FeyVored

____________________________________________________________________ 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 subject...

~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 ...

A short simple farewell message to the year 2010. This year has been very eventful for me. In it, I have witnessed a steep learning curve and an even steeper growth curve (well, maybe not physically!), It's a year where I started a race which I am still running strongly, a year when I started exceeding limits and breaking boundaries- all for a good cause. It's a year where I met some amazing people and formed stronger relationships with those that had already been in my life. It's a year where I overcame fears and witnessed the power of faith, A year where I influenced more lives positively- even unintentionally at times. It's been a year of good fun, unleashing the youth that I had locked in in my attempt to appear mature. It's a year where many wishes came true and one where I truly realised that if you work towards the 'impossible', you will get it. It has been a year filled with love, hope and faith. Most of all, it's been...

Today is Thursday. I'm dreading the night mainly because of the aftermath- a very messy kitchen, quite smelly corridors and grumpy cleaners. My first semester of Uni, I must say, wasn't at all what I had anticipated. I remember coaching myself mentally, preparing for the hard times to come, having an escape plan in case of a metaphoric fire and a Plan B if that didn’t work. Anyway, as it happened, my plan B wasn't well premeditated, lacking enough detail to guide me through smoky situations. All it had inscribed on it was “RUN”. Thursday nights are Mercy Nights- when students get free entry into an over-hyped nightclub. As that isn’t my cup of tea, I tend to stay indoors, watching a movie or trying to catch up with work- the latter being more frequent. The reason I dread these nights is because my flatmates have a pre-party, a chaotic one, where over 10 people squeeze into our kitchen, blast the music through the roof and scream at the top of their lungs in chants for ...

I had written this poem a while ago, and tucked it away. A few weeks later, I heard the song ‘Purple’ by Donnie McClurkin and I was amazed by their coherence. Do listen to the song and enjoy. The colour of a heart slowly cut off from its oxygen source of a red flame dying, turning blue That Colour Purple,  when I'm cut off from You Shades of complacency as vibrance seeps away Purple are my scars, from wounds of conformity Squeezed in a box that was too little for me  the colour of my skin so deprived, From the breezy breath of life Sealed in that little box that caves me in ~o~  I am by the lake in the cold winter morn, treading softly on leaves so thirsty They had been battered by dreary November, And seemed a representation of my person I have found it so hard to let go To let God take control Purple were the gloves I wore that day   When You wiped away tears with my hands,   fears crushed in Your hands...

Simulated Perfection. A little boy kicked his red mud-stained ball towards me. A little too high the kick was, as the ball bounced off my right knee, leaving a stain that was conspicuous. He ran up to me giggling, a very boisterous one, like he had no clue what he had done. He pointed to the ball, still inattentive to the frown that had formed on my face, which had on it clear signs of tiredness. Before he could say anything, I picked him up and spun him around, his little feet hanging high, drawing wide circles in space. "Mummy, Mummy!" The little boy's older sister ran out of the house to give me a big hug. I dropped him on the ground and squeezed them both tight in a warm embrace. I had missed them and it was obvious that they had eagerly awaited my arrival. Joseph, my 4 year old boy, gave me a slightly wet kiss on my cheek and Deborah, a very smart 7 year old, wasn't slow in noticing the stain on my knee. I exp...