fOR dEJI

O ever worthy, ever crowned in praise.
Blest in thy ways and blest in thy life,
Add that your every thought be faultless as
God's line; thy body be holy, thy acts be
merciful.

Sin still with fiercer rage pursues; obscuring
the virture, defaming the muse.
A soul like thine, in pain, in grief resigns.

'the good lord you serve, never to harm shall bring you'

iDENTITY

As hard as I try to forget, painfully I remember, as the night transcended to morning I was filled with thanks that my flesh was from the mosquito’s sting rescued.
My Step-mom had whipped up a bowl of rice stained brown by the twice as much beans it contained, gleefully, with my father I prayed over the food: those morning prayers mattered much to my father, for though he was a Christian, even I who was a Muslim practiced more of Christianity’s ideals: as he made us believe, he worshipped with the Grail land: the Grail land is a heavenly place: a wild expanse of land with beautiful colorful animals littering the expanse. I would blog on the Grail later, for now; my thoughts should not stray…

As we eat, I turned to him and asked the most innocent, honest question I remember asking all my young years,

‘How come you hate my mother so?’

This question should not at all sound to you strange, for once, he met my mum, she greeted and he very rudely ignored: for one who grew in a household were the man was absent and the woman combined his responsibilities with hers and easily shouldered them, his act was to me childish and somewhat stupid, irritating even...

For a long second, he dropped his spoon and sighed. Adjusting his ring

‘You know I can slap you with this ring and leave an impression upon your face…’ he asked, his voice low as though he were complimenting and not scolding.

‘… You weren’t there when I started to love your mum. Why should you now question me for hating her?’ By this time, he had raised his voice. I bet he could see me shaking: fear rattled my bones, more than ever before, I wished the concrete floor would mysteriously open and consume me

‘Sorry sir…’ I continued, but he also continued with a raised voice, I didn’t hear most of what he said for I was too scared to hear.

I continued ‘… I know you’re my father, you only wish the best for me…’

Then he shocked me. He was silent, and calmly said

‘You’re not my son’ Fear escaped me. I gained composure,

‘If it’s not you, then who is it?’ I asked, and then he truly shamed me, shamed his generation, his father and his fathers father .

‘Go ask your mother…’

he said looking away from me. Then my heart filled with hate… I wished I could drain every last drop of his blood from my veins… for me, this was a huge deal: for I cried and cried. My first impulse was to pack my bag and then call my mother. I imagined leaving his house, begging him to disown me. But for the intervention of my aunt Jummai, I would have cried till my eyes dried of tears…

All of this is past now, not knowing ones identity is unholy, scary, frightful beyond anything: I saw him as my father, but now I know better, with my salvation, I realize and remind myself daily that he’s only a guardian, my real father is up in heaven… the Lord God Almighty…

even now, I thank him for that day, for if he didn’t deny me and render me fatherless, I wouldn’t have sought my real father, my heavenly father… one who is not bound to me by just blood, but by love, by the spirit, by sacrifice, by mercy… One who despite my imperfections loves me perfectly. Life is exceedingly merrier with him as my father, for even as I mistake, he is faithful and just to forgive me. And as he forgives, he blesses me still.

I realize daily, we are sojourners on this Earth, bound to complete a journey whose destination is heaven. As my life I restored to Christ, I swore to leave earthly things for earthly men, as now I am a new man in Christ. A restored son. One blest beyond anything I can imagine or see.

hOW lOVELY fLORENCE mUST bE...

By the Hudson's front she gazed,
faithfully, its reflection gave back all her loveliness:
a queen in floral flawlessness; a sight that left me
by the freshest Summer greens
green with envy....

EVEN CONSTANT

Constantly my lover, remember there's a lover
up above whose love like time is constant.

Take a chance at love, even as with
chances in the past, much hurt you've endured.

Love me as best as you can,
for this lovers love is aflame. Even constant.

nO dEATH dAY aS iNTENSE

No death day as intense, as that on
which a freeborn as I witnesses his
own death. Was it not I,
a willful soul who in death willfully engaged?

Did not I live rightfully/ steadfastly?
Treading the path of heavens one true
king: kneeling till my knees sored,
crying my eyes dry.

As today I die: die from all that since
birth was to me good.
Resigned. Ill fated: I stray into all
the world considers doom.

