PROSTITUTE!

pros·ti·tute:

noun 

1. A person, typically a woman, who engages in sexual activity for payment

2. A person who misuses their talents or who sacrifices their self-respect for the sake of personal or financial gain

verb

1. Offer (someone, typically a woman) for sexual activity in exchange for payment

2. Put (oneself or one's talents) to an unworthy or corrupt use or purpose for the sake of personal or financial gain.

A woman, or other person, who performs sexual activity for payment; A woman, or other person, who is perceived as engaging in sexual activity with many people; A person who does, or offers to do, an activity for money, despite personal dislike or dishonour; To perform sexual activity for money; ...

en.wiktionary.org/wiki/prostitute

Also known as Hooker, Street Walker, Whore, Escort Call Girl, Puta, Trollop, Hindi:Vaisha, Urdu:Fahisha, Punjabi:Kanjri, Arabic: Momis, Polish: ROSTYTUTKA, Spanish: Prostituta, German: Prostituierte, Italian: Prostitute, Russian: Prostituka; French: Portuguesetuée, Portugese: Prostituta; Greek; Prostitut and Nigerian: Ashewo.

From Su Xiaoxiao, Chinese courtesan of 5th century to Polly Adler, New York Madam in the 1920s -1940s to Domenica Niehoff (picture below), Germany's most famous scarlet woman who died in 2009, prostitutes have existed from time immemorial.

Image Source

It is not for nothing that the trade is called the oldest profession in the world. Despite the (obviously) morally reprehensible nature of prostitution, some prostitutes have played some memorable roles in the course of history. Prostitutes have cut short political careers. Think Eliot Spitzer. Prostitutes have destroyed homes and families. Prostitutes have drained savings.

But Prostitutes have also done incredible good. They have saved cities. Changed the course of history. Think Rahab and others x-rayed in this interesting post about whores who changed the course of history.

They come in different sexes. Male Prostitutes exist as well as other forms whose gender classification may border on the ambiguous. Cough* Cough*.

They also have different orientations. Their location and locale is as diverse as can be. Prostitutes not only stand on the streets. They exist in homes. They reside even in the corridors of powers.

Many conditions and factors inform and fuel prostitution. The trade or is it art? has inspired a lot of songs from musicians ranging from Donna Summer's Bad Girls to Wyclef Jean's Sweetest Girl a very lovely song written in the context of immigration and sexual exploitation.

Sweetest Girl is a song I love so much, so why don't we just pause and listen to the official video featuring Akon, Lil Wayne & Niia.

In today's poem, the persona addresses the 'Ashewo' or Prostitute in a tone that is both reverent and irreverent at the same time. The narrative seems to be so discerning of the prostitutes mindset and the conditions that fuel her trade. The persona acknowledges the immorality of the situation but seems to haplessly cave in to his fate and that of the Ashewo as 'Night's invariable knock must come again'. The persona is both understanding and judgmental. The persona manages to approbate and reprobate at the same time.

The poem ends in a way that somewhat mirrors Wyclef et al's chorus in Sweetest Girl (You can find the full lyrics of the song here) when they sing: 

"Cos' I'ma tell you like you told me

    Cash rules everything around me..."

Cash really does rule everything in the prostitute's world and in concurrence the persona concludes in today's poem in the last two verses by saying:

"then unrepentant, gain supreme

wax recrudescent again."

Enjoy the poem and don't forget to listen to The Flight of the Conchords beautiful message in their music video after the poem. 

Ciao!

PROSTITUTE
Ashewo!
Nocturnal offspring of undulating miscegenation.
Stand with your lurid amour;
boldly proclaim your wares!
impervious to discreet night’s sarcastic whisper.

Ashewo!
Fermented vixen of alabastic Croesus
Declare my treasure! Hyenas gather.
Show Leviathan breasts!
furious confinement like Mississippi’s levee,
inundation threatened, at the snap of a string.
Lie recusant. Gleam betrayed. Desperate.
Yesteryear etched in oculur crevices like the
prenatal lines of a calloused palm.

Ashewo!
Intrepid reconnaissance of mismatched arrow and heart.
Reveal prurient wound purulent!
intent to pullulate scrumptious geese freckled
by oleaginous stains of ill-fated cravings.

