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User 2 1

akachukwu chukwuemeka (akabeks)

creativity is like a river,the deeper you go the more exposed the beauty...

Eye am a slave to imagination,
Like a lover powerless,
I spread the hands of my heart
For a romance of creativity,
Walking the universe of my thoughts,
Holding on to the memories of
© 2014

My works are strongly influence by Imagination and I believe that the way you interpret the world around you depends on the strength of your perception and imagination. I see but, I paint what eye feel. I see art as a window to an endless imagination, you may settle for the window frame, you may also view beyond the frame to savour the endless landscape that abound. I was born on the 23rd day of June, 1971 at Mgbowo, Enugu State, Nigeria and graduated from the department of Fine and Applied Arts, University of Nigeria, Nsukka. 1997/98 session(Painting major). My poems flow with my paintings thus, sometimes they have the same titles. I am currently a Post Graduate Diploma Student of Gender studies at the University of Abuja, Nigeria where I live and work.

  • when i dance.JPG-2009 -

    I dance for me,
    Silent vibrations from within
    Rhythm of the unseen, I dance for me.
    My steps follow their direction,
    My heart-beat echoes their sound. Some say I dance weird: they call me possessed. If I dance raw, if I dance pure,
    If I dance whirlwind, if I dance the spirits within,
    No matter what them say,
    I know I dance me.
    I dance for me. ©2001

  • the things they do to our head -

    this work captures how radio, religion, and televisions are been used to brainwash the people.

  • the things we eat.JPG -

    this butcher prepares his cow meat for sell by roasting them with tyres

  • National cow-milk.JPG-2010 -

    they hold us together to milk us dry. the cow is hungry and dry and her milk is for the children of the oppressors.

  • regulated freedom.JPG -

    This work is about the regulated opportunities we have as free people as regards our independence. We are allowed limited space in the international communities and are allowed only to look. Decisions about Africa are taken without Africans yet we call ourselves independent nations. Freedom and true independence can only be achieved when the tiny window that only fit our head is dismantled for our body to pass through. ‘Freefty’ (freedom at fifty) years of independent yet we are still dependent on the western world.

  • The Senate.JPG-2010 -

    the senate is like a big penis, piercing the virginity of our existence. like a big ego, the people have no choice than to massage and bow and go... the only thing that matters to it is personal satisfaction.

  • Forms From My Sky (1) series -

    Forms from My Sky
    Eye sea the cloud walk the horizon
    Of my imagination,
    Day and Night
    Eye sea men, women, animals, and birds
    Forming in the sky,
    Becoming evanescent to trace…
    Eye watched and become the cloud,
    Walking my canvas,
    Creating my forms,
    Stamping my seal ©2014

  • Third Gender (2).JPG-2010 -

    sequel to dilemma of the hermaphrodite; the third gender (1). here their eyes are open to show how vocal and bold they have become in recent times.

  • Wandering Man -

    Am a wanderer
    Searching for my essence,
    The root of my fathers are sweet, the
    Fruits are bitter, Eye must set with the sun,
    My feet walked the path of the preacher
    And the dibia,
    But their songs came from a punctured throat.
    They grow fat and oily; the followers grow thin and dry,
    Their medicine is made potent by our bill,
    Their theatrics are contrived, Am a wanderer
    My fathers have no written records of their fathers
    Generations of oral wisdom are setting faster than
    The eastern sun
    While we are sold away to white man’s religion,
    They say ours’ is the way to hell
    But they carry the oracles to their lands
    And call them artefacts, They perform appeasements to our gods
    To understand their ways and abandoned us with
    The book about a messiah that will come again, Am a wanderer
    Eye must trace my roots,
    My grandfather married nine wives, his elder brother thirteen,
    The younger one married six and my uncle, three.
    Whiteman’s religion shackled my father, and he ended with one,
    Until another appears, eye wander, and seek.
    They said theirs’ was a great lineage
    Of abundant wealth and peacefulness,
    Without education, all was wasted seeking
    The tender waist of young maidens, Am a wanderer
    I search not the abundant wives of my ‘fathers’,
    Eye seek the wisdom in the peace they lived.

  • Common Couple Violence 2010 -

    this work captures a type of domestic violence where either of the couple lash out at the other at any slightest provocation.

