The distant twinkling stars are his friends,
The sweet, mild breeze his companion,
Day may end with sleep full of pleasant dreams
The distant twinkling stars are his friends,
The sweet, mild breeze his companion,
Day may end with sleep full of pleasant dreams
Affection to loved ones is half the journey; the rest is learning to recognize the pain of others.
Some men possess magical abilities to control wild animals. Watch the Hyena men from the rural parts of Northern Nigeria perform in the streets of Lagos. These men mastered this roadside circus from a tender age.
I’ve caught a glimpse of their live-action once. I confirm that their performances are phenomenal and not for the faint-hearted. As nomads, they live and move about with dangerous animals like the spotted hyenas, crocodiles and alligators, monitors, cobras, pythons, baboons and other species.
Video: Real Wild
Pace alongside cassava stalks
On a bright, sunny day,
Let the wind blow hot air
When masquerades stomp
Hear the hawk call out
Watch her float up the sky,
Stay off from the untamed bush
Urge the wind to wait till sunset
Nudge the funny crabs away
Soak in the ecstatic springs
Drink her life-giving waters
See how joyful its waters leap!
Wade in quiet creeks
Watch fish schools nearby
Listen to the fussy forest
Touch the heartbeat of nature
Gather for bowls of hot codfish soup,
Take a deep breath, grab a spoon
When the stars gather to watch
Relax with some folk music and tale
I wrote this poem on January 2, 2017, upon my return from Northern Nigeria. Before this, I have always viewed people from other tribes suspiciously. This is because of the bitterness and rivalry amongst Nigeria’s tribes. But having had experience living in several parts of Nigeria, things took a spin, and I started seeing the humanity in everyone.
I schooled in the South, in the riverine region. I have been to the West for seminars conducted by my fellowship and then served in the National Youth Service Corps in Lafia, Northern Nigeria. Through my stay in all parts, I have witnessed humanity and looked beyond tribalism. I have learned not to judge people by their tribes. I still believe in my mantra: whether a Northerner or Southerner, black or white, farmer or banker, leader or follower: we are the same and should have equal opportunity to succeed in life.
This poem below reminds me of my friends and how they tried to make me feel at home during my stay away from my land. I have edited some of the lines, and still, the message remains intact.
Nigeria should rise above hate and tribalism. We can do better with good leadership.
You have smiles on your face
Reminds me of my beloved siblings
I need not see you thru your race
You are you; one, unique and winning
Igbo kwenu! Kedu, olee, how do you do?
Come in, have a sit, taste this dish
You come in peace, I surely know
So to you, good things I gladly wish
Have you seen or heard the names we bear?
We are the people of God; Oluwa, Tamuno, Abasi and Chukwu
We are unique; our food and the dress we wear
We say ‘oshe‘ which mean the same as my ‘kwongo‘
Kei! Listen, my cattle moo behind the huts
Can you hear it? Do you like to taste this morning’s milk?
When the nights come, gather for some cream sauce
Don’t forget; come once, come all, salaam walekum
I can be Berom or Mumuye; I can be Efik or Igala
Don’t seek first my race before meeting me
I am Ijaw or Bini; I am Hausa, I am Ibibio and Idoma
So don’t judge me because I was born a tribe to be
I am Nigeria.
Kwenu, kedu, olee: Igbo greetings.
Oluwa, Tamuno, Abasi, Chukwu: Names of God in Yoruba, Ijawa, Ibibio and Igbo respectively.
Oshe, kwongo: Yoruba and Isuikwuato ways of saying thank you.
Kei: exclamation used by cattle rearers.
Salaam walekum: Arabic greeting meaning peace be unto you. The northerners who are predominantly Muslims use this.
Berom, Mumuye, Igbo, Yoruba, Hausa, Ijaw, Edo, Bini, Ibibio, Idoma, Efik, Igala, etc: Nigerian Tribes. There are more 250 of them.
My heart dances & lives to laugh,
Under this beautiful moonshine,
With my troubadour & cheerful strength,
This heart remains in my hometown
Even as dreams live in another country
I follow these dreams far away
To return to this heart someday
We can’t replace trees that are thousands of years old. But we can plant new ones; we can instill hope for our future generations.
Sequel to my earlier post on uncontrolled bush burning, which destroys plant and animal habitats, I decided to write further on this sad image I stumbled upon.
Man and trees are life partners, but greed has caused one to harm the other. But there is hope. Even though we may be unable to take the world back to its original state, our little acts today can help it heal. The truth is, man is carried away by personal gain that he forgot the value of his own life.
The picture is from TJ Watts and explains a lot about human involvement in environmental degradation. It portrays how man is busy destroying the magnificence around him. By cutting down these trees, man is slowly strangling himself. It’s just a matter of time for nature to return ‘full’ hostilities to him.