Ashewo!
Waterloo of miscounseled youth.
Besmirch of my dark longings
and become barren of pride.
Return wasted! to recondite existence.
Adorn nonchalant humanity’s garb!
Wait! Night's invariable knock must come again
then unrepentant, gain supreme,
wax recrudescent again.

Uche Okorie. 4th March, 2002.

FATHER TIF!

Poet's Note.
Today's poem is rather controversial. Yeah. Cos it has to do with religion. The opium or is it cocaine of the masses.
I wrote it on 2nd October, 2003. All I can say about that period of my life is that I was a young man in the University coming to terms with the apparent contradictions I noticed in spiritual men who profess my faith (Christianity) but who to every intent and purposes where impostors and charlatans. There were news and stories (there still are) of pastors, so called men of God, religious men caught up in vile acts.


Image Source

Some of the happenings then led me into (yeah you guessed right!) to write a poem after some soul searching. The poem is titled 'Father Tif!'. It is a free flowing verse written in the heat of passion (pardon me Criminal Law Lawyers!). For the record, I remain a committed Christian and I believe in the death and resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ and the salvation that resides in him. I go to church and I do my duty by God.

During the period I wrote this poem, I came across a Bible verse (Mathew 7: 15) which as in all things regarding the bible is gloriously prescient! It's captured in the image below.


Image Source

So my faith in God remains unshakable in spite of the wolves in sheep's clothing that forms the angst of the persona in this poem. So should yours.

Anyway I wrote the poem. But I ain't the persona in the poem. The persona's views are not necessarily mine even though those views are borne out of my experience. So charges of blasphemy in the light of the foregoing disclaimer accordingly holds no water. (Waoh! Don't I just love poetry! Imagine this for a defense?)

Enjoy!

FATHER TIF!


Play me this lyric, Father Tif!
Ignorant I stand, threat's approach unknown
encased in parasitic cassock and messianic garb.
my prayer becomes gibberish
as arcane inanities I stutter.
Argh! I must shout aloud
my voice rising to the skies
for HIS abode is quite a distance!
and Father Tif his chief emissary.

Play me this lyric, Father Tif!
Your business center beckons.
clang clang goes the coins of my toil!
the notes falling in, too heavy to shout.
Your petulant stare glazed with greed entraps
as the Holy book is called to aid
holy admonitions breaking my resolve
as I empty my pocket in zeal!

Play me this lyric, Father Tif!
If the nose looks down
the mouth it will see.
Vagaries my sense becloud.
Sorrow preponderate my face.
Devout and starving, my bones
become chewing sticks.
But in piety I will eat my crumbs!
shutting my eyes to Father Tif's
generous waist line!
For I am a wretch! and he the watch
picking my pocket,
as benediction I render to our maker.

Play me this lyric, Father Tif!
But why won’t you shriek
ebullient ventriloquist?
The kingdom is yours all for the taking.
The maidens, little boys and all therein!
The rood is to a stick glued;
your cavity a mesne of bilateral flow;
your proboscis shrouded in lies;
your unsolicited phalanges plucking
at my frustrated sweat!

Play me this lyric, Father Tif!
or shall I at my armpit sniff?
Aha! Let the 'Eke' market beckon!
will the hand not stink?
the buttock befriends?
you that devour the 'Udara'
about glued lips should worry.
Fallacious elixir and delusion is born,
sensory perception in illusion is lost!
Gentle Savior put up for sale
while my discomfort is drowned
in torrents of deceit!


Uche Okorie (2nd October, 2003)

LIFE’S LINEAMENT.

Poet's Note

I did promise in my last post that poems would come even more regularly now. Well here is me keeping my promise from my trove of past unpublished poetry.

Words are powerful. It can break or mend. It can curse or bless. It can evoke all sorts of emotions. Some people are actually serial killers in their use of words. I saw this picture on Google+. Very poignant if you ask me. 

I am sure most can relate to this picture. You recall when someone said some hurtful things to you right? I bet you felt terrible.


No wonder the best selling book of all times (The Bible) says that death and life are in the power of the tongue (Proverbs18:21) and Every word we speak should be “gracious” and “seasoned with salt” (Col. 4:6).

Don't be responsible for people's pain with your words. Let your words heal and bless. So can we all learn to be a little bit more considerate in our dealings with others? Thank You!

Anyway that was me waxing philosophical. 

