To our hero who fell,
the belief-difference is clear,
You, our bold town crier,
now in the coins’ belief of the Chiefs.

to the wounded cells of our broad left,
our faith must bear the burden,
don’t soil this ideology with fiscal lies.

This ideology of common wealth
is ancestral; your new baptism isn’t.
But I hope our tongues are still awake,
to the voices of our mourning realities.



The gong has sounded,
the town crier’s feet departs,
our land is warned of the perilous years ahead,
yet the people abuse the messenger,
and neglect the message of truths and freedom.
As usual, the gong is despised,
with “I don’t care attitude”,
the town crier is Judged,
mocked for his looks and spirituality,
harassed for his means of delivering  the message.
The town crier is a Prophet,
his gong was music and writing, yes,
weapons of warning and struggle,
his crew, made of determination and truth,
yet his “openness” killed him; death of conspiracy.
The town crier’s prophecies are now in action,
his words now bite us into reality, now we cry,
our souls long to have the town crier again;
but his was just to warn and not to be our deliverer,
his gong is left with us, for us to hear and act.
Stand up people, pick up his gong,
music is a weapon,
writing is a weapon,
you, the victim is also a weapon of struggle and freedom,
dare to stand, ask, stay, fight and be free.




Whisper these words now,
“I love you Sanmi”, Helen,
remember I’m still that friend,
that friend who ran errands for you,
the friend who gave you answers
In your primary one arithmetic exam.

I know your name is Omotinuolawa,
Mother called you Tinuola,
neighbors called your father by your name,
“Baba Tinu”
everyone called me by your name,
“Ore Tinu”
even our teacher, Aunty B called me,
“Oko Tinu”.

On 20th Nov 2006
you matriculated.
You left for Lagos to study,
I left for Abeokuta to learn a trade;
On 12th July 2010,
You convocated.
You came home,
to Ibadan to celebrate.
I returned to our source,
to celebrate with you,
“I ore Omotinuolawa”.

It was only then you waved,
Like a beauty that you’re;
showing me your left hand,
you said you were engaged,
to who I angrily asked, you said,
“Oh to Engineer Tade Collins”.
You bade me goodbye and said,
“Awww Sanmi, you’re nothing to me but a friend”.

Now it’s six years after,
no child yet, a divorce too;
you came home to mourn and seek
your childhood love;
I came from Abuja with Ajoke,
to celebrate my second born,
you should have remained Omotinuolawa,
now as Helen, you are nothing to me,
nothing but a mistress.

poems by Adewunmi Adekunle

by Adekunle Adewunmi

Roses of red flows through my heart
Yes, I can feel butterflies in my tommy
For my lover is here again
Like he has always been doing.

Of a truth,
You’re like a spring of water
That flows through my heart
And I can’t wait to be freed from thirst.

I was attentive to your clarion words,
That which says you are a spring,
A spring of living water.

How dearly I yearn for this living water
That I might thirst no more
For I love the presence of your Spirit here
But, I would love to be embraced
In your arms, seeing you physically!
And, loving you unconditionally.


by Adekunle Adewunmi

I travelled wide and round with my stethoscope,
Surveying the geo-informatics of the geopolitical zones
That stations and conjures the earth surface.

I found out a lot but,
Many experiences occupied me
At some angles, I tremble
In some area, I smile.

The earth which metamorphosed from darkness to light
Is still being ruled by agents of darkness
Which steals, kills and destroys
Which turns shinning glories into darkness.

This planet earth, though bears mighty men
Still, men fail to prosper on it
This earth, though accepts many creatures
Yet, inequality reigns among the equals.

This earth though, sweet and bitter
Yet, creates room to achieve better
This earth is just a market,
We cannot live in it forever!

by Adekunle Adewunmi

Coated in coats of supremacy
By numerous supporters cum electorates,
Who have some iota of faith
In the mannerism of his sheperdness

Though tagged as supreme
Yet servants
To flock of sheep under his watch.

The leader but,
Also listener and reader
Of different suggestions and contributions
Even silly questions at times,
Drops at his doorstep
Just because he’s the leader.

When new feat is achieved
He’s praised
At the face of turmoil,
He dare not sleep
Until the red sea be crossed.

