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.
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Eye seek what I know not,
Like an eagle hovering and scanning the
Horizon, eye seek. What eye desire not I know,
When eye behold what I seek, eye know. Eye know not what seeketh me,
Like a messenger willing and obedient eye wait,
Like a keeper assured, eye wait,
What eye wait for, eye know not,
But when eye sea, eye know. ©06/08/2009 -
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 kings entourage and their blind escort.JPG-2006 -
This work is about those that surround the leaders of African countries posing as special advisers. They are ‘always blind and are appointed to lead the blind rulers.’ The people shout and protest yet these 'escorts' lead the king into a ditch.
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the things they do to our head -
this work captures how radio, religion, and televisions are been used to brainwash the people.
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Too much simplicity,
They take you for granted,
Too much kindness,
They take you for a fool,
Too much generosity,
They take advantage and lie
At every opportunity,
All to get more from you
Pretending to be in dire need. -
50 years of Independence movement in Africa, we still move like this...
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this butcher prepares his cow meat for sell by roasting them with tyres
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explosion of imagination.jpg-1997 -
imagination is like an egg, if crushed prematurely, the life in it dies but, if allowed to hatch we have life that may end up producing other eggs;life. this work captures the power of imagination exploding unrestricted. the church will tell us to control our imagination and reject some thought pattern else you go to hell. but creativity will tell us to open our mind to an endless imagination...
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the circle (the gathering) captures the society and the struggle to belong. it is obvious that to move ahead in life, you have to spin with the rhythm of a particular circle;you are accepted on the basis of the school you attend, the church you attend, the club you belong to, etc.
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the messenger (watchman).jpg-1997 -
everybody has a guardian, it could be angelic or demonic.
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man is always thinking; about life,existence,etc. the wonders of creation is the greatest challenge to man. we claim to master the universe but we have not discovered one tenth of it, so we continue to wonder...
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there is a mad rush to the source of the sound that echo universally;movies,fashion,music, science,religion,etc. one echo set us rushing to unknown.
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the craziness of ambition.jpg-1996 -
ambition is one crazy thing that can make man lose all sense of humanity and reason, and when he gets it he turn around to either help or destroy humanity.
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they hold us together to milk us dry. the cow is hungry and dry and her milk is for the children of the oppressors.
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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.
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this work captures the strength of motherhood. The mothers eye like the mother hen always watches over her kids. Even when the eyes seem to be closed or asleep, the mind is always were the children are.
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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.
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when women gather, the heavens open and the society is safe,
when women gather in supplication, the society blossom. -
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Woman is earth.
The earth is the female, the sky, the male.
The rain is the semen that nourishes the
Womb; and, the warm sunshine is the orgasm. The fields green are children of the female
And violence against any part green or dry
Is harm to EARTH. The woman as the earth and vessel of life
Is sacred,
And to mutilate her in any form amounts to
Violation of the sacred passage to existence. ©2009 ***earth is a woman worshipped and revered. its anger is like a mother's anger, tender and with love. -
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 money and was charged to court, instead of people condemning him, they carry placards and white handkerchief and dance around the court premises praising the national looter.
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ghost workers captures a society where there is high unemployment yet, salary schedule of government offices are filled with ghost salaried workers whose salaries end up in someone's private account.
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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.
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A wonderful couple with mysterious nature…
For a dying body,
What a rhythm known and unknown,
Hours, minutes, seconds,
The soul departs. As the music reaches a point where nature becomes the master artiste,
The soul disappears like the moon rushing to make way for
A sudden dawn… Dirge flows, accompanying
The departing moon to source, And the feminity in the masculinity of
This dirge unfolds the
Quagmire of emotions that flows
With death and music,
Death; the strong male.
Music; a tender female. ©1997 -
unforgettable rythm.jpg-1997 -
Unforgettable rhythm Of thoughts, this emotions,
Of steps—a dance,
Of rhythm, so unforgettable, Today eye embrace this flowing emotions,
To feel these steps that made this dance
So rhythmically unforgettable, Forever eye will follow these thoughts
That made this rhythm that you are,
So unforgettable. ©1998 -
Sometimes, you feel possessed…,
You hear voice whisper verses to your ears,
You pick your pen and write. Sometimes, you want to add your line,
But, the voice will say; ‘No, it is not that way,
Listen very attentively, and, write’. Sometimes, you will add your own line, and the voice
Will say, “Fine, it is alright”…, Sometimes, you write before you think,
Sometimes, you omit some lines, then, you will have to wait
Long-temporally to get them back. Sometimes, you get just the sketch, it becomes
An assignment to complete…. Sometimes, you argue with the voice for days
Before you turn out a piece; you listen, you think,
You write, cancel, and rewrite. Sometimes,
When you become,
You look at the piece, and, you say, what a beautiful
Verses 1 have written. Then, you will look back and say,
I never wrote that, I am just a tool in the hands
Of supernatural conspirators,
I am been used to respond to events,
Sometimes…
©2001 ***the work is about that unseen quest that always minister to our subconscious...as artists, poets,spiritualists etc -
among the elements of nature; earth,water,fire and the wind, 'man' is the fifith element place at the center of the earth with power to control others elements but, 'man' has become the controlled; a servant to other elements, yet, still boast about his ability in conquering the universe. 'man 'has become the servant instead of the master;servant to (materialism)power,money,etc.
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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.
©20/09/2010 -
the work captures Micheal P. Johnson's type of domestic violence where either of the couple uses psychological intimidation to make the other panic in their presence
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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 work captures a type of domestic violence where either of the couple lash out at the other at any slightest provocation.
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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 -
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 -
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 -
In this desert we stand,
Forward is as far as backward.
Hope,
That antidote for unseen tomorrow green,
Has become a desolate yesterday dry.
Nothing remains,
but dust and, the wind -
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
Lowlife,
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. -
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 -
Our center holds not our unity but
Our common weal,
We gather, we gather to fill our
Drums,
We scatter; we scatter to seek our source.
©2012 -
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Dance with me, my love,
Naked in me bedroom,
Let the eyes of your breasts
Tease me erect,
Let our sensuous tongue suck us to taste. Discard your mask
And dance atop my nodding stand.
Let my gentle palms rock your flexible waist,
Let your creamy path guide our way. Dance upright, dance down right,
Let our wet be our rest. ©2001 -
Fantasy -
She carries her tender front firm and innocently.
De flowered, has emerge dazzling
With panache…, She is full of energy, equitably distributed and,
Like the caressing breeze, she erotizes sensations. The moon dwell in her eyes, her voice is love songs.
She gives me imaginations; she gives me hallucinations.
The birds sing emotions whenever she passes, they
Sing natures song. She is nature’s owned work, a marvel of an art,
a creation of my mind. ©2001 -
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.
©2008 -
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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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