I did mention in previous posts that the blog has been redesigned in a whole lot of ways. Please don't forget to send in your poetry if you want it published on this blog. The email address to send your poems to is poeticgriot@gmail.com. Send a Poet's Note with your poetry of a few lines. This is optional. (You can chose to send only your poetry.)

Full credit would be given to poets and copyrights respected. In addition the poet gets the added leverage of in house critics and loads of information and details of extant and relevant poetry competitions that the poet and poetry may be eligible for! I am looking forward to receiving your poems. 

Now to today's poetry!

Today's poetry is short. Much like life. The poet relies on economy of words to bring home his message.

It is titled Life's Lineament. 

Lineament meaning:

1. A distinctive shape, contour, or line, especially of the face.

2. A definitive or characteristic feature. Often used in the plural: "the gross and subtle folds of corruption on the average senatorial face are hardly the lineaments of virtue" (Norman Mailer).

Lineament is used in the second sense in this poetry.

It's common to philosophize about life. 

The poet does this in these few lines. He philosophizes on the supernatural origin of life and the end result of a life frittered away. The poet also tries to evoke a kind of helplessness on the part of the persona. The persona becomes indented as a result of incrustations. Incrustations presupposes a process outside the control of the persona. People often become who they are sometimes by virtue of their peculiar circumstances.

If you read the poem a few times and reflect on it, you will find even other themes. 

The poetry is unique in many ways including it's structure. It is a 14-word one stanza free verse. It's diction is slightly elevated. 

I know all this cos I wrote the poem (it's part of my 2000-2006 recently rediscovered trove!).

Now here is the poem. Savor it. Be good & See ya around.

Life's Lineament

Lord, Loan Livingston Life;

Incrustations Inflict Indentation;

Frisky Fritter, Frothy Frills;

En-route Egregious End.

JUNIOR HIGH.

Poet's Note.

I remember Junior High. With something akin to nostalgia. Bitter sweet. Mostly sweet. But Nostalgic nonetheless. I remember Junior High even though it has been almost fifteen long years. I remember vividly that day when I first went to secondary school at Federal Government College Okigwe, Imo State, South East, Nigeria. 

I remember the sense of utter loneliness and despair I felt at the school gate. I had just turned thirteen a few weeks back. It was very early January 1994. 

I remember the dejection I felt, as I stood there in that gate left alone by my Dad who came to drop me in school and never set foot in my school again till this day. 

I remember remembering the scintillating aroma of my mother's specially prepared meals during the then concluded festive Christmas season as the unfamiliar smells of my new surroundings hit me in the nostrils. I remember hugging my big metal tinker box as I tried to come to terms with a regimented life stretching so menacingly in front of me.

I remember.

Borrowing the very famous words now bordering on cliche of that famous writer and poet, Charles Dickens in his classical work a Tale of Two Cities, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."

Hey I know you would say that the period in question could not have had the significance of the French Revolution that perhaps may have inspired these immortal words, but believe me, in my impressionable innocent young mind and worldview then, these words were so true so true.

Federal Government College Okigwe Imo State, Nigeria, a government unity secondary (High) school that saw students from all parts of Nigeria coming under it's wings in pursuit of a common goal-education, shaped me. Those days remain evergreen.

On August 6th-8th, 2010 there was an ALL Set Reunion at the Crowne Plaza in Houston, Texas US. Below is a video of Julius Anugom (a former head boy of the school and very brilliant US based professional) alongside equally distinguished Alumni, casually in OK slang inviting Alumni to attend.

I remember writing a poem back in 2004* about my feelings of that period. I usually write poetry for fun or the heck of it. Many I never get to share (Hopefully that wold change as I just recently rediscovered a trove of original handwritten version poems covering the period between 2000-2006 on diverse topics. Watch out for more on this blog. 

I have decided to share the 2004 poem inspired by my secondary school Alma mater on the blog today.

The persona in the poem keeps faith with his experience as he remembers it with no holds barred. It only reflects the persona's experience and impressions and some of the words used may only make sense to anyone who has had a boarding school experience similar to the persona's. The poem setting is Federal Government College Okigwe between 1993-1996 and I think former classmates would readily relate to it.

Regardless of what you may think after reading today's poetry, the school actually had and continues to have a strong secondary academic pedigree within the context of the Nigerian experience. At the end of my sojourn I had made friends from every part of Nigeria, some of whom remain my closest friends till date. These were the days when ethnic bigotry and intolerance had not permeated the juvenile mindset.