It’s awful to realize that the world is not dying, but we are the ones killing it. It’s not very pleasant too when people cut down what they didn’t plant – for personal gains. This is not progress at all. Our actions aid the disasters that plague our environment. We are yet to witness more landslides, avalanches, tsunamis, and floods. But it’s time to change for good.
These forests support the lives of many organisms, including man. They give oxygen, food, shelter, and more. I am worried that whole histories are lost with these century-old trees. Thousands of stories are gone when trees are hewn down. What will take its place, a lifeless building?
I call on everyone to create awareness of this. Youth and environmental organizations must play an active role too. We need to include teaching conservation in our schools; children need to know how important it is to maintain the earth’s forests. For governmental agencies, 2021 will be the perfect time to begin implementing ecologically friendly policies starting from grassroots street and local councils. Let’s start the coming year with a resolution to end all manner of injustices, not only to man but to all members of his environment. A little deed can go a long way. We can never know.
In addition to protecting our forests, let’s plant trees; we instill hope for our future.
I came home yesterday and saw my dad’s favorite Oscar Wilde book of tales. The selfish giant is my best of them all; there’s a big lesson in it. I’ve applied a minor revision to the original story.
The Selfish Giant
Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant’s garden.
It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games to listen to them. “How happy we are here!” they cried to each other.
One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over, he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his castle. When he arrived, he saw the children playing in the garden.
“What are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.
“My garden is my garden,” said the Giant; “any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So he built a high wall all around it and put up a notice-board.
He was a very selfish Giant.
The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over and talk about the beautiful garden inside. “How happy we were there,” they said to each other.
Then the Spring came, and all over the country, there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant, it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board, it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. “Spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we will live here all the year-round.” The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden and blew the chimney-pots down. “This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must ask the Hail on a visit.” So the Hail came. Every day for three hours, he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.
“I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”
But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden, she gave none. “He is too selfish,” she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King’s musicians passing by. It was only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant, and he jumped out of bed and looked out.
What did he see?
He saw the most beautiful sight. Through a little hole in the wall, the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see, there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner, it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The low tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. “Climb up! Little boy,” said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could, but the boy was too tiny.
And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How selfish I have been!” he said; “now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground forever and ever.” He was very sorry for what he had done.
So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him, they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the park became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant’s neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. “It is your garden now, little children,” said the Giant, and he took a great ax and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at noon, they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
All-day long, they played, and in the evening, they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.
“But where is your little companion?” he said: “the boy I put into the tree.” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
“We don’t know,” answered the children; “he has gone away.”
“You must tell him to be sure and come here, to-morrow,” said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived and had never seen him before, and the Giant felt very sad.
Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend and often spoke of him. “How I would like to see him!” he used to say.
Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. “I have many beautiful flowers,” he said, “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.”
One winter morning, he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep and that the flowers were resting.
Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvelous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.
Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass and came near to the child. And when he came quite close, his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to wound thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the images of two pins were on the little feet.
“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.”
“Nay!” answered the child, “but these are the wounds of Love.”
“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.
And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.”
And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.
It’s the season of love, peace, and joy. From here, I want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas.
Tut, tsi, tut, tsi,
Do you think I was talking to myself?
Haha, not in any way! I call on my sheep that way
So we bond, using this unique code
When they disperse over the pasture
I sit to play my guitar, a song hallelujah
Trembling fingers, dry in the noon sun,
The flavour of mountain dew on my lips,
Ha… lle… lu… Yah…
Lu… Yah, lu… Yah
Oh what view from the brook
How glad they peacefully graze
Ha… lle… lu… Yah…
Lu… Yah, lu… Yah
Oh, will you like to take a look
Of sheep scattered across the grass?
Pillow of silk
Night of dreams,
A wish, a good night
A song hallelujah
A silent night from the inside
A noisy one out in the wild
Nighttime for cricket buzzing
Lullaby against a sleepy wind
Tree leaves dance when they fall, trembling quietly
Brown leaves, some dull in red and lighter green
All manoeuvre in the same direction of the wind
When bold leaves fall off the branches
They twist and sail through the wind
Some set up leisure, settling on the moist below
Sailing off, noiselessly to other stream banks
But those who fell on the ageless rocks
Clasped to the grasp of the fern
Idling patiently for the wind to free them
Tiny insects seeking nectar fly around the river greenery,
Slowly, the water finds its way through rocks
Rushing peacefully, polishing pebbles, shoving stray fish off
The air is icy cold, so is the beautiful waters of the stream
This dawning paints a modest, peaceful scenery,
One which waits quietly for the noisy bird cavalry
Evening lurks behind
Even as sunset float ahead,
It heralds the end of daylight
So we watch it go in installments,
We feel softer airs traverse
Drifting with pure grace
Upon our hair and coats
It gets darker; nature’s notice
We wonder what it meant
To follow orange twilights
As it glides down the horizon
Leaving all for evening
But the silhouette of love
The best of it we keep for us
Staring into your pretty eyes
Is my favorite sunset moment
When you follow in the path of your father, you learn to walk like him – Ashanti proverb
This excellent Ghanaian adage is self-explanatory. I’ll try to explain some salient points.
