn you as hard as I burn those calories in the gym. I will work you as hard as a slave from time to time when you have to juggle between work and school. But believe me you, all I do, I do out of love. I know what you are capable of and I sure as hell will not sit around and see you under perform. I want you to never look back and say, damn, I wasted my 365 days with Rioba. But for every toil you make, you will be rewarded for it. It will never be in vain. I do not want you to compare yourself to the rest, I want you to remember you are your own competition. Toil hard for you, aim to be better on day 57 than on day 33. Cheers to new beginnings all the same. No more dwelling on life lessons, we only look forward to the future and take new strides, hope that we step on no landmines because there is a pain that hits when a life is lost young due to recklessness.


I may sound intoxicated, but the only intoxication is the joy from the imagination of the woman I will become.

after 365 more sun downs, I will come back and reaffirm;

23 hit me just right again. A glorious year of rejuvenated self love, and a hand extended love to it too. A year that is going to trickle gaiety.
Long moments of happiness ensuing from within and without. A year of empire building and wealth immersion.
Yes ,I believe .
And sell out a decree ,that 23 is going to yield bounty success!

Like a wise man once said, the HallMark of greatness- Know specifically what you want






I am on a mumble rumble today, with no idea of whether my illegible scribble makes sense. But today, I am concerned about triggers. The little banana peel on the floor that slips you right back onto the dirty ground you were dusting yourself from.

It seems like staring into a dark tunnel, the hollow yet loaded barrel pointed at your face seals the deal on how many seconds you have left. The imaginary fingers pull the trigger, in nanoseconds, the primary surges the bullet down the revolve. Before your ghost floats away, you see your life flashing before your eyes… This is probably one of my worst illusions ever, because no one wants to die. No one wants to die yet they are still alive. And despite how much we wish to wake up from this dream, it has an annoying stench, like that of smoke when you walk through it. It clings on to you and sucks life out of your fragrance, leaving you smelling barbecued. Burnt. Burnt on a wood stake.



Untimely maybe, but they always sense the worst time to come lurking. They wait for you to be at your most vulnerable before they strike. A pathetic tactic if you ask me, but it always seems to serve them right. They are like that constant fly that wants to dance around your foot and tickle you no matter how many times you try to swat it. They have no fear and no remorse. A constant reminder that the past is real.

And my trigger today?

I am not entirely sure. But something uncomfortable has been gnawing at my walls, pushing to be freed from within. I guess the physical and spiritual realms were working together because my mum called me on the same. Asked me if I was holding onto anything heavy in my heart. And like that, the demons came out to dance. My late teens and early twenties were full of what an opinionated person would not call mistakes. Opinionated- that I am. So I clearly do not know what to call these moments. Like when I chose to cling onto my bed in fear of how I would be judged if I let my star shine. Instead of being politically involved in school, I chose to lurk in the shadows and peep only when it was convenient for someone else. Or when my previous significant other convinced me that a little intoxication from alcohol was an equivalent to a ticket to hell. Or when I skipped school because I felt my clandestine ideas sky rocketed into a battle on who was right or wrong and made me so self-conscious I forced myself to camouflage. All these moments, I have tried to burn, but once in a while, the ‘What If’ moment sucks me back into the dark pit.

There is always something you are trying to hide from, run away from. You think you have it under control, until something insignificant like the color of your nail polish reminds you of that little imperfection. And at that point you end up questioning your whole existence. It is unfair. I feel it is unfair that we can’t control these little ideas that make us feel lesser than what we actually are. It does not matter what happened or what we could have done better, what matter is that we had a shot at taking a step forward and we took it.


The feeling of inadequacy doesn’t just fade away because you wish it to. No, it takes a little bit of you as it makes its way out, and slowly you begin to pick up the clay and mold yourself afresh. In that period, you constantly question if you are good enough, if you are doing it right or if you are on the right track. It is tiresome, frustrating and pure evil. You cannot take a step forward without wondering why you should not take two steps back.