Though in the past we have lost some otherwise promising Alumni (Rest in Peace Fumnaya Nwosisi a.k.a Malo and all my other fallen Hommies, today I light a candle for you guys.), many Alumni continue to this day to blaze the trail of glory in their chosen professions.

The Poem is titled 'JUNIOR HIGH' Hope you enjoy it!

Some believe the past

should not form the cast

for present robes doth fit more

past apparels being just a lore

But back in '94 at the gates

lil boys clanging spoons on plates

while I stood waiting with my mates.

Dad frowned without a glance

Peugeot 05 staggered a dance

and there I was left alone

with survival skills to hone.

Like a dear lost in light

I felt like sudden flight!

House prefect with a regal mien

showed me a bunk in the Lion’s den!

Settling in and a brat my age

thrust forth pail that I should fetch,

to the borehole adorned with age

as the breeze wafted a stench.

I opened my mouth to protest

How can this brat molest?

words frozen still birth with slap!

my face became a map.

In braggadocio I tried to fight!

His size dispelling my fright.

But oh what Mistake!

Had I known his make!

As urchins rained me blows

That got me squealing flows!  

So Rule 1 was learnt

In a cold damp floor

With none to vent

lying flat and sore

‘Never mind the size

seniority is a mob

we are but mice

and if you cross the mob

your ass gets the whip

whoosh! whoosh! til you flip!'

And so I learnt obedience

for Seniors knew no lenience!

I wake up and run to borehole

Life was such a shithole!

bucket lodged on small heads

travelling thrice with sweat beads,

paths littered with seniors

evil faces like demons

seizing water like warriors!

Existence was just some lemons.

I cried my eyes out for respite

Dad would nod but in spite

I was trapped without an end in sight!

So lemonade I made of lemon

as 'kposking' became so common!

Dorms were mopped most days.

Did the ground work on Thursdays

as I learnt to wield a cutlass!

Grasses were tall like Jordan

my portion were always more than!

General work on Fridays

Oh! poor you, if you got the toilet!

Men before discarded

toilet bowls with shits retarded.

So we used to hang like monkeys

on the laundry that was now the toilet

as we took our time to shot-put

globs of consumed output

as thuds escaped constipating outlet.

I 'gypsied' when I could 

As Lawun owed was cold

For who could stand their wrath?

Notorious bullies with mirth.

acidic bar soaps fed and ate

inside tiny cubicles docked

the night to spend in hate

your rage impotently mocked!

Then came the time of love

Teenage hearts of dove?

Checkered Shirts on Chinos Shorts, 

brown sandals worn with white socks.

Bold men seek to impress the chicks

with infantile lyrics but how?

'Jew' men stood aside in awe.

If you did speak to her

Yes! you had some liver!

You kissed you were the man!

Not sure if it went any further,

perhaps a finger or two the most.

But what a thrill it was

as we walked like we were boss

For we did invent the swag

though many times we lag

Then came the red Valentine

many a dating clandestine!

Days before we grew up

we wrote a letter 'it's over!'

Match like a gee to dump her

Guys cheering like retards!

weren't we such little braggarts?

Back then 'Oto' was good companion

though sometimes it was a luxury

Especially on a far spent term.

Milk was king of provision

and if you thrived in usury

you could be the don in your dorm.

Meal time! The bell is ringing!

so off to dining we strutted

10 little 'men' to a pot of rice

that looked like it had some lies.

Bonzona days 'chicks' are forming!

with 'Gees' also not partaking

but for few who loved the Bonzees!

scooping the beans like zombies!

To this day all I do is ask

why was Bonzees such a task? 

Was it it's child-stool mien? 

or it's tell-tale stain?

or probably we were vain!

I remember breaking the bounds

staff quarters, Ubahu we hound,

leaving our FEGOCOOK cell for fun

under the wire in rain or in sun!

I remember the dirty tricks taught

street smart crooks are meant

to beat the rap when caught!

For fear of being suspended,

we learnt to use pseudonyms

many a name antonyms!

I remember the giggles at Assembly,

fictitious person suspended

as authority got upended!

real culprit dancing with glee.

as not one pointed- See!

I remember Junior High

with a deep sigh

those days when I forged the friends

that have remained true, not fiends!

the days when groping in the dark

I took my first steps as a man

and sought to make my mark

in this terrestrial domain! 

