You were there, dear lover of mine, you were there. I saw you last night in my dream. I closed my eyes and divinely inspired visions of your heavenly face flashed through every corner of my earthly body. I felt you, I touched you, I inhaled you – all of you – into me. I ran my trembling fingers through your hair. Are you real? I couldn’t tell. We stared at each other for what felt like 1,993 years.  Your eyes, gentle but unrelenting, pierced me. All my desires were laid bare before you. You held my hand. I held yours too.

In my dream I took you home to my village, Ekpoma, where my ancestors are buried. We lay on the grass, stared up at the stars, and contemplated our place in this wondrous universe. You said, we are nothing but ants in the cosmos. I asked, do ants fall in love?

In my dream we fell asleep on the Atlantic Ocean, cuddling on a bed of fluorescent jellyfish. Your skin was warm. Your belly was soft. I felt your pulse as I kissed your neck. What could be more beautiful than the taste of your neck?

In my dream we were everything and yet we were nothing. Nothing but figments of my imagination. Are you real? Rhetorical question. I knew you were not. How could you be? I knew that once I opened my eyes you would be gone. I knew I could never have you in the real world. I knew that “us” was just an illusion.

So I slept.
And I slept.
And I slept.

Every time someone tells me to comb my hair, I can feel a freedom fighter saving me a seat in Black Heaven.

Sometimes I feel my life is full of white noise, innumerable incoherent screeches filling my mind with emptiness.

I wish to tune into the frequency of peace, Tranquility FM, a place of undiluted silence, angelic in its purity.

This scene. This scene from 12 Years a Slave, it’s so powerful. I’ve been re-watching it recently and it strikes in such a profound way. Just look at their facial expressions. Look at how they connect with the words of the song. And the way Chiwetel Ejiofor joins the singing after about a minute in, it’s so moving. It’s like he spent the first 60 seconds meditating on the song, meditating on his condition of being a captive slave, meditating on the injustice that had been served to him, and then all of a sudden he resolves to keep fighting. He decides to keep living, for to exist with dignity is the greatest form of resistance. You see the resolution in his eyes and you watch as it grows in intensity and he sings those words with raw passion.

Roll, Jordan, roll
My soul arise in heaven, Lord
for the year when Jordan roll.

Indeed. Let all our souls arise to freedom. 

her kisses
tasted like poetry,
and each time
their lips converged
she breathed sonnets into his soul.



The past, if there is such a thing, is mostly empty space, great expanses of nothing, in which significant persons and events float.
Teju Cole, Open City

Reading books with white wine in the black solitude of the night puts me in a place. A good place. A place to relax. A place to kneel before great literary priests as they bless my sinful soul with divine words.

Those innocent little eyes slit my soul up like a razor.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

Joseph Jacob - Good Memories 

beautiful vibes

Sometimes the eyes speak louder than the lips.

in silent awe
I watched the tree shed its golden leaves,
reminiscent of a phoenix in the Arabian desert,
to be rejuvenated in a blaze in spring.

I marvel at the graceful passing of the seasons
the seamless transition
from summer blue to winter white
the numinous beauty of the natural world
I stand overwhelmed.

note to self:
don’t forget, can’t forget, never forget
to indulge your senses
to drink from the timeless beauty
the endless glow
of nature.

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis

Teju did not simply fall in love. He dove wholeheartedly into it. He stuffed his soft little heart into a canon and propelled it into the very core of love. He had always had a problem with the expression “fall in love”. It sounded too passive, as if love was something one simply stumbled onto, as if love was some trivial distraction, some “oh by the way” event in the course of a person’s life when, really, love had grabbed him by the neck and threatened to suffocate him even as his jugular vein pulsed madly beneath its tight, unrelenting fingers.

No. Teju did not simply fall in love. He dove into it, bathed in it, washed away his sins and sinned in it, before finally swimming back up to the surface for solemn breaths of fresh air.

Selfies are a form of self-love.
Snap on, brothers and sisters.