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Jaachị for president.

Except for being good with words
and an unrepentant scribbler of pun, I have absolutely no qualifications, but that never mattered in 2015.

The eyes have it!
We’re sick of being led by the blind.

I have no idea nor understand what the job description is, but I’m pretty sure I outsmart the senile pa of Daura in 69 ways.

The nays can’t have it. Enough of the galloping down a steep of bad to worst.

Blah blah blah… a manifesto?

I am Jaachị. For this is my favorite name and personality.

I was born today, approximately three decades and a year ago, on a bright and beautiful morning. By mum alone. Not in some fancy hospital staffed with beautiful nurses. By a water tap.

I am a Christian, rooted in afrofuturism.

My head is a whirlpool of sweet cacophony. Voices, voices, voices, all competing for my attention. My thoughts zig-zag a maze of vain things.

The most impious thoughts
ever conceived by monks,
resides in my mind.

Yes, I still, am pure– in heart.
What else matters?

I’ve not always been a poet,
thoughts as such made me one.

I may not be where I wished I were,
but today I am grateful I conquered my fears.

Speaking of fears, love scares me and at the same time energies me. Bittersweet never tasted any bitterest. Sorry, better.

Still on fears, I have my fair share of doubts about divinity and faith. I may not, with the sagacity of much scriptural knowledge, defend nor explain the existence of God, because what I feel and faith are sworn enemies, at war – both want me, but I know for real that God exists.

Nothing else matters.

I don’t like church and religion quite much,
but I can’t deny my soul his victuals thus.

If the preacher bores me, I doze away. Could be because the word of the Lord is my lullaby to my ears. He giveth his beloved sleep. Nay?

People make jest of my lankiness
and mock my uncut hair,
but I glory in my uniqueness,
and marvel at their average sense.

I trust easily
I love recklessly
I laugh heartily
I hurt, I think, daily,
I give cheerfully to both friends and fiends, not because I can, I derive strength in others’ smile.

It doesn’t matter who offended who,
mama taught me the art of “I’m sorry” too.

I am that rare kind who questions everything. I question God a thousand times when I do not understand why my plans do not as planned.

Against popular opinion,
Jah doesn’t give me a head knock
nor make attempts to twist my tongue,
to sing His praises by force.

Away from all such serious talk,
my tongue can’t tell the taste of birthday cakes,
and studio photoshoots have never been done.

I don’t know to express happiness,
but I’m well-versed in silence,
and have mastered the pathway of tears.

I may not be a perfect reflection of God’s grace,

I may not be a perfect expression of His love,

But you see this young man–unsatisfied, broken, undeserving of a shred of love, near-fake fucked up lost cause, calm, and expressionless–he’s perfect proof that God’s a poet.


A perfect replacement

For Nigeria’s eminent eggheads.

Happy Birthday, Jaachịmmá!

And hey! Stop being a doubting Thomas, sometimes. Believe in yourself at ALL TIMES because everything good has come.


Have you read “Write me a Poem“?

Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good” is my aphrodisiac for today. Listen here.

Feeling Good!

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