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.

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.

To Betty, With Love I Never Saw Coming

 

Once we laughed with hearts unchained,
As friends who thought love had been explained
But time, in silence, wrote a twist,
And now it's you I deeply miss.

Betty, your name
Rings like poetry inside my frame.
A melody I didn't mean to learn,
Yet now it's all for you I yearn.

I never planned to fall this way,
It crept in slow, then swept my day.
From shared glances to quiet grace,
I found my home in your embrace.

You were a friend, the truest kind,
But now you're rooted in my mind
Not as before, but something new,
A flame of love I never knew.

I don’t expect the world to shift,
Just hope these words, like breeze, might lift
The weight of all I never said,
And dreams of you that fill my head.

If ever there’s a chance to be,
More than what the past could see
I’d hold your hand, no longer hide,
With love that’s grown from deep inside.

7:56AM

We wake each day with a smile that shields the pain,
Hiding truth behind the masks we wear, again and again.
From those who think we owe them every why and how,
As we stumble through the silence, they still expect us to somehow

Narrate the chaos in our chests,
While we're just trying to catch our breath.
Fighting battles deep inside,
Barely staying afloat, but still we hide.

We chase their standards, play their game,
While life consumes us all the same.
At the end, it feels we’re falling short,
That we’re not enough in their report.

And so they grow cold, they misread our stance
Thinking we don’t care, we missed our chance.
But this lonely road we’ve come to know
Has oddly become our safest home.

Because this world asks for more than we can give:
To rise, to shine, to strive, to live.
To impact loved ones, to please the crowd,
To match demands that scream too loud.

Expectations that never match our own,
Realities we face when we’re alone.
Yet we bend and twist just to belong,
Hoping not to be labeled wrong.

Then comes silence
And the bond we held dissolves like mist,
Fading to an abstract nothingness that we can’t resist.

And here I am,
Like many more
Surrounded by yellow buses, concrete floors.
Marching like a ghost in this endless city stream,
Chasing 2k in a 7:56 dream.

Stay In The Light

burn love into air dust

and let us slowly

breathe it

up our nostrils

like cocaine

i know the fire 

in your eyes

find the river

on my lips

let us merge

the elements

and become one

water and fire;

the magic of

hot and cold...

burn love into

the surface of 

our hearts let 

the flames of

passion consume 

us completely  

I drink deeply 

from the river

of your lips 

temperatures 

molten us together

like metallic 

elements we

are liquified.

Goodnight my queen

Fantastic Garden

Your breath intoxicating 

My heart drunk in you

Love swirls deep satisfaction 

Perfume chains you and me, us, we

Our making love is sensational 

Luxurious this amazing arousal 

Sensitivity speaks, ecstasy flows

Your embrace ignited 

Sizzling tingles throbbing 

Our bodies become a butterfly cascade

Spinal sensations release endorphins 

Inches away our lips collide 

Quickly our bodies collapse 

Loud echoes of pleasures sound

This is creates our fantastic garden

Examination Message

 Dear Friend,

Congratulations on finishing your test! I hope you're feeling proud of yourself for putting in all the hard work and effort to prepare for it. You have worked so hard, and now it's time to take a deep breath and relax.

I want to wish you the best of luck as you wait for the results. I know that you have done your best, and that is what matters most. So whether you passed with flying colors or not, know that you gave it your all, and that is something to be proud of.

Remember to take some time to rest and recharge. You deserve it! And no matter what the outcome, know that you have people who love and support you every step of the way. So here's to a job well done, and may the results be in your favor.

Best of luck, friend!

Poem to a love one

 Oh Dear,

You light up my life like the sun in the sky.

Your smile and your laughter, so infectious and true,

I cannot imagine a day without you.

Your eyes sparkle bright like the stars up above,

And your heart is so warm and full of love.

You're the missing piece to complete my soul,

With you by my side, I feel whole.

Your beauty is like a work of art,

And your presence in my life is a treasure in my heart.

My love for you will never fade,

And in your arms, I know I have it made.

Dear, you are my queen,

My heart, my soul, my everything.

I promise to love and cherish you every day,

Forever and always, in every single way.