Leadership! Leadership!!
A call to service
A call for humane
For true leadership may incur suffering
At the expense of the enjoyment
Which shows to all.

Unless it is gotten right
No, best
Leader, I mean the head
Will always know no rest
For headship may incur hardship.

Leadership is wreath
Prices are paid
Sleepless nights are part
Racking of brain, even,
Brainstorming in preparation for crucial moments and assignments
Night rest is paid
For the prices must be paid.

Many exert towards this insignia, the mantle of leadership
Thinking it’s a bed of roses
Where money can be easily stolen
Yeah, it may even be laundered
Yet, the prices would be paid.

Ask those high ranked officers
They’d tell you that,
The crown of leadership steals some of your time
It robs you of pleasure with friends
The family even feels their absence
It’s a price to be paid.

Though, the price may be paid
Oh, it’s good to be in a position of leadership
Nonetheless, the led should be comfortable!!!

by Adekunle Adewunmi

Take a deep breath and relax,
Ensure your eardrums are widely flushed from dirt,
Open your heart agape,
Yeah, be ready to get flogged.

For your indulgence in this act
Would cost you much
Even your much needed goals
And it’ll almost seem the big-black birds
That hovers at mid-night are after you.

I see that you’ve started
Look at you inferring causes,
To your Uncles and Aunts that neglected you
Look at you,
Blaming the country’s state of economic recession.

Brace up, friend!
Rise from your sleep of folly
Accept this responsibility to start
Stop your daily anthem
And songs of,
I’ll do it tomorrow,
Tomorrow may be too late
For no one knows tomorrow!

by Adekunle Adewunmi

Where are the youths of this age?
How highly ignorant they have become
Enlightenment has ran far away from them
They now need education beyond the certificate education
Before things get out of hand.

You just want to wake up suddenly
To find yourself wallowing in riches
Without knowing the type of hinges
That opens through to where wealth lies.

Alas! See,
See the lives of these youths
Entangled in the middle sea of youthful concupiscence,
The road to good success is not a cake-walk
It really requires serious focus, sincerity and hard works,
For what does success implies
If it doesn’t contain self-sacrifice?

It is neither a bed of roses
Nor the case of bread and butter,
It’s not a dream you see while slumbering
But what causes you sleepless nights,
For what does success implies
If it doesn’t contain self-sacrifice?
You started working as a Civil Servant
Just about some months away
And grunts about having less shoes and clothes,
Having to catch public transport and all sorts
Success is not a magic
For it is built around stages and processes
A stage to manage and a stage to have bounty,
So, what does success implies
If it doesn’t contain perseverance?

Comparing yourself with a Principal Officer
Who seems to have more than enough won’t do
Dare make inquiries about his road to the top
You’ll be shocked about his experiences
For some of them have gone through even worse situations,
For what does success implies
If it doesn’t contain self-denial?

Uneasy they say,
Lies the head that wears the crown
So, my dear youths
Before success can be attained
You may actually face storms
They are just there to prepare you
For the success ahead,
For what does success voyage implies,
If it doesn’t contain untarred roads?


I am not like others,

my style of love,

is not the same with theirs.

I am from the past,

there, love is about patience,

Love, there, in the past,

is not about equality,

love is about perseverance,

truths, companionship and

absolute feelings of togetherness.

But here I’m from the past,

now constrained in time of today,

put within the frame of present years.

Love has proven to be more difficult,

than touching the helm of power,

She has refused to understand me,

that this soul only sailed from a rear past,

and do not belong to the coast of this day.

I accept this fate without much hope,

love from the past hurts.







Benson, Jerry and other comrades,

thread that path;

that which took you to the streets.


Hold unto the voice of unity,

which walks behind you all.


Speak with a voice,

cleansed of bribery.

Stand on the rock of the martyr.


Even those fallen comrades,

continue the struggle with us.                            


For their sake, do not relent.

Take along their agonized death to the battle front,

Hold with you the brutality that whisked them to early grave.


Hold on tight to the yelling…

Remember Mustapha who was killed.


Remember the young Adeola from Ogba

that was murdered.

Carry with you Musa, whose intestine was spilled in Kano…

When you get to the Promised Land,

take their bones of memory with you.