I am a land rusted with corruption:
what must happen… must happen.

wHO lOVES nOT tO dEATH

'Too few of us arent guilty of murder', lets
look to inward and inquire, how often it is
one that loves kills that which he loves.
Question: in lust isnt pain profound?

A young brides lingering nights subject a
loving man to torture.
The priests haunting revelations taunt/ haunt
the day dreams of the pious.

All too often young love dies before adulthood:
all that remains of it are recurring images of
lonesome nights. Mine was strangled with
lusts re-awakening.

A re-awakening that led to the realization,
'all too often, all that we love should be to death put'

oF cHRISTENDOM. oF lOVE. oF hOPE.

Over the last few days, I have had too much time to ponder on the dimensions of love and its many perplexities: the love that provokes a mother to abandon her family? The love that leads one to lose all that which he loves?

They say the love of God is the root of all knowledge. Is it possible to love God to the extent that you denounce the very children that out of your womb came?
I am filled with questions and in a short supply of answers. It’s true Jesus said we should leave our families and follow him, but to my interpretation, it doesn’t mean abandon or cast them out, it simply means God should be priority in your life; he should precede your family. Your love for him should come first.

I recently made a decision to become a Christian: to live, preach the gospel. I have made many decisions alike to this in the past, but now it’s different. I know it’s different because I no longer seek a religion, I seek a relationship. I no longer seek to see his face- though that’d be great, but I believe his truth whether I see him or not.

I haven’t magically gotten answers to all my questions/concerns as regards religion, but now, even in my confusion, I feel his peace. Even in my fear, his boldness comes upon me. In my times of need, I know he provides.

I choose to be guided aright. I’d check myself every once in a while with the slogan, ‘WHAT WOULD JESUS DO?’
For me, the love of Christ is a dark gift, one that triggers my passion for redemption. One that introduces me to the miracle that I am.

wHO lOVES nOT tO dEATH

'too few of us aren't guilty of murder', lets
look to inward and inquire, how often it is
one that loves kills that which he loves!

A young brides lingering nights subject a
loving man to torture. The priests haunting revelations
taunt the dreams of the pious.

All too often, young love dies before adulthood:
all that remains of it is recurring images of
lonesome nights.

Mine was strangled with lusts re-awakening: a
re-awakening that led to the realization,

'sadly all too often, all that we love should be
to death put'.

fOR mY mOTHER

It was mothers’ day a few days ago; I was at camp so I couldn’t upload a blog entry. It was a day of laughter. Of great memories. Of hugs. Distance phone calls.

I can with much certainty declare I have the world’s greatest mum. Even at times when I had to leave for school or go camping or visit friends, her presence was never far away: loving…. Providing…. Comforting…

Her words wouldn’t amount much to a blogger, a stranger, but to me, her words have provided a life long of warmth, inspiration and motivation. Her words have in so many ways built me. Her achievements aptly illustrate the bible when it says ‘the lord shall bless the works of thine hands’. Her works have been blest in plentifold.

During the scary years of my childhood, she was a predictable source of comfort: crushes came and went. Girlfriends came and left. But mum was there.

Even as my hobbies changed: I loved football. Then loved books. Then loved poetry. Mum was constant. I hated Maths. Hated Biology. Hated Inter Science. But she loved me not less.

For all the years I have lived, one thing has been constant, her presence. Because she is here, everything is perfect: throaty laughter fills the house. I eat till I tire. Memories are pleasantly engaged. Because of her presence, the past is a joy and the future is assured. Because of her presence, growing up has been perfect: the stuff of fairy tales laced with the mystery of this world….

She makes the major decisions at home. Breaks up the fights. Disciplines us. Pays the bills. Till this day, she doesn’t do anything unusual: She does what mothers should do…. always be there. Loving. Comforting. Praying.

tEARS

If your eyes tear ducts posess,
do not maim them in false pride,
if an urge to weep comes.

Haste, be quick to weep,
for weeping has a voice.
A voice as music upon dreaded ears:
every tempo right on time,
it's rhythm specific.

Make your eyes private though,
for tears wept in secret,
are those which wash the soul of all impurity

tHE fRIDAY bEFORE tHURSDAY....

It was 1988, in labour she gleefully engaged, but all her glee was pain. 2:30 am was the time I was birthed, a bundle of joy or pain. Grief or calm.