Two world's Alike

It was a rainy day, and the bus terminal was bustling with travelers rushing to their destinations. Among the crowd were two strangers, Amara and Jide. Amara had just graduated from college few years back with her fashion business her path way to billions, Amara was headed home after a stressful day to get clothing materials, while Jide was on his way back from his role as a manager for a big oil and gas firm.

As they waited for their buses which wasn't coming, They both decided to take a detour to get to their destination as time is of the essence, Amara with her baggages fought for Tired Jide to secure the last seat on a napep heading to Daleko. Amara and Jide struck up a conversation. At first, it was just small talk about the weather and their destinations, but soon they found themselves talking about their lives and ambitions. Amara talked about her dream of becoming a multi millionaire business woman, while Jide shared his passion for writing.

As they chatted, they realized they had a lot in common. Both had grown up in small towns and felt like outsiders in the big city. They both loved reading and shared a love for classic rock. Before they knew it, their buses arrived, and they said their goodbyes, promising to stay in touch.

Over the next few weeks, Amara and Jide exchanged emails and messages, discussing everything from their favorite books to their hopes and fears. They discovered that they had a deep connection and understanding of each other.

Months went by, and Amara landed a job in Jide's city. Excited to be closer to her newfound friend, she reached out to Jide, and they decided to meet up. They went to a local bookstore and spent hours browsing through the shelves, recommending books to each other and laughing at the silly titles.

Afterward, they went to a small café and shared stories over cups of coffee. It was then that they realized they had become great friends, thanks to their chance meeting at the bus terminal at Mushin on a rainy day.

Over the next few years, Amara and Jide's friendship blossomed. They shared many adventures, exploring new cities and trying new foods. They were there for each other through thick and thin, celebrating each other's successes and supporting each other through tough times.

As they sat on a bench in a park, watching the sunset, Amara turned to Jide and said, "You know, it's funny to think that we met at a bus terminal. If it weren't for that chance encounter, we might have never become friends."

Jide smiled and replied, "I know. But I'm glad we did. You're one of the best things that's ever happened to me."

Amara felt a warm feeling in her heart, knowing that Jide felt the same way she did. They sat in comfortable silence, watching the sky turn from orange to pink to purple, grateful for the unexpected friendship that had blossomed from a simple conversation at a bus terminal.

Reminiscing

It all began at the mall,

With beauty as bright as the moon, 

And symphonies to sustain a lifetime, 

Of slow kisses, cute smiles, I love You's

And promises of ever after.

From dreams to nightmares,

For my actions and inactions,

Of lack of commitment and divided halo's,

A burrow to our castle plan.

Which freed your butterfly from my cocoon.

Here I'm alone and reminiscing our past.

My lies you'd see through,

You (my gem) I'd never find again, 

I lost you to my faux stories.

I hurt the one I love the most,

If only I could rewrite us

On the sand of time,

Maybe this time I'd protect our names

From being blown away

By the breeze of my undoing.

Written by Oladipo Afeez Olajide

MY MUSLIMAH

 Doubt I felt when, this year,

I heard her voice;

Confused. Shocked. I thought
I had failed her.

However, happiness hones me —

Gifted with a milky object from within.

Naughtiness is the language of her body.

A moment with her brightens my thoughts.

Her smiles would heal an ill nation.

She is a rose for whom I spite other flowers.

Unbeknownst to her, my inner self of true feeling.

Scared to touch her each time I come close.

A mirage, to me, she appears.

But she endows me spiritually, with reminders of solat —

My adhan, straight from Allah.

Yet unaware, she glows away darkness.


Innocence

is what i see every time I gaze,

Every time she looks away.

She's that artifact a man would like to own

She's like the cloud we can see, but can't touch;

Mature enough to make me a platonic friend,

But that is not all I ever wanted.


Written by
Oladipo Afeez Olajide

@Ladoime 

Déjà vu

Behear silence's voice

Flying in dark breathe.

Behear songs of the moon

They crawled into my ears.


Be-sight the snow falling with bliss

Like rain of joyous grace.

I see long and wide

But I see shades

I see shades of gone nights

With all nature's bless

Upon lovers' will and smile



But beneath the earth they live

Our moon shines black;

The days are gone

But I heir your love-steps

And the days we had.



Here I live breathless

With your face in my head

I see déjà vu,

It says I miss you.


Written & Edited by

Idris Olabisi
Afeez Olajide Oladipo