  • this happiest people on earth -

    They call us happiest people on earth
    Eye wonder why it was so.
    We are people psychologically oppressed,
    And we sort happiness everywhere to float.
    We party sunrise to set yet, our pillows are soaked
    With sorrows of tomorrow unknown,
    A policeman shot dead a taxi driver and a pregnant woman
    In front of a bank that pays peanuts to guard,
    They dismissed him for prison while
    Psychiatric doctors roam the hood unemployed,
    Mobile police are no longer mobile for their
    Bullets walk their work, Religion absorb our frustrations as we blame the
    Devil for much and leave others for God…,
    When the poor widow’s oil polishes the preacher’s mansion,
    Alleluia in high heaven we sing. They say we are the happiest people on earth,
    Eye look around and weep,
    Poor kids pick dustbins for food,
    Children of the rich drive joy from drugs,
    Elites and politicians rape the land
    And quarrel when the scale is tilted, the press must
    Sell for salaries are paid. Preachers pray for our protections but
    Move with armed bodyguards,
    Their tithes come from our cooperate sins
    And the people fear God to talk. They call us happiest people on earth
    But dog eats dog in our world to fat,
    Grand papas and mamas desire ‘blood tonic’
    And youths dispense at a few naira notes,
    Our society is an abattoir, with conscience dead,
    We butcher without mercy. ©25/02/2011

  • My country is a jungle -

    A kiss is a bite; a hug is a fight,
    A handshake is a bet; our existence is a gamble,
    Mr. Eagle dwells atop the rock watching over us,
    The eaglets prowl the streets spying on us,
    Their vulture friends sing and dance alleluia
    Round the rock,
    And every Wednesdays they assemble to share the
    Milk of the bleeding national cow,
    Their weaver bird friends sing their praises
    With voices cracked by soured wine of the eagle king
    And his hyena bodyguards,
    Their squirrel friends pray for them, eat their food,
    And come to the public like Pontus Pilate, My country is a Jungle
    The grass is too rough for the goats: they want fresh fish,
    The bone is too hard for the lions; they want milk and honey,
    The barking dogs have their tails cut,
    The rampaging elephants got their testicles broken,
    The parrots have their throat cut,
    Yet, Mr. Eagle and his entourage fly round the world
    Singing alleluia about this jungle
    Where life is sorrow and death is a feast. ©2011

  • Where we stand -

    In this desert we stand,
    Forward is as far as backward.
    That antidote for unseen tomorrow green,
    Has become a desolate yesterday dry.
    Nothing remains,
    but dust and, the wind

  • Song of a Rising Sun (2) -

    Kindred spirits guides the sun rise
    From the eastern heartland of
    Merchants dwell,
    Where my forefathers worshipped their creator
    Through the *Ikenga* firm and feared,
    Kolanut rituals performed at sunrise and sunset
    Give honour to the being divine and wise.

    The drums of my ancestors were vocal,
    The dance steps, a strength,
    The rhythm was a communion with their creator,
    And they sing in unison, in praise of the powers above. Men that wore khaki shorts came,
    Smoking Long pipes, they became gods
    To our forebearers,
    Their magic broke the rhythm and things went
    Wrong with our heads,
    The elders of the land became blank and the weak
    Became warriors of the new beginning, Our neighbours got a different kind of message
    And their women became masquerades while
    Their men turned to bareback riders.

    It was a blend of all that was meant to be good,
    Our fathers embraced all, gained all, and lost all,
    They say one man one woman as the west taught the rest
    But in the land of the rising sun, it becomes song of the dumb.
    If you say I do with the likes of *Adaeze* in a tilted union,
    *Ije di na nwunye* will become a lament of a life time;
    An endless marital song of sorrow. People die of heart attack because they can’t say I don’t,
    The church has ruled for better, for worse,
    But for *azu anu-uka*, when life is threatened,
    The rule becomes opium meant for the practicing faithful. Our ancestors did and did and did, instead of I don’t,
    They did again, lived peacefully, danced gracefully
    And observed thousands of sunsets. Eye followed false echoes of *Ada mammiwata* and
    Became a traveler in wedlock of padlocks;
    I, the bloodline of Rainmakers,
    They say I should not say I don’t, but I said so,
    My forebearers would have performed a simple ritual of
    Appeasement to set the son free but,
    The court and the church revel in the soap of the pigeons;
    They live to watch another episode. But eye said I don’t. A rising sun sings with a lone voice, the echoes reaches the
    Land of the Popes,
    A man of psychiatry and culture heard and want to hear again,
    But I sing and dance the spirit within,
    I sing about the powers abused, of greedy leaders and waifs,
    Of First-ladies and abused children, I sing about highlife and
    I sing about sun rise and ablutions, about sun sets and long shadows, Eye sing,
    Lamentations of the rising sun,
    My song will end when the course is circled. ©June 2011.