*Uche Okorie. ( 2nd Nov, 2004)

A MONSTER WE OUGHT TO LOATHE

Poet's Note

Racial Chants in the past month got me thinking...

But before I share my thoughts see this video. Hearer's discretion is advised though.

What message are they passing across to the cute innocent boy? This incident as well as several other recent ones especially in Europe got me thinking...

Being racist is so obviously damn stupid and narrow minded that it beggars belief that mortals would conceivably hold the thought that they are superior to other mortals! Well they should tell that to the 'grave'! Death makes mockery of the racist dogma. So also does life and it's numerous vicissitudes!

Racism destroys people and nations. It is like painting a wall with bare hands and using feces as the paint! It demeans the giver reducing him/her to sub animal as well as creates a fecal mess of ill will in the mind of the receiver! It is the putrid stream from which many injustices flow. It is a monster we ought to loathe! 

I have captured my thoughts about this in a poem. Enjoy! 

Image Source

A monster we ought to loathe,

whose hideous face of hate

is carved from an evil template,

with men’s heart his bode

and many a race his breed!

Ignorance masked as insight!

Black, Coloured or White!

Supremacist lost in self-deceit.

Oh! Monstrous a crime his deed

a one-colour world his creed.

His one-dimensional mutated brain

flashes discrimination as rain

as racist eyes scarce conceal disdain!

Men his skin are Angels

and others not are Devils!

His voice with bile is cursed.

His venom well-travelled dispersed.

The dignity of man reversed.

Spreading a malady of spite

his virus makes mockery of right!

He tells of tales of brutes;

Of slaves, pygmies and castes;

Of injustice, condescension endemic in places;

Of pogroms and cancerous genocides from hell;

Of gender and sex biases, rights denied as well!

His tales are tales of love’s death

in spite of the commonality of birth.

How foolish to treat your kind with filth,

for the grave far more sensible embrace

White, Colored, Black equal in repose!

IT'S DECEMBER!

Hey Peeps!

Been ages. It's the 1st of December, 2011! Whoa how time flies! It's a great time to be alive. A lot has happened since January 30th 2011, the last time I put a post here.

So so sorry. I have had my hands in many pie as I sought to advance my professional goals. Poetry is my teenage crush as well as one of my great love. (professionally or 'hobbistically' {Hey I know that is not a word, but I do have poetic license here} speaking of course). 

Law also is another great love and these days my first love. But poetry would forever catch my fancy.

So here I am again. Reincarnated as the Griot, to tell our epoch's story in the immortal ink of many lines!

The blog is back and better. Lot's of innovation and changes. We are gonna roll into the new year on a high. We are making the blog more visible. We gat a lot of exciting stuffs coming! Please stay tuned.

Send in your poetry Peeps! Any 'decent' poem no matter what you are on about as long as it is not calculated to spread hate and cause harm is welcome! Send as many as you want to and as frequently as you want to. I will publish it all here as I receive them.

We are gonna have a blog poem awards at the end of 2012. Details would hit you in the course of the year. It's gonna be way massive.

Feel free to air your thoughts on what you think the persona in each poem you see here is talking about. Feel free to criticize poetic styles constructively.

The Griot has a blog motto now. Our blog motto is 'Effecting Change Through Poetry!'. We will celebrate life here through the poetic medium. We would raise the debate on key issue through poetry. We would effect change through poetry.

Get writing guys!

The Griot has many poems waiting to be unleashed on all of you. Hustle your creative sides and join the bandwagon! Everyone is a poet! Existence presupposes poetry. If you live and experience then you sure can do it! We will endeavor to x-ray some rules once in a while to aid beginners.

The gong is sounding loud and clear hearken to its call.

It's a new dawn!

Don't be held down!

Laugh like a clown!

For success is your pawn!

A SEXTET RENDITION

BLOGGER'S NOTE:

ORIGINALLY POSTED ON FACE BOOK on  Thursday, August 12, 2010 at 11:28am

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=149532125059371

In Topsy Turvy Climes, Snails Rule.

The Lion is weaker than the Mule.

Antelopes move slower than their shadows.

Eagles stay frozen in the meadows.

Rulers Reign; Heartless Mein

Subjects Thin.

Mad Kleptocracy

Mischievously cloaked as Democracy.

No Job and I have no say.

Cum laude Grades Sour Grapes pay.

Lights Zoom! Electric Gloom.

Cold Doom.

