Godwin Inyang's Blog

‘Come with me,’ the wind whistled, ‘and I’d show you the world.’ I, the light feather of imagination, rapturously float on the wind and was blown off on a hair-raising adventure. Over vast expanses of seething water and limitless stretches of greenery with wild beasts thumping around, I was swung up to the apex of the world with my head sticking up in the clouds. I could see far out there in the blue the nest of the storms stuffed with sabres of lightning and rams of thunder. I could see further the glowing furnace of the sun; and in the dark region beyond it I know lies the sanctum of the origins of life. I didn’t need to stay too long on this mountain-top. My instincts told me beyond this point is the realm of madness! ‘The mind is a funny place to dwell in,’ the wind whispered, reading the thoughts heckling me now. I said nothing in response but was only preparing for my descent to earth. Then the wind tossed me back until I landed. I gave a big sigh of

Are you a budding writer and have this mind that grasps things and can keep them so vivid you can copy and paste them on pages for others to see the images too? You have this compelling urge to pass on messages to positively mould others; to tell them life isn’t vain (this is the school of writers I cherish to be in) and yet cynics who disguised as critics have been trying so hard to derail you from the right track? Well, first look at what they’re saying. Some people, even in their crude ways of correcting you, could have a good point or two to say but filled with venom which stems from their own failures, they may seem to come at you with an axe to hack you down. Personally, I’ve had my own dire moments with this bitter set of critics (I call them cynics) and I witnessed the harshest criticisms in my writing life when I started penning my long poem, Dr Fixit (which is over half a million words long and is still progressing). When I was doing what everyone else was doing, every

I walk down this path with others daily As they complain of the dust and pebbles That do strain their eyes and feet unfairly; They all long to live dreams found in fables.   Birds’ calls, they say, grate on their nerves and ears. They want the ripe fruits but not thorns on plants. They scream the loads are more than they can bear; All they perceive are stinging bees and ants.   On the pebbles I can see higher ground; Birds’ calls mellow the stirrings in my soul. In the ants and bees wisdom can be found: Fold hands, get stuck; hard work in wealth plays a role.   Where others see the yucky sludge-filled bogs; I see mushrooms thriving on some dead logs.   {THE VERSE IS TAKEN FROM MY COLLECTION: COLOURS (OF LIFE, LOVE AND FAITH).}

The sun still shines all day long and harsh; Grasses dry up, thriving only in the marsh; Withered leaves fly down, leaving branches bare; In January, harmattan dust rules the air.   Bees are busy on trees flowers festoon; Farmers prepare the soil, expecting rain soon; Smoke from bush burning and dust still reign; February may bring brief showers of rain.   Few moments of downpour send the farmers Picking hoes and seeds to plant en masse; The soil is scratched and seeds are sown – March is the very month most crops are grown.   The earth is clothed in varied hues of green; The storm clouds gather and the sky gets mean: In April – lightning, rumble and thunder blast Bring back constant rain at long last.   In May, various farm produce floods the markets Just as the steady drizzle fills the buckets; Bad roads retain water in myriad potholes As puddles become infested with tadpoles.   The sun is firmly shackled in June – This fate also

Like rain in the sky In winter months, this heart is Forming flakes of snow. Like water left in A freezer, this heart's frozen - What would thaw it out? Certainly not heat Of the sun but love that'd melt The ice in the heart. (The verse is from my collection, 'Colours {of Life, Love and Faith}'.)

You’re one contest, baby, I just can’t lose – I’m set to wring ideas from the muse; Borrow from poetry bag images to use To create a piece the judges can’t refuse. Colourful piece indeed I’ve got to create: Such that would fade the golden sunset And make the rainbow more colours to seek As the peacock can’t help but look meek. You’re one contest, baby, I just can’t lose – I’m letting my imagination real loose To rake for me grand figures to use; Handing me words to draw praise, not abuse. I’d stud this piece with diamond, plate it with gold; Edge it with colours that are dark and bold; Streak it with white, pink, red, blue and green; Then add oil to give my work a sheen. You’re one contest, baby, I just can’t lose – Every other entrant is nothing but mere ruse; Their feeble attempts would only you amuse; Me alone for the grand prize you must choose.