I was black or brown or red, in truth of all the stories I heard from my many fathers, I was a different color. I finally concluded none of them really knew, for I was covered in so much blood.

Only thing is in 1988, February 12th was a friday, in 2009, it will be a Thursday.

For all I've become, I owe much gratitude to my mom for that friday's pain. To God, for that day's divinity. To my friends, for they have helped shape my belief systems. To my nephew, for he continually makes me a better person. To my sisters, for daily they remind me of what beauty God creates. To my brother, for as life tries me, he remains my rock. To Gonzo, for when in bouts of self- righteousness I engage, he loves me not less.

.... RELIGION.... WHAT RELIGION?...

Yes, it’s totally true, I have become some sort of local champion: helping people look through their poems. Critiquing them. Correcting them. Interpreting them.

I had a friend over at my house today. We looked through a bunch of his passionate poetry together. I’d spot lapses and areas of strength.- Maybe someday, I’d make a living off being a critique. Lol!

Overcome by some sort of excitement, he hurled question after question. Just as he turned to leave, he asked a question that hit me.
‘What’s your religion?’ My reaction was totally classic: ‘What does religion have to do with poetry?’ I asked, conveniently shoving the question aside. He pondered for a quick second and left.

I have often wondered why people get fascinated at my religion. Couldn’t people just be friends, yet know some things are sacred. For me, the concept of religion is personal; however, for my poetry friend, and other friends who would like to know my religion, I would disclose all of it here.

My father is a Christian, my mother is a Muslim. I have had to most of my life deal with the duality of religion. Sometime in Middle school, I decided I would take the good parts of both religions. Just live right according to the standards of God.

However, the thing about non conformity to any one religion is though I see a bit of myself in every religion. I still feel to a large extent detached, alienated from them. Without an obligation to any one religion, I am at some level apart, free, and in some strange way, alone.

I am more a Christian though: Christianity comes as a choice not an imposition: all my questions as regards faith, spirituality, existence… have not magically been resolved/ answered by the Christian God. But in my unbelief, I feel Jesus’ and not Allah’s spirit coming upon me.

It’s a choice to submit myself to his will. Just as it’s my choice to at some point remain free. Just as it’s my choice to discover the truths of God, not within the confinement of any religion, be it Christianity or Islam. Those still with a lot of questions, I consider myself spiritual and NOT RELIGIOUS….

aFTER tHE dAY tHAT wAS cHRISTMAS...

My step brothers are in bed: Abraham lies next to the bicycle he was only too glad to believe mystically appeared by some divine illusion called Santa. Paul sleeps in his new Spider man themed bed sheets: presents are now possessions. Wrapping paper is bagged and disposed of. Left over turkey awaits our next meal: Turkey, you cannot even begin to imagine my excitement…

As I look at the clock, its past twelve - every normal person should be asleep by now, but no- not me, I’m far from being normal.

I’m deep in thought. Thinking. What would have been of the world without this week? I realize the world is different this week. This week temporarily transformed the world: the magic of the season engulfs me afresh, constantly reminding me of what I should be: of what God intends…

I temporarily forget my compulsion with winning, wooing, hustling: trading forex. Lol. The season is a special one to me, for more than any season, I think of Christ; of his love. his misgivings. His mercy…

For just a few hours, the center of my attention is Christ. Some of us who pass the year doubting, suddenly see him. Those who curse by his name, pause to use it in praise. For a few hours, we lay down our burdens, our failures, our successes… we all marvel at his majesty…

Christmas is gone, in a few hours I would be scrubbing tiles stained from numerous guests. I would be taking down the star adorning our Christmas tree- I’ve always tried to convince my dad that we don’t need a tree… Thankfully, I would dispose of my step mum’s special Ponche that had too much alcohol in it. Lol. Very soon life would be normal again… I would return to the role of a male Cinderella!

But for the moment, the magic of the season engulfs me. Maybe that’s the sole reason I’m awake: I want to feel Christ’s mystery a little more. I want to pray I would witness him still in the coming year. I want to offer prayers and thanks for the safety of my family. I want to thank God for my supportive friends. For my blog…

Through it all, I can’t help but think: If remembering Christ on a Decembers day brings so much joy to me. Imagine how joyful my life would become if I remembered him everyday…