Poverty's Prank

Keep Men's Thoughts Dark.

Baby-Sitter Available.

Hawking Wife Unviable.

Lust Boat Now!

Must Heedlessly Row.

Thrice She Screamed! None I Heard.

Blind with lust while I drilled

Iridescent Perfidious Well

Matrimony dagger Kill.

Her I ravished

Yet was diminished.

Dreaded Disease

Spreader's Ease; Shredded Peace

Love Flies! Suspicion Thrive

What Strife!

Chiming Bells; pregnant shape prances forth.

Betrayed howls; Inglorious kid no worth!

What Luck!

Tragedy Lurks!

Death in Installments

With no Reinstatements.

I vanquished and sad sonorously Ask:

Shall I vainly for Life Bark?

Shall I for Lost Love Cry?

Will I to gods seek recovery?

Will they this dreaded Killer dock?

Or will hollow eyes me mock?

As I stew in awful discomfort

Sweet raw Trust by Greed burnt!

ABIOLA'S GHOST

BLOGGER'S NOTE:

THIS POST AIN'T SO MUCH OF THE TRADITIONAL RHYTHMIC POETRY 

WITH ALL THE USUAL NUANCES OF POETRY, BUT IT DOES TELL A STORY. 

A POIGNANT ONE ARISING FROM ELECTORAL INJUSTICE AND IT IS PARTICULARLY

RELEVANT TO OUR TIMES.

ORIGINALLY POSTED ON FACE BOOK on Monday, September 20, 2010 at 7:39pm.

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=159959670683283&comments

‘…I have trudged this path since that day. That fateful but faithless day when the sun played truant and darkness descended in the political firmaments of the most populous black nation yonder there on earth.

I have trudged this path grudgingly for a little over seventeen long years. I have trudged this path at first accompanied by the fervent buzz of a mammoth crowd of betrayed citizens wailing their injustice. I have trudged with the motley chant of a feeble few echoing the tragedy of the twelfth day of the sixth month. I have trudged as the vestiges of once fiery angst- impotent! Accompanies me.

I have trudged this path, the cunning of a Maradonic grin etched firmly in my soul.

Yonder there where you are-I Chief Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola the Aare Ona Kakanfo of Yorubaland and holder of 196 other traditional titles conferred by 68 different communities in Nigeria stood for that election whose induced still birth demise heralded the beginning of mine.

In recognition of my contribution to nation building from my own personal resources that resulted in the construction of 63 secondary schools, 121 mosques and churches, 41 libraries, 21 water projects in 24 states of Nigeria, and my grand patronage to 149 societies or associations in Nigeria, and your fervent believe that if I take over the reins of state I will do even more, over 14 million of you voted and freely gave me your mandate on June 12, 1993.

That election was declared Nigeria's freest and fairest presidential election by national and international observers. Your voices were heard loud and clear, far and wide. It was heard in Bashir Tofa my gallant Northern opponent’s home state Kano, where I won. Your voices resonated right in the national capital, Abuja. Your voices sent overwhelming tremors through the military polling stations scattered all over the country where I won.  In over two-thirds of Nigerian states, you the people spoke and voted for Hope.

The results kept pouring in and with a clear lead established, with your voice so clear and the message so poignant. He annulled it. Without cause, without justification. The voice of over 14 million voting Nigerians and the sensibilities of a nation of then 90 million people were silenced. Their hopes were dashed. There right to vote extinguished. In the resultant agitations to actualize the mandate, many innocent souls died. Many went into exile.

In 1994, I your President-Elect declared myself the lawful president of Nigeria in the Epetedo area of Lagos Island. I was declared wanted and was accused of treason and arrested on the orders of military President General Sani Abacha, who sent 200 police vehicles to bring me into custody.

I was detained for four years, largely in solitary confinement with a Bible, Qur'an, and fourteen guards as companions. During that time, Pope John Paul II, Archbishop Desmond Tutu and human rights activists from all over the world lobbied the Nigerian government for my release. The sole condition attached to my release was that I renounce my mandate, the mandate a majority of you freely gave me. Since the mandate was not mine but yours I refused to surrender it.

I held steadfastly to the trust you reposed to me but which He so blatantly betrayed. I held on to your mandate even when Kofi Annan and Emeka Anyoku reported to the world that I had agreed to renounce your mandate after they met with me to proffer the fallacy that the world would not recognize a five year old election. And so my fate and yours were sealed. Never would the forces of darkness see the light of your legitimate desires for genuine change come to fruition. I was summoned for a tete a tete over a tea party. I drank their tea and died.