But then, there is room for redemption


It’s not until you get that second perspective on your trigger that you start working yourself up with no way down. The trigger can be a snap in your face to bring you out of that hollow battle with self-cultivated demons. That is my favorite trigger. So maybe, this time round, when you feel like the end of the barrel is pointing at your temple. Do not fret, let the bullet do its damage on the former you. Kill any survival room for doubt and anxiety. I no longer let my triggers pull me back into the dark pit, now, they propel me forward into a new person. Anytime I feel the primer propel the bullet forward, I sigh in anticipation and wait to be reborn. When I feel hammer strike the firing pin, I pray that a new cartridge quickly feels the empty slot to cleanse the remaining imperfections in me.


I mean, we can’t keep on living in the past, when we have a future, can we?

Happy Sunday






















Dishonest prayers…


I am inclined to believe I have a secret fetish I share with the rain. Or so it seems for whenever it rains, my valves open and ideas spew. When I think about it though, rain is dangerous, it is like a piece of evidence that incriminates you for a crime you committed. It serves as a reminder that no matter how new a person you are, once upon a time, something happened. Do you ever feel like; rain clings on to you the same way a dog follows a scent- the same way your sins follow you. Yes, the bible says we are forgiven and atoned, but oh well, every one knows you kissed Jack with the running nose. It clings on you. Just like the rain today, the flood gates opened in the middle of the streets after my stroll with local man and The droplets of water slowly formed a web on my skin that reminded me of a novel I once read- Carradice chains: This droplets, though tiny, are a curse, a curse you cannot break; no matter how hard you wipe it off, the wet patch will always prove you did the nasty. To break this curse, you must let it dry on its own. Today, I felt like my sins were on bare. Naked. I had crossed a mile last night. One I hoped to amend.

But anyway if feel like a ranting spree today…

In my head, I am caged in my four pillared cell. Nothing obscures my view, no barriers prevent my escape, but I simply can’t escape the shackles that hold me in my spot. Outside, the sun shines bright, but within my  cage, the frost bites my bones. Wiffs of black smoke begin to drift into the room. An ominous soundtrack plays from a mile away. The time is near, when the truth must come to light. As the smoke rises, so does my resolve to tell my tale arise. Today I lay myself naked for my jury to cast their biased verdict. This canvas of perfection is slowly wearing out and the scars are beginning to show. The brushes are worn out from applying layers of colour to hide the ugly rage that seeks to sip out from within. And the truth is, I forgot to be a better person for a moment and made a prayer last night.

Growing up, they told me we only pray to give thanks, to confess and to bless. Never to curse. But well, when I made my prayers last night, I told God to spank a couple of people who often stepped on my toes and got away with it. My vivid descriptions of the people I felt have hurt me was so surreal I failed to recognize the darkness that was lying still within me. In my thoughts, I wished that anyone who put me down over my loss of weight or my chubby chins and flabby tummy should for a day wake up in my weight and tell me how much it hurts to be insulted over something as beautiful as stretchmarks or fleshy arms. After all, African men love them. I prayed for my fake friends who tarnished my name when my pretend boyfriend passed me like a joint. I prayed for them to be ditched in dark spaces with no one to fight their battles with them, that way maybe they would understand the value of kindness. I prayed for my relatives who branded me promiscuous, or should I say they called me a tart. I wished them well, I want them present at my wedding, they said I wouldn’t make it. He lied when promised me a dance in the rain someday and I hoped that whoever he met next broke his heart as he did mine. My imagination knew no bounds last night.

I didn’t mean it though…

Walking in the puddles makes me feel as triumphant as my wicked wishes. Stepping on their imaginary faces for once makes me feel victorious. I don’t know if this only happens to me or if we all go through it. There are times the universe keeps on pushing you until you can’t hold back any longer and you explode. You listen to rumors people tell about you, you listen to your friends burn you to look good, and worst of all you have family judging you for being different. Of course at some point you are bound to snap, and I don’t think anyone should blame you for it. Petty. I know. Once in a while though, we are pushed to extremes we never knew we were capable of . Being human makes it logical to react in the span of anger, in a moment of desperation, in a fit of rage. We make wishes we do not want granted, we make prayers we do not mean. No one wants to be bitter, so to ease the burn, we take the quickest option available, speak of it and surge forward.I wish for the hate to stop. Life is too short for us to keep on picking on each other or put each other down for our imperfections. The world is too lonely to push the few people that care away. Family is too important to point fingers without minding our own imperfections

The rain is still socking me as I walk towards my bus stop, but the prints of my sins are still visible on my jeans. Tiny patches reminding me of a little more confessions I need to make. The sheds are flooded with sinners like me seeking redemption. We have all made that error once or twice, but is it really worthy to have someone make a dishonest prayer? I live the jury to decide.