  • Where I live -

    Ignorance and poverty are landlords.
    Half naked women celebrate gossip
    All day long. They are housewives. Some send their children to school,
    Others do because others do.
    Their husbands are strongmen, struggling against
    All odds, they provide the daily bread. The children help the neighborhoods’ free-girls,
    Their laundries must be clean to sell the flowery meat.
    Little innocence,
    They watch and learn the destructive trade. The prostitutes parade the street with their sagged breasts
    Tucked tantalizingly in their tidy revealing iron bras,
    Tempting, tormenting,
    They are vulgar in their manners.
    Their welcoming faces betray banners of
    Frustrated existence. Where I live Behind my dwell are marijuana merchants.
    Evening and early mornings,
    Youths gather to smoke away sorrows of
    Bad economy. When the free girls meet the youths at the equilibrium
    Point of smoking revelry, the fling becomes for kind. The men in black uniform make their random raids but,
    Tomorrow, everybody goes free.
    The economy is bad, the police is our friend. For the prostitutes, if they pay in cash or kind,
    I cannot tell. Between the police and the youths,
    They are arbiters. Where I live. In front of my dwell lived some Young men from
    Hell. The landlord cannot throw them out, they were above the law but,
    Jungle justice is above them. They were caught in active duty.
    Their guns are enough exhibits, the mob need no witnesses. The kingpin was a friend to the police but, the
    Police is our friend? Where I live, Children learn the trade. The
    Free girls and the boys from hell convive every evening,
    They initiate the kids into the destructive life of
    Marijuana, banditry and prostitution. ©2001

  • Dog Zone -

    In this dog zone we dwell,
    Barking dogs have rotten teeth,
    Domestic ones grow lean and quiet,
    Stray dogs hunt the prey but,
    Rabid ones eat the lion share. ©2012

  • Drifting -

    When the flesh of this emotion dies,
    When it goes down so deep;
    Six feet or less or more,
    As food to termites, vultures or the fish,
    And nourishment to earth or contamination to
    The river or the air,
    When it dries or softens according to the intensity
    Of the seasons,
    Then, the soul like the full moon bright across our
    Forest brown, will shine its light
    Visible and clear on our path that we may walk free. When the soul of this emotion rests,
    Casting long shadows on the trees of our memories,
    Illuminating the labyrinths of our sojourn,
    Then, the energy of our moon naked, shall raise the tide
    Of knowledge and we shall gather the shells of wisdom
    And learn to live again. When the ashes of our fire---out,
    Is cast to the wind, when it reaches the end of time,
    Then, we shall go back to the beginning
    And begin again. © 2009

  • Unknown -

    There is an emptiness within,
    neither sexual love nor wealth can fill,
    like the dry land it yearns for rain tender. This emptiness longs for
    fulfillment unknown.


  • Wandering Woman -

    Hers is a life of abundance
    Yet emptiness abound,
    Her sun has past its glow for
    It rose before her dawn,
    Her shadows stretch to the crossroad,
    Her web is knit for she desires not mosquitoes.
    Men in her life rumbles and roars like
    The Lagos bar beach, they
    Cause more pain than gain.
    She looks very intimidating
    But a tender sun melts her cream away.
    Love to her has gone with the wind
    She can only echo old men transmissions.
    Mama desires her grandchildren,
    Papa awaits the suitor’s palm wine,
    Her job is now her love
    And her hope she cannot hold.
    She may kognomized a man to the altar
    And make him a career,
    She may take solace in religion and mentor the young.
    She may end up a single mother
    Waiting for a gold digging mugu that
    Becomes her show bag,
    She may end up a big aunty in a TV or Radio talk show. ©02-2011

  • My Art, My Life -

    My art is my life,
    The madness them say, the saneness eye sea,
    My art is my world,
    And the energy within
    Drives the seen.

    © March 2012

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Pictures (view all 53)
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    the third gender captures the dilemma faced by hermaphrodites. all over the world, they seem to be relegated to the background.…

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    in this work, the couple feel superior to the other even when they emerge from the same source.

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    this is about a society where people bow for you not because of respect but for what they can get from you. A man steals people's…

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