(The Picture above serves as an additional inspiration for this poem that was first written during the OCCUPY NIGERIA struggle, in 2012 by ENOCH OJOTISA).

#Chronical Prayers Vol 2.

I thank you God,
thank you for gift of life,
clean water,
healthy food, clothing and shelter,
for good health,
for basic socio-economic benefits,
thank you for being alive in these last days,
these days when human societies are confused,
times when governments are more concerned
about treasury looting than lives of citizens,
these days,
choosing the path of education,
is regrettable most times,
and thuggery is lucrative,
so much that it is now a generational pride,
these days when hospitals now function
more as viewing centers for death,
these days when our young daughters are abused, and our brothers become moles for the rich ones,
now when religion is confused for spirituality,
and honest men are confused for crazy ones,
these days when the air is polluted,
human minds are darkened by love of money,
rituals everywhere, financial scams here and there, droughts and famines in the world,
God, I thank you for blessing me with good life.

#Chronical Prayers Vol 1.

#Chronical Prayers Vol 1.
My God who is in heaven,
help expand my heart to love others
irrespective of how bruised my heart is,
not considering how disappointed life has been,
God, help me love humanity more than material gains,
no matter how much I remember the impact of slavery,
no matter how grieved I am about colonialism,
no matter how bitter I am currently about imperialism,
help me love all men based on nature’s beauty and not race,
visit me with hope, so as to keep the humanity in me alive,
spread true love to my heart, love that will withstand hurts,
love that will stand in the face of brutality and persecution,
God, this is my heart-felt prayer on this humble day.

Excerpts from “Pot-holes in Heaven”

       Pot-holes in Heaven




“…this sort of lifestyle continued for some weeks until one Friday morning that I discovered while strolling that morning, that going to the vendor’s place was the best way to while-away time and also learn something new; especially at a time when the military had suddenly taken over the control of governance in the country; we were all caught unawares. Perhaps some of our politicians were not surprised that the military eventually took over the governance in the country, since they were the ones who lay bare the excuse at the feet of the military. The coup de etat was a very unique one. This time around, the military men paraded the corrupt politicians before summarily trying them according to their decrees and executing some, but jailed a lot. I suppose they kept some alive, for the latter days of civilian corruption to come. I saw old men and young men discussing the trails of political ills and some good deeds of the politicians in our country. Even some women weren’t left behind. Although it wasn’t the case that these women argued, but they merely pitched tents with the analysts; perhaps these encouraged those orators to continue the debate. I remember that, I had got so attached to this “vendor therapy” that I had simply memorized all the names of the analysts and exact spots each man stood to nurse his argument. The name Mr Steve cannot pass my mind without talking about his analysis. Mr Steve, short bald man, he should perhaps be in his late 50s; he claimed to have witnessed the beginning of our country’s independence right from early 40s. He claimed to have worked with the railway cooperation in the earliest part of his life, and finally ended up in the military. From there, he was part of those who went on a Universal world mission to Yugoslavia, only for him to return with one and half leg(s). Mr Steve could have been a good analyst, but he was always getting too personal and attacking the moral flaws of everyman he seemed to be arguing against. For instance you might hear him say;

“You! How dare you insult the secretary general of the United Nations? When your family had land disputes last year, why couldn’t you resolve it for them without the help of the community leader? If you’re so intelligent and blessed as you think, why are you still a mere factory worker all these years without promotion?”

He would pick up ten different newspapers and digest them wholly under two hours; from 6:30 am to maybe 8am…he would then walk down to Mama Judith’s “PARAGA JOINT”, take some local shots of strong “SAPELE Water”, and then return to the vendor’s spot for intellectual acidic argument. It was not until later in the year, that he also had the opportunity to work with a local government chief, since then I had not set my eyes on Mr Steve again. What a world of contradictions? At times I wondered, whether, economic poverty in a man’s life springs forth waters of wisdom and deep knowledge? But it further confused me that, whenever such wise men, though poor, now stumble on opportunities of wealth, they become intellectually poor and morally bankrupt. Then I concluded that this was due to poverty of the mind in Africa. Mr Steve never knew that his sudden decision to abandon us, his fans and his vendor pulpit would amount to a greater regret for him when his political tenure lapsed”…





AkewiArtsHouse Logo