Generally, it’s an African believe that a child who goes nearer to his father grow up acting and speaking like him. Indeed, this is true in every society and even the animal world.
‘Father‘ here symbolises anyone who one observes or follow. For instance, if John, a Zimbabwean, is obsessed with American pop culture, he will end up dressing, talking and living like a pop star. In other words, we are influenced by who we look up to as role models and what we chose to feed our minds with.
A similar proverb talks about chicks watching and learning while the hen scratches and picks seeds from dirt. What do you think?
I champion good leadership, love, peace, reconciliation, and forgiveness. That’s why so much of my stories and writing emphasis those virtues. I like to borrow a leaf from Mandela, who, after encountering great tribulation, did not adapt to his prosecutor’s ways.
The short story below was copied from a friend’s Facebook timeline. I decided to share it after applying a minor edit.
Our journey is short, indeed…
A young lady sat on public transport. A grumpy old lady came and sat by her side as she bumped into her with her numerous bags. The person sitting on the other side of her got upset and asked the young lady why she did not speak up and say something.
The young lady responded with a smile: “It is not necessary to be rude or argue over something so insignificant; the journey together is so short. I will get off at the next stop.”
The response deserves to be written in golden letters in our daily behaviour and everywhere: It is not necessary to argue over something so insignificant; our journey together is short.
If each of us could realise that our passage down here has such a short duration, to darken it with quarrels, futile arguments, not forgiving others, ingratitude, and bad attitudes would be a waste of time and energy.
Did someone break your heart? Be calm; the journey is short. Did someone betray, bully, cheat, or humiliate you? Be quiet, forgive; the journey is short.
Whatever penalty anyone serves us, let’s remember that our journey together is so short. Let us, therefore, be filled with gratitude and sweetness. Sweetness is a virtue never likened to bad character nor cowardice, but better compared to greatness.
Our journey together down here is short and cannot be reversed. No one knows the duration of his trip. No one knows if he will have to alight at the next stop.
Have a great week ahead!
I like to think that the stars had seen it all—the beginning of life and the present.
The stars are always up there, day and night, and they have seen a lot happen on earth. They have witnessed government regimes come and go; kingdoms rise and fall, and all we can ever imagine – known and unknown.
If you connect to this short poem, then you might just be seeing things the way I do. Haha, it’s only one of my happy night muses. Good night.
Little twinkle stars bold
Upon the vast void
Where invincible forts hold
Abundant stories untold
Today I sit in a room clouded by darkness,
With pain dominating my body system,
Writing for a better tomorrow.
As the butterflies flood my tummy,
With the air breeze so sweet and calm.
I can see beauty deep inside my eyes.
Show me the sun that shines bright,
Bright more than a bulb in a closet,
To brighten my beautiful day.
I asked myself if there was someone there,
I’m alone, and I’m not lonely.
Found myself searching among the stars,
For beauty that lies in me,
Not knowing that the moon,
lighten the universe even when it is not full.
As the natural light brighten my beautiful day,
Triggering the beauty in me,
I no longer hide my true colors,
I no longer act robust and unaffected.
Do my words create a voice in your ears?
Do they trigger sense in your head?
My heart always speaks in volumes,
Yet the universe turns a deaf ear to it.
Memories are just tattoos in my heart,
The beauty of the tattoos is the pain endured,
Scars are a confession of beauty, survival, and strength.
Great things happen when there are fewer wars,
Great walls rise a soul to walk tall,
Even when it is cold,
With my eyes and mouth closed,
Silence becomes loud when I’m a listener.
Words are everything I need like basic needs,
Even when I bleed, it is the words that heal me.
Once upon a cold night,
Trees knew little peace
When a strong wind swept by,
Slippery was the grassy pathways
Leading to the small village
But many won’t risk it outside
For the wind was growing to a storm
“What do you make of this cold?”
A grey-furred rabbit broke the silence
His comrades won’t have much time
To discuss a freezing matter, which they think
Concerned only the stupid government
“Argh! Is it always freezing in December?”
A pine tree called to his friends
“I wonder too; I always get weak
And sleep illness when it’s freezing.”