I died a frustrated man and found myself trudging this path. Since then my democratic ghost has failed to rest in peace. Various cleansing exercise has been carried out in form of sham elections to lay my ghost to rest but the men who knew or should know of the greatest electoral injustice in modern history continues to pour dirty ash into the clear stream of your electoral wishes. Thus I continue to wander in these heavenly pathways to this day.

I have trudged alone yet in the company of others. Others who suffered the dagger of a professed friend. Others of similar fate. I have trudged and I now know what ye mere mortals know not for I keep the company of gods.

I met Fraus the Greek goddess of treachery applauding the sheer genius of the gap-toothed military tortoise that strangled your voices and stifled your mandate.

I met Sango the great god of thunder seething in rage accentuated by fire and brimstone that Olodumare the God of all creations will allow such an injustice thrive.

In my extra terrestrial sojourn I ran into Nemesis. Yes, Nemesis also calledRhamnousia that vindictive goddess of Rhamnous whose address where you are but before you were born was a sanctuary at Rhamnous, north of Marathon. Nemesis that recalcitrant spirit of divine retribution that visits those who succumb to hubris (Extreme haughtiness or arrogance).

I met Clementia the Greek goddess of forgiveness and enjoyed her dainty companionship. Yes I know about forgiveness. I remember the climes I come from the same climes you still are and your predilection for forgiveness. That honorable virtue not lacking in you the people I left behind that ill-fated morn of 7th July, 1998.

Those days when my silhouette had a substance; when I was yet in your midst I did align myself with the healing powers of forgiveness. Even as I trudge this path I still do. I have forgiven my enemies.  I have forgiven your enemies. I have forgiven our enemies-the enemies of democracy. So YOU ALL SHOULD. I beg of you. Yes forgive all including the one who truncated your wishes and who presided over one of the most inglorious regimes ever in Nigeria.

Yes forgive him. BUT DO NOT FORGET.

I have not forgotten. Never will forget.

I have not forgotten the indignity of my afflictions; the loneliness of my travails; the dejection of my spirit as I was alone right there in my cell mandate withheld.

I have not forgotten the crippling of the industries and Business Empire I built with the sweat of my exertions and the strength of my youth.

I have not forgotten the hopeless lines of worry etched in the ocular crevices of the old, the young, the vulnerable and the short changed masses that comprise your class as I was bungled into prison obscurity.

I have not forgotten the courage of a resilient few who insisted on my mandate. I have not forgotten the betrayals either of men who professed their love.

I have not forgotten and I am still in shock when the messenger of death Iku orOnwu as the Easterners call him announces the premature arrival on another path of this extra terrestrial sojourn  of the likes of my own dear Kudirat, Pa Alfred Ogbeyiwa Rewane; Abayomi Ogundeji; Alabi Okoju; Aminosari Dikibo; Andrew Agom; Ayo Daramola; Bagauda Kalto; Bayo Ohu; Bola Ige; Charles Nsiegbe; Dipo Dina; Funsho Williams; Godwin Agbroko; Igwe Barnabas; Marshal Harry; Obi Wali; Odunayo Olagbaju; Ogbonnaya Uche to mention but a few.

I have often remonstrated with Oludumare and have been told countless times that there is a wall that divides here from there where you are. That your destiny is in your hands and that as long as you continue to suffer fools gladly this will continually be your lots.

I have not forgotten the poverty of 1993 and the suppression of the masses. I have not forgotten that for the very first time in that clime you could have had your way but for one man.

And as another national exorcising exercise of the ghost of the injustice of June 12, 1993 in the form of the 2011 general elections saunters ever closely by, I the deceived, dejected, demoralized, dehumanized, destitute and departed ghost of Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola of the premature heavenly pathways urge you NEVER to forget.

NEVER EVER FORGET. For the future of those yet unborn in your climes depends on your ability to remember and avoid the guile of the tortoise and his cohorts.

Vote wisely so that the clear stream of your voices will uphold justice. Defend your votes and let the enemies of justice be put to shame. Intone in grave voices ‘NEVER AGAIN shall one man take us to the precipice of disaster!’

Then and only then will my Ghost and the violated ideals of democracy finally Rest in Peace!’