A Chapter Written in Print

I met you through a friend,

and perhaps there was a reason,

an intention I never quite understood

or maybe time simply erased it,

as it often does.

Because of the bro code,

I have learned not to ask too many questions

about the ladies friends bring around.

I meet them, I smile, I move along,

and after a few months,

their names become distant echoes.

But somehow,

yours stayed.

Omowunmi.

Royalty.

Kunmi.

Three names for one woman

I never expected to remember.

Then, somewhere between

a message and another,

I discovered you were easy to talk to

the kind of person whose conversations

don't need an audience.

An introvert,

quiet in a world that often mistakes silence

for emptiness.

But I have come to realize

that silence can be a printing press too;

it takes the things we don't say,

presses them into thought,

and leaves impressions

deeper than noise ever could.

And your world is print.

You say you're only learning the ropes,

still finding your way through the pages,

still discovering the language

of ink, paper, deadlines,

and everything that lives between them.

But perhaps you don't see

what I see from the outside.

Some people enter a craft

to learn how it works.

Others enter it

because the craft has been waiting for them.

I think you are the latter.

Today, you may call yourself

a student of the print world,

but I can already imagine

the woman you are becoming

steady hands, discerning eyes,

a mind that knows what belongs on the page

and what deserves to be left in the margins.

Maybe one day,

you won't simply work in that world.

You'll rule it.

Not loudly.

Not by demanding a crown,

but by becoming so good

that the crown finds its way to you.

A queen of print.

And here I am,

putting these thoughts on a sheet

that is bound to pass through your hands,

perhaps through your world of paper and ink,

a little irony I couldn't resist.

But don't mistake these words

for the whole story.

They are only a page.

A small chapter

in the book of Omowunmi and me.

A chapter that began

with a friend,

a forgotten intention,

and a name I somehow remembered.

A chapter that grew through conversations,

through discovering the quiet woman

behind the names Royalty and Kunmi.

And perhaps that's all this is meant to be

a chapter.

Not the ending.

Not a conclusion.

Just a page

in a story still being written.

And if your life is truly a book,

as I suspect it is,

then this is merely one sheet

waiting to be turned.

The ink is still wet.

The pages are still many.

And somewhere ahead,

perhaps,

the queen is still becoming.

The Architect of Truth, Steel, and Survival

 

Part I: The Press, The Street, and The Shadows

From the hum of the desk at AIT’s live control,

To NTA’s lens and the NBS soul,

I wore all the crowns in the heat of the air:

Reporter, producer, and editor there.

Juggling the pressures of truth on the screen,

Hunting the stories that stayed unseen.

Then came the chapters of classroom and street,

Where political science and justice would meet.

I graduated and stepped to the front of the line,

Among those who built the great spark of our time

The architects standing to shatter the dread,

The #EndSARS movement that shook the nation and bled

With the courage of youth against police brutality's chain,

Demanding our freedom, refusing the pain.

That fire drew shadows; an investigative page

Awoke powerful figures with dangerous rage,

Who hunted my steps in the heat of the night,

For daring to write what they wanted out of sight.

I walked from that stage, left the cameras behind,

To anchor new pixels and give peace of mind

Crafting digital words for the web and the blog,

While navigating life through the shifting fog.

Part II: The Kennel and The Cycle of Life

Yet through all of the noise, in the calm and the storm,

My kennel remained as a steady, true form.

The heartbeat of breeding, the dogs I call mine

Where grief and pure triumph in cycles entwine.

I wept when the parvovirus stole the young breath

Of promising litters to silence and death;

Yet stood in the dawn when the healthy ones thrived,

Proof of the patience by which I survived.

Part III: Steel, Oil, and The First Energy Hub

Then a pivot to steel, to the oil and the gas,

Where a supervisor watches the product pass.

Ten tons in the supply, with one-point-five lost

I stepped in the gap and accounted the cost.

From five hundred kilogrammes, a sluggish delay,

To four-point-five metric tons sold in a day.

I climbed to Area Manager, cutting the slack,

Eradicating the shortfalls, keeping watch on the track,

Clearing downtime and waste from the terminal floor

Till I stepped through the threshold to lead something more:

Now Manager steering the very first pride

The Energy Hub, where the future is tied,

In Nigeria, in Africa, bold and anew,

With Ibile Oil and Gas, proving what I can do.

New Chapter

 From the hum of the desk at AIT’s live control,T

To NTA’s lens and the NBS soul,

I wore all the crowns in the heat of the air:

Reporter, producer, and editor there.

Juggling the pressures of truth on the screen,

Hunting the stories that stayed unseen.

Then came the chapters of classroom and street,

Where political science and justice would meet.

I graduated and stepped to the front of the line,

Among those who built the great spark of our time.

The architects standing to shatter the dread,

The #EndSARS movement that shook the nation and bled

With the courage of youth against police brutality's chain,

Demanding our freedom, refusing the pain.

That fire drew shadows; an investigative page

Awoke powerful figures with dangerous rage,

Who hunted my steps in the heat of the night,

For daring to write what they wanted out of sight.

I walked from that stage, left the cameras behind,

To anchor new pixels and give peace of mind

Crafting digital words for the web and the blog,

While navigating life through the shifting fog.

Yet through all of the noise, in the calm and the storm,

My kennel remained as a steady, true form.

The heartbeat of breeding, the dogs I call mine

Where grief and pure triumph in cycles entwine.

I wept when the parvovirus stole the young breath

Of promising litters to silence and death;

Yet stood in the dawn when the healthy ones thrived,

Proof of the patience by which I survived.

Then a pivot to steel, to the oil and the gas,

Where a supervisor watches the product pass.

Ten tons in the supply, with one-point-five lost

I stepped in the gap and accounted the cost.

From five hundred kilogrammes, a sluggish delay,

To four-point-five metric tons sold in a day.

I climbed to Area Manager, cutting the slack,

Eradicating the shortfalls, keeping watch on the track,

Clearing downtime and waste from the terminal floor.

Till I stepped through the threshold to lead something more:

Now Manager steering the very first pride

The Energy Hub, where the future is tied,

In Nigeria, in Africa, bold and anew,

With Ibile Oil and Gas, proving what I can do.

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.