Another pine said, yawning slyly
By the corner, some few miles away, stood a hill
Which the simple villagers revere
It was confessed that all cold and wind
Came from the foot of the hill
And so the villagers admired it,
If they had a hot and cheerless day
It will be that someone angered it:
Either a piss on the trees by the hillside
Or some kids threw stones uphill!
It must be something to do with it
Well, that’s a village and its beliefs
And who am I to deny people’s believes?
Two foxes stroll in search of a mill
What a long day it must be for them,
Sleeping in the shadows of tree roots
Dreaming of summer when it’s just winter coming
Your pretty face reminds me of the sun,
When she rose from the back of many hills
Dragging her gold blanket before farms
So if I am to paint this beautiful muse
I would imagine sunrise over wheat fields
And fast approaching evening when birds fly home
When the green neighborhood dance to the call of the wild, one
Dark are the skies; darker even are the clouds which stalk the rain
The wind came swift and slow; rushing at times as petals of flowers dance
To the music of the coming rain; to lullabies that made heads bounce
And to the Forest people, to the clans that inhabit the wooded lands
A rainmaker was awake, perhaps trying his skills or yet just being mad!
The lightning draw bizarre images across the dark firmaments
Causing the trees to look like knights with forks on the footpath
Silhouettes of mud huts stood motionless in the fiery wind surge
Exposed to danger: the rainmakers ire, the villagers, try to hide
The day turns to night; seeking shelter is the new song for the hamlet
When the rainmakers strength leaves him or his tools* spent,
He lets the strong breezes to rest on the call of the wild one*
But they wait on they that had mastered the rain antics
Note: In Africa, some people are capable of making rainfall. Most of these people are traditional doctors; those referred to have access to the wisdom of ancient life and spirits.
Tools* the rainmaking tools of the rainmaker, which comprises natural things like leaves, herbs, and other concoctions.
Wild one*: the rainmaker and the wild one are the same person or can be the source of the rainmaker’s powers.
When summer finally came, a lot had changed
The last snow melted, and the sad land woke
Grasses started growing, covering the outer earth
So those who burrow scrambled out from the dust
Soft airs and tidings surround the mountainside
Sending sweet emissaries around the valley below
Vines, myrrhs, mistletoes, and pines sprout happily
In the morning, the sunshine will not glitter on ice,
Instead, the heat grew, and the wood inhabitants felt it
First, the Squirrels thought the world was going crazy
And their cousins, the burrow rats, seconded them
‘The frog choir will soon resume,’ a brown Cricket observed
‘And if they do, I am going to go crazy!’ a Sparrow replied
‘Not if they played on a softer note at least.’
A Linnet added to the conversation
‘No way, they have all got bass! Male, female all bass!!’
A sad Bee, which sat on the tip of a tree leaf, answered
Now, fresh grass brought the Deers and mountain goats
At the Otherside across the rocky land, the Stream flowed
Leaps of water, joyful that her prisoner had let her free
‘Crap! I mean, did anyone notice that the cats are back?’
Some stray mice broke the niches silence
‘They have our land smeared with urine, them Bobcats!’
‘Yes, they think it is their fatherland. Well, we better hide.’
Now the wolf pack had no cold anymore
So they stalked the earth with more ease
Picking trails of rodents through the thick woods
The Mountain stood, usually a still, motionless figure
One that kept some admirers intrigued
As the ice melted, water trickled down to the land
And the wildwood fauna felt sad for her
For they believed she was weeping at her loss
‘She has been like this since the Ice King left,’
The soft-voiced black and white Pigeons sang
‘She is heartbroken! Why will the Ice King be so cruel?
He even took her icy cloak and see, how she is naked!’
A duck said, closing the eyes of her young with feathers
‘I think she looks pretty amazing, so much joy in pain
No one cares much enough, and I think she needs a hug.’
A tortoise with a colossal shell opined
‘No, she needs a gift,’’ the Wolf pack alpha barked
‘She is the worst person I ever met!’ he added
The other animals had to retreat to their home
The fragrance of undying love –
Sweet perfume from the lavender
I sit, I admire you from the fireside,
I realize how lucky I am to have you
Thick fog lay siege, blinding the stars,
Now clouds black with looming night
Grant the moon to lead the journey
As the soft wind sang a languid tune
Sunflower rests under the tree shade
Blushing over the fate of a butterfly,
With strange but colourful stripes,
One that kept all nature wondering
Your love is a balm to my heart
Like an elixir, it refreshes my spirit
For each time I lay beside waters quiet,
Streaks of golden sunlight retreat
When sounds of water splash – a dulcet
Fly little bird
Through this sky of whites
I want to watch
The green wings, flapping.
Fly high, even higher
Like the bar-headed goose
Your bod- blithe
As I kiss the Jasmine
Hugging from the sky.
