I am digging into "The Screwtape Letters"

This morning as I sat in a bus enroute to my place of work, I started reading a book that caught my fancy because of the brief overview I got from the lender.

The writer C.S. Lewis is an author par excellence. His account of Screwtape [fallen angel] writing to his nephew Wormwood [junior tempter] was indeed out of this world and spell bounding. Screwtape shares his wisdom, experiences and strategies with wormwood, in an attempt to get humans away from God's camp to their camp.

The account is very revealing of how much detail the underworld notes in our so called daily routine. Here are some excerpts " My dear Wormwood, I note with grave displeasure that your patient has become a Christian. Do not indulge the hope that you will escape the ususal penalties; indeed, in your better moments, I trust you would hardly even wish to do so.
In the mean time we must make the best of the situation.

There is no need to despair; hundreds of adult converts have been reclaimed after a brief sojourn in the Enemy's camp and are now with us. All the Habits of the patient, both mental and bodily, are still in our favour.

Colours of Patriotism

Green is peace,
the cool leaf green.
When nutured from within,
and not polluted with greed.
In my country millions
starve of a pure, patriotic meal.

White is coveted for her titanic gains.
Even world powers
want her worth and fame.
So duty is effortlessly discharged, as uppermost.
Exemplifying the passion of a patriot
a love for a country.

Little wonder green & white,
grace many a nation's flag.
Yet the world marvel
how some grope in the dark,
about the metaphor encrypted,
in their national colours.
In ignorance they underestimated
man's right to justice & equity.

Seasons

Death is changeless, death
and the wilted primrose.
Egg is mating-time when nightingales
serenade their catch,
with melodies of their ravishing beauty.
And piquant fire flies brighten
the ambience of the thick night.

And we love to see,
babies cuddle so lovely
in mother's strong arms.
Toys stacked up in heaps,
broken but once cherished by kids.

Yes, we love to see,
fools forsake folly for freedom,
thatched rushes replaced
by corrugated iron sheets.

Now, slowly we enjoy
the thrill of the evening tide,
washing ashore,
exposing our shriveled bodies.
Gladly we await,
on our jars of clay,
the promise of death.

Oro Omi (Cruelty of Water)

My Notes on water...

Song (In Yoruba)
Oro omi sin be,
ain sile omi,
nio n mu ina sako.

Behold the basic fluid,
of all that exists.
Behold as she comes-riding on the wings
of her omnipresent virtue.
Determined to silence her enemies; those that pushed her to the wall.
An order was dispatched to release, tons of liters to places in need.
Yes! Your presence is good in an inferno,
but bitter in a storm.

Oro omi sin be,
ain sile omi,
nio n mu ina sako.

Her favorable gestures are with rewards.
The steel pot becomes useful,
when water aides humans to cook.
Though fire burns her to boiling point, her concern is directed at ending hunger.

Oro omi sin be,
ain sile omi,
nio n mu ina sako.

Our hearts wander,
at your moreish appetite for fire.
When you form walls, that encompass our priced possession.
It seems you're alive forever,
shame on he who spites your contributions,
curst be the lips
that compose your dirge.

Agbalagba Akan*

Agbalagba Akan*

Your hand is heavy on our land:
it's milk & honey.
It dances in a cryptic pattern
about the coffers within your control.

The evils perpetuated in secret
under the cloak of immunity,
have stank thoroughly unto the public squares.
The summer contracts you award
in winter apparels making nonsense,
the law and its exponents.

To stand for the truth
even in death is admired,
to pilfer till nothing is left
abounds to failing national health.

Though we cry our eyes yet see,
a shameless leader, we do not need.

(Shameless Leader)*

State of Waste

The debris is huge, reaching the sky.
It reeks of stink of a great state
With glories left to die
By men who glorify waste.

Stop the beating of the drums,
Stop the playing of the flute,
Stop this discordant melody,
The grand deceit perpetuated into our psyche.

Yes, we have abundant milk
Flowing in our lands,
But visionless rulers
Turn them into ceaseless blood stream.

Mighty men of strength and passion
Are left to waste in jail or on the streets.
Priceless princess are become prostitutes
In foreign lands and rulers’ bedchambers.

Citadel of learning celebrate dead books
Written by heroes hanging in museums.
Graduates are better only than the dead books,
Just because they blabber their glorified ignorance

Behold the waste in Nigerland!
Behold the deliberate destruction of intelligence!
In my fatherland, dirt is celebrated;
The state of waste is garbed in national honors.

Adebayo Komolafe & Funsho Orimoloye