Its 3:00 o’clock in the morning and am craving.

I must admit, I am one lazy lass

I must admit, I am one lazy lass. Do not take me too serious though, this is just but an excuse I use to hide away the fact that am an over thinker with a really short attention span and therefore jotting down my feelings seems like a toddler handling crayons for the first time. There will always be a beautiful mesh of non-agreeing patterns that seem appealing to an innocent eye. But if the same marks were to be examined by an actual art critic the disdain on their faces would probably explain how the beauty of art was being butchered in that 4-edged white space. Thus- my absence despite promising to drop the shades that I wear and show more of my intellectual skin around here. but it being Sunday, I guess we can start life afresh..

I said no to church

Last year I made one of the best decisions in my life. I stopped going to church. Yes, I said it. I said no to church. I remember that day like it was yesterday. One of the most memorable days of my life, but I can’t say I did not see it coming. You know it’s funny how at times we break our own hearts and blame other people for our downfalls… well, it was something like that… I was coming back from school in my then depressed state, and something triggered me to re-evaluate the reason behind me going to church. I thought of my past year in church- not in salvation, but in church. I attended church service late, mainly because the nearer I got to church the more my steps slowed or faltered because I didn’t want to get into a cage where I needed to be someone strong when deep down I was weak from all the emotional confrontations that I had been undergoing at the time. I felt like I was being unfair to God, with him being all good to me. What shocked me was that I realized I was merely attending church as a formality because even though am 22, my mother would still whoop my bum bums if she found me lazying around on Sunday instead of going to church.

instead, it became my prison

I abandoned church because it stopped being a refuge for me, instead it became my prison. I was in shackles- caged because I needed to keep my appearances yet every Sunday was a thrash to my already battered back because I was forced to relive the horrors of my former life. I attended service even though I would go back home and cry myself to sleep. Well Sunday evenings are nap times, but for the better part of the end of last year, sleep was a luxury I could not afford. Let me not get started about the judgmental lot within our worship centers who always have something to say about your lifestyle. Mind you, the bible in itself warns against judging and condemning. But oh well, the society today has been known to interpret the bible in their own words to justify their deeds that may end up opening doors to hell for them. Okay, am getting a bit side-tracked- back to my story…

Anyone who knows me well enough knows just how impulsive I can get. A light bulb clicked inside of me. I was busy living a lie to please the masses who who expected a certain standard of life out of me that I forgot to take care of me. So in the midst of my realization, I reached out into my purse and texted my former pastor’s wife and let her know I was heading down a new path that the Spirit would lead me to, as long as it was far away from the church. It wasn’t a long conversation really. It probably didn’t come as a shock to anyone after all. Life happens.

I was busy living a lie to please the masses

And that, is a short story of how I began my life out of church. It felt nice for a while to stop living a lie. Pretending is never easy especially when you are doing it in front of people who probably have already seen your flaws in the spiritual realm and are waiting for you to confess and get an atonement for your sins yet to you nothing seems out of place. It felt good to be free. Felt good to make a few wrong decisions without having to explain myself to anyone, until I had to explain myself to myself. Its never that easy, especially when you are a believer in the existence of a higher deity to whom you are answerable. If the shame doesn’t consume you, then the guilt will lead you to your redemption. And thus, my cravings for church at 3:00 o’clock in the morning.

So earlier in the year my mama popped the big question- ‘Did you find a church to attend?’ Again. Church for who? (At this point I guess I am tempted to roll my eyes, but we don’t do that over here. Not in an African home. Not near my mother). I knew my answer wasn’t yes just yet. I went with the typical am working on it speech. I wasn’t ready for the big house with a stormy dark cloud hovering over it. I wasn’t ready to put myself back into a systematized life that would dictate my sleeping hours, praying hours or eating hours. I wasn’t ready for a life where I Would be shunned if I didn’t meet the demands and instructions jotted down for me. I felt like God was misrepresented and I simply needed to understand Him on a personal level in order to tame my rebellious and overthinking nature that simply questioned everything and thus always landed me in problems with spiritual authority.