With them I sit-
The people of
They tune in
Sketching a heart
Just for me.
A trice without
Them is a blain in my globule
For they are
Honey bunches I can’t do without.
You are the song in my heart
The moments I crave within
Memories fade, distanced more
Yet apart we wade, off
Tears are part of the roles
And distrust has become one too
Your words still cut through
I’m assured that love went wrong
I was rock but you made me gold
So I offer this little flower token
In appreciation to your absentia love
I always stand beautiful
Love made me wonderful
One morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the water.
“You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your heads,” she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all.
“What disobedient children!” cried the old Water-rat; “they really deserve to be drowned.”
“Nothing of the kind,” answered the Duck, “every one must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too patient.”
“Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents,” said the Water-rat; “I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship.”
“And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?” asked a Green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard the conversation.
“Yes, that is just what I want to know,” said the Duck; and she swam away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her children a good example.
“What a silly question!” cried the Water-rat. “I should expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course.”
“And what would you do in return?” said the little bird, swinging upon a silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.
“I don’t understand you,” answered the Water-rat.
“Let me tell you a story on the subject,” said the Linnet.
“Is the story about me?” asked the Water-rat. “If so, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction.”
“It is applicable to you,” answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend.
“Once upon a time,” said the Linnet, “there was an honest little fellow named Hans.”
“Was he very distinguished?” asked the Water-rat.
“No,” answered the Linnet, “I don’t think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his garden. In all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet-william grew there, and Gilly-flowers, and Shepherds’-purses, and Fair-maids of France. There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac Crocuses, and gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock, Marjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil and the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the months went by, one flower taking another flower’s place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell.
“Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to little Hans, that he would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season.
“‘Real friends should have everything in common,’ the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas.
“Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich Miller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship.
“So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then.
“‘There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow lasts,’ the Miller used to say to his wife, ‘for when people are in trouble they should be left alone, and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses and that will make him so happy.’
“‘You are certainly very thoughtful about others,’ answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; ‘very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little finger.’
“‘But could we not ask little Hans up here?’ said the Miller’s youngest son. ‘If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.’
“‘What a silly boy you are!’ cried the Miller; ‘I really don’t know what is the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything. Why, if little Hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody’s nature. I certainly will not allow Hans’ nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I will always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words are spelt differently, and mean quite different things. Everybody can see that.’
“‘How well you talk!’ said the Miller’s Wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale; ‘really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in church.’
“‘Lots of people act well,’ answered the Miller; ‘but very few people talk well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of the two, and much the finer thing also’; and he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea. However, he was so young that you must excuse him.”
“Is that the end of the story?” asked the Water-rat.
“Certainly not,” answered the Linnet, “that is the beginning.”
“Then you are quite behind the age,” said the Water-rat. “Every good story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered ‘Pooh!’ But pray go on with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy between us.”
“Well,” said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other, “as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale yellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little Hans.
“‘Why, what a good heart you have!’ cried his Wife; ‘you are always thinking of others. And mind you take the big basket with you for the flowers.’
“So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm.
“‘Good morning, little Hans,’ said the Miller.
“‘Good morning,’ said Hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear to ear.
“‘And how have you been all the winter?’ said the Miller.
“‘Well, really,’ cried Hans, ‘it is very good of you to ask, very good indeed. I am afraid I had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring has come, and I am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.’
“‘We often talked of you during the winter, Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘and wondered how you were getting on.’
“‘That was kind of you,’ said Hans; ‘I was half afraid you had forgotten me.’
“‘Hans, I am surprised at you,’ said the Miller; ‘friendship never forgets. That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don’t understand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses are looking, by-the-bye!”
“‘They are certainly very lovely,’ said Hans, ‘and it is a most lucky thing for me that I have so many. I am going to bring them into the market and sell them to the Burgomaster’s daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money.’
“‘Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don’t mean to say you have sold it? What a very stupid thing to do!’
“‘Well, the fact is,’ said Hans, ‘that I was obliged to. You see the winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to buy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again now.’
“‘Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in very good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the world. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and, besides, I have got a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at ease, I will give you my wheelbarrow.’
“‘Well, really, that is generous of you,’ said little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with pleasure. ‘I can easily put it in repair, as I have a plank of wood in the house.’
“‘A plank of wood!’ said the Miller; ‘why, that is just what I want for the roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will all get damp if I don’t stop it up. How lucky you mentioned it! It is quite remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true, friendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I will set to work at my barn this very day.’
“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the plank out.
“‘It is not a very big plank,’ said the Miller, looking at it, ‘and I am afraid that after I have mended my barn-roof there won’t be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault. And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to give me some flowers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it quite full.’
