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.