Do check out Teehem's other write-ups here. Interesting stuff!

by @teehem

Pointing has always been an invaluable skill/gift whichever way you may have it. If you disbelieve, check your Quran, bible or ask your Ifa/Agbala as it applies to you.

Amean, having the power or the skill isn’t enough. After digesting this rant, you should never wonder anymore why footballers point in celebration at nothing in particular when they score/win or why your district Pastor keeps pointing when delivering his usual kini. Jesus pointed, remember? But that’s not all.

I was not there when Mungo Park parked at the source of the Niger and realized his own  ‘American Dream’. But I have an intelligent guess, He must have pointed. I know He did point at the first few slaves He took over there with him because (take good note of the following) my fore ancestors were among them. How do I know this? I feel a stirring in my breast whenever I relive the epic moment; in my dreams of course.

It’s sad to say this art is fading into unpopularity. It’s tragic, to put it properly. Like how Adam ate the apple and put an end to global nudism. Tragic, man… I tells* you. 

Pointing has varying significance in different milieus. Like in the US, its significance hasn’t been totally eroded. It is still a very invaluable tool for snitches et al. I’ve never been to the US but I tell you, snitches point a lot. I know this cuz I see this in the movies all the time.

Now, to Nigeria where the art has suffered the most, *insert wails and hot tears here*pointing has suffered great ignominy. Amean, back then after Mr. Mungo left, pointing became a divine tool. You could go to your in-laws, and point at any of their daughters you wanted to f… err… wife.  You could point at this and that and that and this.

Nowadays, Nigerians don’t point shii anymore and it’s not arthritis.

We’re lost. That’s just it. We traded the Nigerian dream for the American. Same way we trade Peak Nigeria for Peak Holland every day. A real pity. Amean, I embarked on a small field research to observe and here’s what I discovered; the divine art has been relegated to the runt of society to practice, bus conductors, tailors, mama put* etc remain the last bastions of this great art.

During the course of my research, I tarried much longer at the mama puts* than anywhere else more out of curiosity than my love for food. I watched (and engaged in the magnificent art of pointing) as people pointed at roundabouts* and shakis* and ponmos* etc. I also marveled at how they demanded for jara and the pleasure they took in sweating heavily after each meal. It was glorious! Watching them, I re-discovered the Nigerian dream afresh. “This is what we have lost as a people” I thought to myself. “We are lost” I also thought afterwards, somberly.

Now, no one wants to sweat after a meal. No one points. How can you go to Shoprite or KFC and point? How can you sweat when the AC is on full blast? You can’t sweat, demand for jara, or most importantly, point and say you want the biggest fried-chicken when you’re given a much smaller chicken at the same price… Tueh!

Amean, Exodus 17:11, would the Israelites have prevailed if Moses hadn’t pointed his rod?

Think and rediscover the Nigerian dream. Visit a point-and-kill outlet today. See a fine girl? Point and go straight to the point. It has always worked. See a man who you think you might like his D? point at the D.

Point at something today. That’s the point… 

*Other Teehem's write-ups here.

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It always starts with an 'xy' gene

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It always starts with an 'xx' gene

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I am thinking about this girl

The post Cold Fire appeared first on nantygreens.

by Niyi Adekanye

As we hoist our banners of conscience

Amongst us they that lower them

As we brew our bubbles of consciousness

Amongst us they that burst them

We

With our burdens in our hands

We

With our rubble on our heads

Alone we stand wrecked

In the confluence of foe and friend

The post Drowning Confluence appeared first on nantygreens.

In yesterday's crowd you stopped my heart's hurried pace.
Through all that chaos you made mine a distinct face.
The thoughts in your head echoed mine like a town crier's gong.
My emotions you said filled you like harmattan breeze in your lungs.
From across the room I felt we made a pact.
Holding on to your smiles as a testament to that fact.
I felt your heart beat in tandem to mine – a connection beyond mere friendship.
My wayward heart rejoined in such a fellowship.
That's when I turned and looked behind me.
To realise it's not me you see.
I had been a sweet nothing…
A stranger in your lovers line of view.
In my heart we had been a big something.
But right before my eyes you show me I'm a significant Nothing!

The post NOTHING appeared first on nantygreens.

by feyisayo adeyemi

I can see her face. She's sitting comfy in that spot she’s always seated but her mind is far from whatever's around her. Just as I’m looking at her now; in my mind, she sees me too. Worrying if I had enough rest the day before. If the mosquitoes haven’t bitten me too much, meaning to call and ask if I took care to notice symptoms. Heaving and hoping I’d have gone to the hospital for a checkup – maybe sometime soon. I can see her pick up her phone; my face on her mind, beautiful, so real she could almost touch it as she searches for my number.

That half smile; fondling the image. Thoughts; she pauses to think it for a second. Drops the phone, tries to get busy with anything. Saying to herself ‘Everything is fine. He would have called if it’s otherwise’. She knows as I’ve realized that our mind sees each other. It is ridiculous. I know this.

Many hidden sicknesses; even when we’re far apart, have been shared in silence. You know how you get sick but try to hide it from everyone, carrying on just fine. Silly. She knew those times too. Just the same way I knew when she tried to hide it. Last time I was damn sick; even as it looked impossible for me to move, all I could think of was how to get to her pronto. Seeing her is medicine in itself.

You know what’s funny? How she sits there many times thinking if there’s this girl or that girl loving me. If the feelings are real or I’m playing along. Beautiful speculation that calms and disturbs her at the same time; wondering if I’d ever bring it up. Shaking her head, almost sure I won’t do that. I am stubborn; I know it. Bet she’s proud of me in all of that.

Not sure I know what is love anymore… I’m just sitting here, looking at her face in my mind; quite sure she’s seeing me at the same moment too. I’ll just bask in that – forever.

*I haven’t written anything in a long while…this isn’t particularly about anything. This feeling came and I’m just trying to express it. I’m seeing my mother’s face by the way. I hope you enjoyed it. Express how you feel in the comment box and share.

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by Idris Sado

These walls
once
were grim and gloomy.
Here many a fate
met their doom.

I still see them
in their chains,
their sweaty bodies
tilling the grounds.

They wet the soil
with tears
from their eyes,
I still can hear
their cries
in these winds

Freedom so far,
in bitterness they accept
their misfortune

Day and night
in these walls
their world is conformed,
no escape from its savagery,
and the jailer's whip

Days of biting hunger
alas how useless it is to hope
crammed into breathlessness
in this pigeon hole
called prison cells

Life has no meaning
death they impatiently await
Bound never to feel again
the sweet carnality
of the opposite sex

In these chains
they have been cursed
to spend their lives
miserable
till death comes calling.

The post Freedom Park appeared first on nantygreens.

by Sylvia Agamah

Oh, the Moon.
Ready and poised to wax or wane,
Lady Moon.
You roll on to perfect gain.
Half Moon.
Is your incompleteness healing pain?

Lady Moon, are you tired?
You look so pale.
Art thou quiet for weariness?
Oh, you gentle wander
Until you slowly fade.

Dear Moon, 
quietly brilliant.
Does the world know
While she sleeps at night
That high in the dark sky
Watches a silver glow
Until she wakes to daylight?

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