“‘Quite full?’ said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for the market and he was very anxious to get his silver buttons back.
“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don’t think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers. I may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.’
“‘My dear friend, my best friend,’ cried little Hans, ‘you are welcome to all the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion than my silver buttons, any day’; and he ran and plucked all his pretty primroses, and filled the Miller’s basket.
“‘Good-bye, little Hans,’ said the Miller, as he went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand.
“‘Good-bye,’ said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, he was so pleased about the wheelbarrow.
“The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, when he heard the Miller’s voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.
“There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back.
“‘Dear little Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘would you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to market?’
“‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said Hans, ‘but I am really very busy to-day. I have got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all my grass to roll.’
“‘Well, really,’ said the Miller, ‘I think that, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse.’
“‘Oh, don’t say that,’ cried little Hans, ‘I wouldn’t be unfriendly for the whole world’; and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders.
“It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down and rest. However, he went on bravely, and as last he reached the market. After he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour for a very good price, and then he returned home at once, for he was afraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way.
“‘It has certainly been a hard day,’ said little Hans to himself as he was going to bed, ‘but I am glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is my best friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.’
“Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money for his sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed.
“‘Upon my word,’ said the Miller, ‘you are very lazy. Really, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you might work harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don’t like any of my friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you. Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were not your friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.’
“‘I am very sorry,’ said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off his night-cap, ‘but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for a little time, and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I always work better after hearing the birds sing?’
“‘Well, I am glad of that,’ said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the back, ‘for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed, and mend my barn-roof for me.’
“Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse the Miller, as he was such a good friend to him.
“‘Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?’ he inquired in a shy and timid voice.
“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘I do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of course if you refuse I will go and do it myself.’
“‘Oh! on no account,’ cried little Hans and he jumped out of bed, and dressed himself, and went up to the barn.
“He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the Miller came to see how he was getting on.
“‘Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?’ cried the Miller in a cheery voice.
“‘It is quite mended,’ answered little Hans, coming down the ladder.
“‘Ah!’ said the Miller, ‘there is no work so delightful as the work one does for others.’
“‘It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,’ answered little Hans, sitting down, and wiping his forehead, ‘a very great privilege. But I am afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.’
“‘Oh! they will come to you,’ said the Miller, ‘but you must take more pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you will have the theory also.’
“‘Do you really think I shall?’ asked little Hans.
“‘I have no doubt of it,’ answered the Miller, ‘but now that you have mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive my sheep to the mountain to-morrow.’
“Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next morning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans started off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get there and back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight.
“‘What a delightful time I shall have in my garden,’ he said, and he went to work at once.
“But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his friend the Miller was always coming round and sending him off on long errands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the Miller was his best friend. ‘Besides,’ he used to say, ‘he is going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.’
“So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a note-book, and used to read over at night, for he was a very good scholar.
“Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fireside when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he thought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a third, louder than any of the others.
“‘It is some poor traveller,’ said little Hans to himself, and he ran to the door.
“There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the other.
“‘Dear little Hans,’ cried the Miller, ‘I am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the Doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it has just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so, it is only fair that you should do something for me in return.’
“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, ‘I take it quite as a compliment your coming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your lantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the ditch.’
“‘I am very sorry,’ answered the Miller, ‘but it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.’
“‘Well, never mind, I will do without it,’ cried little Hans, and he took down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler round his throat, and started off.
“What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely stand. However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking about three hours, he arrived at the Doctor’s house, and knocked at the door.
“‘Who is there?’ cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom window.
“‘Little Hans, Doctor.’
“’What do you want, little Hans?’
“‘The Miller’s son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself, and the Miller wants you to come at once.’
“‘All right!’ said the Doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big boots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the direction of the Miller’s house, little Hans trudging behind him.
“But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and little Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse. At last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans was drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds, floating in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage.
“Everybody went to little Hans’ funeral, as he was so popular, and the Miller was the chief mourner.
“‘As I was his best friend,’ said the Miller, ‘it is only fair that I should have the best place’; so he walked at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket-handkerchief.
“‘Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,’ said the Blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes.
“‘A great loss to me at any rate,’ answered the Miller; ‘why, I had as good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don’t know what to do with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair that I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take care not to give away anything again. One always suffers for being generous.’”
“Well?” said the Water-rat, after a long pause.
“Well, that is the end,” said the Linnet.
“But what became of the Miller?” asked the Water-rat.
“Oh! I really don’t know,” replied the Linnet; “and I am sure that I don’t care.”
“It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature,” said the Water-rat.
“I am afraid you don’t quite see the moral of the story,” remarked the Linnet.
“The what?” screamed the Water-rat.
“Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?”
“Certainly,” said the Linnet.