I never ran out of reasons why I needed to step back but this topped them all. Life battles are hard to explain to ordained men of God who will never chase after you to worship Him in truth and in spirit through all the turmoils. The level of perfection expected from you can be emotionally damaging. I think majority of the millennials today run away from church because the church in itself is loosing empathy. We are not only fighting among ourselves within our religions and our churches, but we are fighting against the freedom of expression within the church. Well, I guess my mentality on this shifted a bit earlier this year when I had a sit down with my Bishop, not for the atonement of my sins but just a father daughter conversation on how far life had regressed. And those are the moments I wish to see more in church, where I can sit and talk and not have 13 verses thrown in my face as to why I made a grave error in my judgement. That is the church I long for. That was my turning point I guess; when I felt like I was more of a daughter than a sinner, I yearned to return home. Talk of the prodigal son. Only that this one didn’t squander any material inheritance.

I didn’t need 13 scriptures, I needed a listening ear

Do not get my words twisted, church is amazing. I love worship, I love it when am broken enough for God to minister through me. I only feel that, for me, it is paramount to actually establish a relationship with God within the church setting. If that chance for growth is not offered then pardon me, but I have to ask again, Church for who. There needs to be an actual ground for one to feel loved for the sanctuary to be worthy of attendance. Otherwise all it becomes is a Holy ground with self-righteous folks who do not realize that their actions wreck hearts and drive people from the physical structure. If it is not nurtured into a place of understanding, it becomes a ground for unjustified accusations and malicious acts among members of the church who will smile at your face and deliver sermons on the pulpit but plot your down fall the moment you turn your back to them.

Anyway, my endorsements aside…

Church is love

I think i’m ready for church now though… The above excuses just a tip of the ice berg of the millions of reasons I have given myself in the past year as to why I need to hold back .Do not get me started on the need to play hush hush in order not to offend communities that constantly seek for politically correct dialogues that suit their needs and infringe on the convenience of other parties, or how my perception on the so called saved relatives who saw no good coming out of me almost influenced my decision to run away from my destiny. That is all a past, am now emptying those bags of excuses and taking a step in making sure that the church I want is the same church I am offering to anyone who has an encounter with me. The church shouldn’t necessarily confine our good deeds to the sanctuary. It can extent to our individual relationships with people who look up to us as role models, friends and family. The sanctuary may still have cracks that need repairing, but this temple is ready to begin a journey on its own and be the church.

Sigh- Church is love. I am craving love

Some nights such as tonight I sit upright in my bed and hope for a miracle from heaven that will somehow shift the paradigm of our perception of the church or the roles we play in making the church look bad. but wishing is never enough. the first step is acting right being kind and loving without expecting anything in return. Living a life that can breflect our true selves and giving a listening ear to a brother. Church is never a lot to ask. Church is love. I am ready for church.

The raindrops are falling

First of all, I hope you missed my irrelevant humour, drafting this, am comforted by the sound of rain in the background. The comfort of knowing am within this shell of comfort while chaos erupt outside totally blows my mind. But then again that is just a reflection of my internals… It is chaos in there. The need for gratification for my soul clashing with my unending procrastination of deeds that are meant to reward me is overwhelming. These memories are scramming to break free but it may take me a while to grasp all of them.

The raindrops…

Am I the only one who finds the patter of rain on my windows fascinating. It’s like multiple tiny soldiers are headed to a battle field and they just have no idea they will not be returning home. They land with thunderous blows but slide down that glass pane scrambling for a bit of grasp but finally fall to the ground with a thud. Splashing their imaginary blood across the muddy puddle. It is amazing, I watch the repetitive action over and over, cultivating a sense of joy as the tiny soldiers tumble ot their downfall after picking a battle with gravity. A battle they clearly lost. Sick. I do not know where this dark humour was cultivated from, but life has a way of transforming you, hardening your heart, or maybe it just shapes you differently from the expectations of the society. Not my point though, back to the rain drops. Once in that muddy puddle, they may flow down the stream or remain in an ugly murk in the middle of the road. Children may come and stump on the drops now collected into a puddle of fallen soldiers. For the child, it is a happy spot. But I know the pain that these tiny soldiers feel. Its not just a tumble from grace to shame, It is also multiple trumpling on your broken bones from uncaring strangers. I have been there, I know what those rain drops are feeling. but just like everyone else, I shrug and walk away from my window. It pretty much is not my damn business.

