Life of a Liar

 The mirror holds a stranger’s face,

A mask of calm, a practiced grace.

I walk the path I chose to tread,

With ghosts of better dreams ahead.

I say my heart is steel and stone,

That I am king upon this throne,

And that the ache I feel is pride

A hollow place where shadows hide.

Of all the lies a man can tell,

None more dangerous than the one he tells himself.

I swear the fire is just a spark,

That I am unafraid of dark,

That I don't miss the hand I hold,

That I am brave, that I am bold.

But silence is a heavy weight,

And lies become a closing gate.

The truth is waiting in the glass,

Watching all the seasons pass.

I build my walls of painted glass,

And let the honest moments pass,

Ignoring how the light will bend

To hide the brokenness I tend.

For in the dark, the echo rings,

Of all the truth that silence brings

A bitter draught upon the shelf,

The lie I tell unto myself.

Beyond the Pages of Time

 

Ask a historian: What was mankind’s greatest invention? Fire? The wheel? The sword?

I will argue it’s history itself. History isn’t fact; it’s narrative one carefully curated and shaped. Under the pinstripe of the right scribe, a villain becomes a hero, a lie becomes the truth.

Yet, beyond the grand chronicles of empires and the strategic rewrites of time, there exists a more intimate form of history: the story of us. If history is truly a narrative waiting to be curated, then I choose to be the scribe of our own beginning. I want to take the raw, unfiltered truth of my affection and shape it into a legend that belongs only to us.

Just as a master narrator elevates a common tale into a timeless epic, I find myself wanting to elevate my feelings for you, Christiana, into something that defies the ordinary. You are my most beautiful chapter, the one that renders all other stories unnecessary. If history can turn a lie into truth, then let my devotion be the truth that turns the chaos of the world into our own quiet, shared reality.

Olajide loves Christiana- a narrative not written in ink or dictated by the pinstripe of a scribe, but lived out in the grace of your silhouette and the warmth of our connection. Let us stop reading the histories of others and begin writing our own, ensuring that in every page we turn, the ending is always us.

For Ariana: Nine Years of Grace

 

The house is far too quiet for a heart to bear, Missing the click of your paws, the soft scent of your hair. Nine years you walked beside me, my shadow and my light, My first true friend in the morning, my peace in the middle of night.

You weren’t just a dog; you were the keeper of my days, Watching me grow through a thousand different ways. In the seasons of laughter, you were the joy in the air, In the seasons of struggle, I’d reach out and you were there.

Ariana, my buddy, my witness, my gold, A story of friendship that will never grow old. You stayed through the "hard," you stayed through the "good," Understanding my spirit as only a best friend could.

Today there’s a space where you used to lie, Under the vastness of the great, open sky. But the love that you gave me, so wild and so free, Is a part of my soul, and it always will be.

Thank you for choosing me, for all of the years, For licking the salt from the worst of my tears. Rest now, sweet girl, with the sun on your face, My first, and my finest, my Ariana my grace.

The Saturday Press

The steam rises up in a rhythmic cloud, While the rest of the world is laughing loud. He stands in the kitchen, the board creaking low, With forty-eight hours before he must go.

Five shirts for the week, laid out in a row, Like soldiers in waiting, with nowhere to go. He traces the collar, he masters the sleeve, In a cycle of labor that offers no leave.

It’s not just the fabric he’s smoothing away, But the creases of worry from a long working day. The coins are for transit, the notes are for rent, So the cost of the laundry is energy spent.

He dreams of the morning he’ll wake up and say, "Take these to the cleaners, I’m busy today." But for now, there is dignity found in the heat, Keeping things sharp while he stays on his feet.

His hands may be tired, his bank account lean, But he’ll walk through those doors looking polished and clean. For the man in the mirror is playing the part, With a crease in his trousers and fire in his heart.

Esther Godwish

 Esther, a name like a whispered prayer,

A fleeting glimpse, a captured moment rare.

Olajide, with lens and hopeful eye,

Found more than a photo beneath the sky.

He sought to master light and shade,

But in her smile, a new world was made.

Her laugh, a melody, soft and low,

A mutual spark, a sudden, fiery glow.

But shadows fall where hope takes root,

A wicked tongue, a bitter fruit.

Their boss, a serpent, sly and cold,

A treacherous tale, a lie was told.

"A philanderer," the poison flowed,

A heavy burden, a crushing load.

Her trust was shattered, a fragile pane,

And what could have been was washed with rain.

They stayed as friends, a fragile thread,

With silent words and things unsaid.

A casual call, a knowing text,

The what-ifs lingering, what's next?

He tried to prove his heart was true,

But doubt's dark veil obscured the view.

Until one day, by chance or fate,

They met again, outside the gate.

Oshodi's chaos, a vibrant hum,

Where future's whispers and pasts become.

Amid the crowds, their eyes connect,

A bridge of longing, no longer wrecked.

The lie unraveled, the truth stood clear,

Dispelling all the doubt and fear.

And there, in a world of frantic pace,

They found their love, in time and space.

A new beginning, a love reborn,

From shattered pieces, a brand new morn.

Their story now, a testament to time,

A love that's patient, strong, and truly prime.

Esther and Olajide, hand in hand,

A new love story, across the land.

MAYBE SOMEDAY AGAIN

You remember the days you laughed so freely

Your gap-toothed grin wide enough to split a coconut

The sound of your happiness at half past three

In the early mornings as you tossed on your mat

You texted back and forth morning and evening 

And in your excitement you forgot moral reasoning 

You forgot to give your heart, but keep your mind

Now two years later, you're finally off that high.

The first three months were pure agony.

You struggled and battled with self denial

And told yourself the same old story:

I'll rather die single than give any man my all

By the seventh month, your tears had dried

And all the sleepless nights had gone

You breathed freely again

And all your pain has died

Now it's the twenty fourth month

And not a trace of that girl remains

You face work squarely, not looking anyone in the face

But on the rare occasion that you actually smile?

It hits passers-by and everyone around

Like blind men seeing the sun the first time

Written By

Ololade Agoro

Where Are You, Tobinsco?

You always had a way of fading,

Not out of spite, not for evading

Just a ghost in digital air,

Here today, gone who knows where.

We joked about your silent streak,

The missed replies, the once-a-week.

But even then, your soul was loud

In every beat, you drew a crowd.

Your music spoke when you did not,

Notes and bars, your every thought.

A voice that soared, raw and pure,

With dreams too wild for maps to secure.

But now, it’s been a year or more,

No “yo,” no track, no metaphor.

No late-night call, no one-line joke,

Just memories, and songs you spoke.

Where are you, Tobi? Where’d you go?

The world still turns, but we don’t know.

Did life get heavy? Did dreams collapse?

Or did you find peace in a quieter path?

We’re not mad, just missing you,

Your chaos, charm, your point of view.

The inbox stays unread, untouched,

But still, we hope it’s not too much.

So if somehow you see or hear,

Know we remember, we still care.

The silence speaks, but still we pray,

That Tobinsco finds his way.