“Well, really,” said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, “I think you should have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said ‘Pooh,’ like the critic. However, I can say it now”; so he shouted out “Pooh” at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his hole.
“And how do you like the Water-rat?” asked the Duck, who came paddling up some minutes afterwards. “He has a great many good points, but for my own part I have a mother’s feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes.”
“I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him,” answered the Linnet. “The fact is, that I told him a story with a moral.”
“Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do,” said the Duck.
And I entirely agree with her.
Hi everyone! How was your day? I have a story to share. So bring your seats and mats to the fireplace, listen attentively and may the nightingales sing us a lullaby when we retire to bed.
Once upon a time there lived a wise man by the name of Mamad. He never lied. All the people in the land, even the ones who lived twenty days away, knew about him.
The king heard about Mamad and ordered his subjects to bring him to the palace. He looked at the wise man and asked:
” Mamad, is it true, that you have never lied?”
” It’s true.”
“And you will never lie in your life?”
” I’m sure in that.”
“Okay, tell the truth, but be careful! The lie is cunning and it gets on your tongue easily.”
Several days passed and the king called Mamad once again. There was a big crowd: the king was about to go hunting. The king held his horse by the mane, his left foot was already on the stirrup. He ordered Mamad:
“Go to my summer palace and tell the queen I will be with her for lunch. Tell her to prepare a big feast. You will have lunch with me then.”
Mamad bowed down and went to the queen. Then the king laughed and said:
“We won’t go hunting and now Mamad will lie to the queen. Tomorrow we will laugh on his behalf.”
But the wise Mamad went to the palace and said:
“Maybe you should prepare a big feast for lunch tomorrow, and maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe the king will come by noon, and maybe he won’t.”
“Tell me will he come, or won’t he?” – asked the queen.
“I don’t know weather he put his right foot on the stirrup, or he put his left foot on the ground after I left.”
Everybody waited for the king. He came the next day and said to the queen:
“The wise Mamad, who never lies, lied to you yesterday.”
But the queen told him about the words of Mamad. And the king realized, that the wise man never lies, and says only that, which he saw with his own eyes.
Let me lead you this way
I found thorns with honey just for you
Wishes I stroll you farther, for the intense of my instinct is all warming
While along, I was going to tell you,
But every passing sunrise, my words are rolled back to breathing you
My fume is reluctant, craving you as
Just this path, Just this way
I’ll unravel my thoughts.
Good evening. Today I will share with you THREE COLOURS OF L♡VE poem.
In one’s lifetime one may experience only three kinds of love:
1. You love at a young age and let everything go down the drain because of stupid things
2. You fall in love and along the journey you get hurt, lied to and damaged
3. You fall in love without noticing, and you end up rising in it because of your joy and happiness
I hope you will enjoy reading the poem, if you experience any challenges as you are reading, I’m here to help out.
Enjoy the rest of your evening.
Thank You – Njabulo N.
You fall in love at a tender age,
Hoping to be loved much better tomorrow,
More than you were loved today and yesterday.
That blinds your eyes and mind,
Not noticing that you are growing apart,
Then you decide to call it quit over silly things.
Look at you now with so much regrets,
Written all over your skin and face,
Tears and heartbreak of a fragile human being.
You think that was not love.
It was love, a true one,
For what you know love to be.
It was not that deep like an ocean,
You were still young,
You were blinded by fairy tales and fantasies,
That happened in your head,
As you watched love performances.
Colour of love
You are not as hard as I had imagined you to be.
You fell in love,
You made yourself vulnerable and you got hurt,
I’m pretty sure you learnt your lesson,
You are now strong as a tortoise shell.
Fact that you passed all this,
Great pain, damage, lies and betrayal.
You have grown,
You know what you love about love,
You know what you don’t love about love.
Since you can’t read people’s mind,
You are now cautious, careful, closed and considerate,
Because you own a fragile loving heart.
This love taught you so many things,
Look at yourself,
You now know what you want and what you don’t.
The third colour of love,
Beware of the love that comes blindly,
Without any warming as it creeps on you silently.
This is the love that always get you,
You can paint the walls red,
But all that will be washed out.
Now you started to care about that person,
Without even trying to let it slide.
You don’t allow yourself to get lost in their eyes daily,
That is when you see beauty in their imperfections,
Not hiding even a single thing from them.
