FeyVored

I turned 20 two months ago. This means I am no longer "a 19-year old freelance writer" as it is written on my blog's mini-bio. I have noticed now that it was a sunny day, just like this one, and a day I felt drenched with love. Again, just like this one. The year of 19 was slightly awkward and laborious for me. It involved a lot of "finding my feet" and striving to achieve goals before the big clock struck 20. Many of these goals cannot even be remembered. They were not solid and more importantly, they were not even relevant to my purpose. I decided to take a blogger's break to see if any other talent would spring up, itching to be used. Something else did and I realised that I am actually quite good in telling stories with pictures. Be mindful that I am not blowing my own trumpet, I am only grateful that in 19 , a buried treasure was dug up. So here's 20. I have made a  personal resolution for this year- to let go and let GOD. I know it is not

Remembrance Day It is not merely a time to recognise the fighters it is one of  many, with its stings of loss and chills of disbelief  heightened The "here today" could be the "gone tomorrow" And the parts of lives that were filled with you now remain bare Losing you has made us stronger Empowering us with a new hope. Without it, we crumble Your courage so contagious In your heart of love and war Still, beating on Rest in peace now, You never have to fight again For you, L.A, forever in our hearts 

Set the tone and I'll sing to Your song, with our heart-beats to the same rhythm, my will and Yours in Harmony My mind auto-tuned to Your desires, Notes of love and genuine dedication my life, my walk in Your symphony Lyrics of Grace, chords of Salvation Choruses of freedom and victory All in Your Key of G. G-O-D.    'The G-chord'   

I've been latched unto the rollercoaster of music, it took me through highs and lows. My iTunes playlist that I called "My Jamz" (yes, with a "Z") was compiled from music of the stars- in my eyes back then- with the likes of Aerosmith, Regina Spektor, Chris Brown, Enriqué Iglesias, ColdPlay, Adele, Beyoncé and Linkin Park. It may seem like some variety, swimming across the spectrum of musical genres, but all seemed to own a special key to my mind, unlocking my emotions of laughter, tears and the most dreaded "release yourself" , where I try to bust a move, combining the creepwalk with the butterfly dance and the running man. That was a shambles. What I'm getting at here, as I quickly pull out from your imagination visions of me trying to dance, is that these artists and musicians have a way of combining sounds to accompany their lyrics, sending message to our subconscious, and our minds intepret these wave signals to dance, sing-along, or just b

____________________________________________________________________ Channel 4’s Unreported World went deep into the southern part of Nigeria to expose an ongoing trend of human trafficking which has been hidden underneath filthy blankets for many years. In the episode titled “Sex, Lies and Black Magic” we watch as a young girl, Vivian Peter, is prepared for her journey into Sex Slavery. As it is not so obvious to her what is about to become of her,  w ith fingers crossed, we hope that she would be overwhelmed with the stench exuding from the fishiness of the process used to prepare her for the adventure ahead. Watching as Vivian is being made to take an oath in a black magic ritual, she is being made to swear her life into paying her sponsor- who provides what is needed for her trip and stay in Italy, Vivian’s dreamland. It is no surprise how compelled Vivian is to do this, by looking at her surroundings; it is quite blatant her state of poverty has subjected her to find a better

~o~ At the sacred oak of Mamre, The sunset’s red and gold The glowing ball having burned brightly Takes its break ‘til tomorrow Underneath these consecrated trees I wait For the answers to come to me They had promised they would be here And in the harsh cold, my wishes, still pending The footsteps passing by are countless, And as the orange skies turn dark, Stranger’s eyes give a pitiful glare, They know how long I have been sat here As three men walk towards me I raise red hollow eyes to receive them Their gaze so engaging, Like spears, piercing my heavy heart Pass me not O’ gentle Saviour Hear the weeping of my silent heart For now words have failed me But tears hardly ever, each drop, deafeningly speaking ten One takes my calloused hands, resting it in his “Your time is not now” His glowing eyes do speak "But it comes soon, you are a seed on fertile ground" Once, on my long road to Damascus, I had received a revelation, My life had been given purpose My days to be

A tale like no other, before you I lay Simplicity its form, amidst its language rests the cunning. Its nature like an egg, artistic, strong yet delicate exterior, A protective hedge it creates for the rich versatile fluidity of the interior, Heed caution, for like the scent of the egg interior ensures resurrection to the last meal for some, for others it is a welcome nourishment giving revival to things previously considered dead. Idara is the name, bursting forth with meaning Originating from Nigeria, it is claimed by two tribes In the South-East, the Ibibio know the name to mean JOY And on the country’s Western front, the Yoruba understand it as GOODNESS. So, Goodness and Joy abundant are Idara’s goals Mind, body and soul, Silence and labour, her companions through the days, Pruning and self-grooming, till her goals she achieves. Discipline and hard work, her daily creed, Learning ever, settling never. A constant desire for knowledge, Keeping close by to the reminder of "