Godwin Inyang's Blog

Whose majesty are the hefty trees Bowing to? No other but you, o wind! Elephant of space, You lift huge trees and throw them around Like seeds in a farmer’s palm. Jackhammer of God, You hit rocks and they tumble down. But when you come rummaging the jungle, Do not wreck our tent. Ah, we would be exposed, we’d be wet; Our treasure, mkpa uyo *, would be ruined! As for the bush-mango trees, Shake them like mother would shake a rag To get cockroaches out;   Shake them with your hefty arm, Shake them as if with a charm And do not let a fruit left on them For we’ve come miles upon miles, Abandoning the comforts of our homes For the harsh realities of a tent In the heart of the jungle Just for the treasure Buried in the bush mango’s core.   * MKPA UYO is bush-mango kernels extracted and cooked as delicacy in most parts of Nigeria. (The poem is taken from the collection, 'COLOURS OF LIFE, LOVE AND FAITH' which is available here

J ust hang on till your dream does click. A ttack it with all your mind and might. N urture it with passion and care U ntil it hatches into reality's chick. A ccept failure but change not the dream you bear; R esolve to carry your very dream to light. Y ou surely success' lollipop would lick.

Writer’s block (as defined by the Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary) is ‘a problem that writers sometimes have when they cannot think of what to write and have no new ideas.’ A firm that had been producing goods for public consumption which brought income to maintain the factory and pay the employees is not doing that anymore because of lack of raw materials. It’s either management would desperately look for where to get these resources so production would continue to keep the firm afloat or there is an imminent threat of a shutdown and that means the employees and management might lose their jobs. A writer running out of ideas is like an industry going bankrupt and panic would grip most workers’ minds. But panicking isn’t the solution to smashing, I mean, curing a writer’s block. Like the industry, a writer must do his or her best to get the raw materials (new ideas and experiences) that would imbue him or her with zest to keep writing. I’d say that writer’s block does not

  001 Well, you know me, I'm a fabulous guy; From a young age, I like to play with my books Ignoring the girls though I wasn't that shy; Loved chasing birds and baiting fish with hooks. With my mates, we were fond of stoning fruits; Raced through the bush, tripping on stems and roots; We'd penetrate deep and start to make the hoots Just to see we go back safely to our neighbourhoods. But our teacher told the boys in his class: Girls don't bite - every lad should chat with a lass. 002 The naughty ones he'd give the cutlass, Take them out and place them in the field And give them portions of the grass To cut or sow seeds that fruits would yield. Our teacher wore a belt with clasp of brass; He was fond of wearing on each eye a glass. He had a great voice with a tone of bass; The music he loved I got to know was jazz. The young man bore a very funny name; He tried hard the wild side of us to tame. 003 He told us once

I resolved a long time ago and deep In my mind wrote it indelibly down And let it through my pores and skull to seep That unceasingly at my goals I’d pound Till you’d hear at a distance their crunch As they give in but still harder I’d punch; No respite, louder on them I’d munch; Like a starving man, goals to me are lunch. I’d greedily bite them till they beg I stop; I’d bite till the day to the grave I’d drop.

001 Harmattan on our village leaves its thick cover: Siblings cling to siblings, husbands to their wives But a robber of a thought my sleep seems to pilfer – An emotion recently gave me the gybes.   Where did love go that the media endlessly Would moan to us over it? Earnestly, In market squares and streets, it’s stridently Said love has gone into hiding so hopelessly   I’ve contemplated how probable is the fact That love could just vamoose from everyone’s heart   002 When it has a day we celebrate in a year; When most wear its symbols as necklaces and rings? Who did put dear love in reverse gear Or did we mix virtues together with sins?   When did gold start to submit to rust? Did guilty take the apparel of just? Who would help stop love smooching with lust? If love is gone, to what do we give our trust?   They say now show don’t tell – this means this preaching Quite sanctimonious folks are bored with hearing.   003 You don’t want to go there, I won’t go there too. Yes, we’re keepi

Oh yeah, I’m here your much-sought-after New Year: Though you must face it, somewhere someone This moment might the end yet not near – You’ve rain and snow, elsewhere might be dust and sun. I’m here to tell you I’d heard these rants before; They said: ‘This New year I’d work on every flaw; I’d be tough on myself and reach every goal’s door; Yes, I’d grab all goodies from Fortune’s maw!’ It’s not the rants but common sense and iron will; You lack them, my truck back to my den I’d just wheel.