Look, you even want to get married to them,
Have a family together,
You thank the universe for them,
You just love them,
Without hiding your emotions
Tell me an amusing story
One that drives sorrows away
Laugh at me or with me
Sing a song, hum a slow lullaby
Pull my ears and call me names
Let’s ride on a train to Utopia
Grab my hands let’s elope
To fields wild as a writer’s mind
Call my name, bring me back to you
Hold my hands, tell me long stories
Distract me from a sick world
Remind me only of your love
How winds have howled! How all small life lay low, Trembling in the face of awesome pow’r!…Sonnet: The Storm is Over
Once the sun rise, life regains its joy
More birds glide up the pretty skies
Fast rodents play in the shrub nearby
As smoke rise from long chimneys
Little children leave for school,
Fathers spend the day in farms,
Mothers gather materials for food
Everyone has got a role to play
Squirrels hide in tree branches
Throwing several nuts at passersby
The forests beyond the clan wakes
To savour beauty of sunny summer
Small villages are world of their own
Tranquil, beautiful and full of life
Sunrise warms the soil for seeds sown
And gives hope to contented people
1. NATURE SINGS TO ME
Nature sings to me
In the most melodious tune of joy
Tickling happiness into the shattered lonely me.
Nature sings to me
To make me feel like a king
Tune of everlasting peace
In my ears, it ring
And truly, I know I’m really blessed.
Nature sings to me
And I cross over the worries
Of the uncertain realities
Casting away the giggling joy
of the shadowy calamities.
2. ONCE THE LITTLE TIDDLERS
We were once the little tiddlers
Roaring high with our whimpering mouth
Pleading to the moon, mama must be awake!
We played with beautiful toys and patterns
We played with every man and woman
We played with everything that made us happy.
How so innocent we were
With our coat of many colours
Fun everywhere, here and there.
Those were good old days
When men be babies
The awesome gloom’s wonders, They’ve never gazed.
Now babies be men
Broaching so hard in the tangled race
Can we go back to the good old days?
Oh no! We must surely set the pace.
I sit outside my granny’s house, clad in blankets and a pillow. It was a rainy day and a very cold one. The cold extended into the evening and early night. The village is surrounded by streams and hills and this must have contributed to the extreme weather. I left town a few hours ago but the rain caught up with me.
One good thing about this place is it’s hilly countryside – it’s nested in-between ancient hills and surrounded by forests. So morning is a beautiful sight to behold. I remember how scared I was to walk through the path blanketed by tree branches. Trees stuck out their branches, covering the roadside and sunlight. During night time, I mistake those branches as ghostly fingers waiting to grab their victim.
One time I missed falling millipedes as they lost their grip and fell from tree branches. I won’t forget the funny scenario displayed by a friend when a pair of millipedes fell into his shirt. I have witnessed a monitor lizard slain. I also have seen several rodents and snakes disturb the bush. I have seen an owl hunt in the moonlight and soldier ants visit frequently. The hills are their playground. Even now as a young man I feel indifferent towards the hills and her numerous inhabitants. I am suspicious of any movement near the bush path.
Back to my lonely reflection: I feel welcomed by insect zithering. They sing a disturbing lullaby. Sometimes I wish them away. There’s no frog in the vicinity, thankfully. A crazy frog choir would have been worse. Some insects stroll into my room. Crickets hide in cracks. Moths marry my torch-light, sun-flies drive me crazy during the day, wasps and bigger moths buzz about, investigating the lamps around the house and other light craving insects play out their hearts. Indeed, insects are a restless bunch. I know a lot of them but not their names. My favourite is the handsome lady bird.
The cold hands of night grip this tranquil village. It’s very dark out here safe for few stars, which are dots imposed upon the dark sky. I’m familiar with this hilly climate.
Now lightning take images of the clouds and grassland. I see tree skeletons with each flash but the hills are invincible without much illumination. It seems it will rain again. It’s good to be home
On this day 60 year’s ago Nigeria got her independence. Things may not be right at the moment but our hope and faith will prevail. We shall rise above tribalism, intolerance, hatred and indiscipline.
Let’s celebrate Nigeria, the giant of Africa with her beautiful images.
Glittering morning sun,
Woke to nature’s beauty,
Warm scent of caked clay
Leftover from night storm,
To me life is series of moments;
Made up of sounds and sights
Cackling peacocks, blue skies,
Green fields, huge waterfalls,
A female goat calling to her kid,
Group of laughing basket weaving girls,
Three red headed lizards fighting,
Sounds in the clouds and trees
Of surfing hawks, pigeons on roof,
Of squirrel mischief, lazy reptiles,
And little birds building fine nests,
All contribute to this beauty
A sleepy and sunny African morning
A perfect day to live and explore
Trust me she’s got amazing talent. See more of her work on IG: @sthekamsibi
Swooping down in excitement from a tree, A magpie spies the nuts and seeds with me. A squirrel nearby watches the commotion, Its swishing tail plotting paths of anticipation. The bounty descends effortless to the ground, Like wheat chaff in the muted siren of sound. As the magpie dances, delighted at the sight, The squirrel […]Magpie and the Squirrel – A Poem