I turn back to my draft; welcome to my new normal

I was accused of vanishing into thin air for the past couple of months. Well, in reality, I was actually struggling about how to come back into all this. At times am swamped with so many emotions, I have no idea if what I put down even makes sense, but then again, am no quitter… and here we are despite it not being where we began at. You know I could have opted out and let my heart wander to new adventures, but writing has always tickled a fancy in me. It is how best I connect with the tangles of ideas and events in my mind. The raindrops are ceasing, the storm is almost over. My window pane is moist. I guess its a stamp reminding us of the soldiers that once were… The chill that comes with it reminds us of the sinister thoughts that come with this weather. We freeze, but rather than cluster for warmth, we are currently scared of being butchered because the society says its okay. Story for another day though. The rain drops are gone and now my mind no longer focuses on the calamities of my life, that chapter is closed, only meant to be told. Am a new believer. It is time to think positively in my draft.

So about my disappearance. Am a social being especially with people that I am well acquainted with. I have insulated my bubble and lined it in a way that everyone has their place and in some weird way my phone acts as a guard to inform me of their presence. So some notification tones turn my insides because I know who is on the other end. And of late my greatest obsession has been about restoring my blog and shaping my writing into a pile of words that feed souls. It’s almost 9pm, the notification comes in, I definitely know it’s my host and I pick up my phone hoping its news about my restored domain. That premonition of doom. An imaginary knife stabs my tummy and for some reason it knocks out all air from my canal. For a second there I had tears in my eyes. Because within I felt repressed, I needed to vent, to chant, to sing if I could. I simply needed to put my voice out there and address the state of my world, yet here was a new stumbling block. My domain had gone on recession

My Yogi, you have been a channel i draw strength from through this journey

First things first, I did what any rational woman would do, I hang up and called my favorite to vent. Not my initial intention though, but emotion over powered rationality. My Yogi picks up my calls and I spend my first few minutes pouring my anger out on her about how I can’t do this anymore, how am thinking of new means of building my brand, and how I had an option of leaving all I had accomplished and beginning afresh. Bitter pill, but I had to face facts. It was either I start afresh or start afresh. She made me face my options and pick the most reasonable. Of course she told me to sleep over it for a few days, but I have never known myself to be patient with my own decisions. I think most of the time I have it figured out.

I guess it was a season of full transformation though, from my depression posts to blossoming, This flower was finally ready to be added to a bouquet that would make some broken hearted soul a little more happy. My journey was pretty easy. See, my body is arranged in some clock dimension that flows against the currents of the normal mundane functioning. I am more active at night than during the day. My muse flows best when the rest twist within their sheets. Most of my posts actually go up at midnight. Bingo!!! That light bulb that lit my mind. Long story short, here we have it, the birth of my new baby, My midnight muse. I felt discouraged at first, because this meant rebuilding my brand from scratch but in reality I guess am peeling off my old skin and taking a new journey from all dimensions. Then again realization hit me, the greatest of journeys begin with these small steps, so I am going to make mine without caring about what lays ahead or what I have left behind. Am simply documenting the now and hoping to find more life and adventure along the way.

The raindrops are back, but with it came a new revelation. Just like a life cycle, the same way they came down, at some point they evaporate, cluster and form clouds before they shower us with blessings. guess when the raindrops hit you, you see the soldiers coming home from a victorious battle, they cluster in a puddle on the ground, content over how well their efforts have made the environment green. On a sunny day, when the wind blows not, the puddle settle and clearly we can see a reflection of how peaceful the sky is. And maybe that calm is just what we are headed for… The raindrops are falling.

Adios Thoughts of the Soil, Bienvenue My Midnight Muse….