This is the first chapter of a brand new thing: Early morning breeze, leaves all are wriggling; Dewdrop tingling at the touch of a warm sun’s ray; Birds’ symphonies to herald in a brand new day. This is the first chapter of a brand new thing: First rain falling, the dust of the harsh months quenching; Trees bud at the sight of the new lease of life; Soon they hum – this is end to hunger and strife. This is the first chapter of a brand new thing: Stress, sweat and blood accompany childbearing – The child is born, the mother cradles it in her arm; How she longs to protect it from seen and unseen harm! This is the first chapter of a brand new thing: The palm-wine tree matures, the tapper goes tapping; The bee drinks, forgets to leave and falls inside the pot – I swear in this cauldron I’d keep you intensely hot! This is my first chapter of a brand new thing: Like the wine to the bee I’d entice and trap you in; I’d make you reel, danc

Can a sharp knife into bits carve water Or would the desert ever boast of a flood? Don’t fool yourselves, mean father and mother – Compassion is plain thicker than blood!   Show me the portions of air burnt by fires Or the drops of water that they did scorch? Would cars ever move on the roads without tyres; Would you stand on high-rise and the sky touch?   How long would a fish swim in hot water; Humans fight over but do they own the lands? Khaki, it’s said, would never be leather; Who thinks he can ever change God’s mind and plans?     Pick your reliable crystal ball and peer; Then tell me the end of this world, great seer!   {THE VERSE IS TAKEN FROM MY COLLECTION: COLOURS (OF LIFE, LOVE AND FAITH).}

Africa,  beauty unmatched! Raven-haired,  Eyes like sapphire. Glinting teeth Like diamonds. Lips studded With rubies. Breasts and backside Like bunches  Of grapes Gently tossed By the wind. Limbs like  Sculpted gold. Attire of Evergreen hue. Clean and fresh Like a pristine stream. Africa,  Envy of maidens ... ... but raped And plundered  By father, Uncles, friends And strangers!

  The first time I consciously realized some English words were not used anyhow was in Elementary Six. It was towards the end of first term, the head teacher or headmaster (as it was known then), Mr Ntuen (but the pupils fondly tagged him Mr Pepper as the word in mother tongue which the head teacher bore refers to the same object the English word portrays) was sitting before us and dishing out pieces of advice as a responsible father to his innocent children - our lovely head teacher was aging and about to retire.                 After all he told us (do I remember any salient point?), we were about to sing from the hymnal and also it was a carol as Christmas was fast approaching. The headmaster was reading out the words to guide us how to pronounce them properly (of course, the language was this same headache-giving English Language). He came to the word ‘baby’ and an overzealous pupil screamed ‘abeibei’. That struck a thunderbolt in what all along had been a serene and jovial setti

It’s recently I got to know Mma Efa was a no-nonsense senior policewoman whom drivers in the South-east dreaded because of the ‘discipline’ she meted out to recalcitrant drivers. They tagged her a ‘witch’. Of course, that’s understandable because back then in the late 1970’s when the policewoman sent shivers down the spines of men, it was inconceivable for women to be considered equal to men. So any woman who seemed to lord it over the men was seen as extraordinary. So, my class mistress who beat pupils with a short wiry bamboo was aptly referred to as ‘Mma Efa’. It was a Saturday morning. I and Okon were at the veranda of the front building in my grandmother’s place, chatting. I can’t remember the plans at the age of eleven that we were hatching but it could’ve been about throwing cards, setting traps for birds, flying kites or going to the stream to fish and bathe. Those were the things I and Okon often did together. Then, my eyes strayed to the street and I saw Mrs Peter, my P