Ebube's World

  Narrator : People are often asked, "What is your dream?" "Does your dream scare you?" They say, "If your dreams aren't big enough or frightening enough then you aren't dreaming big... or worse, you have no dream at all". So I ask, "What is your dream?" Poet : "I don't have one." Audience : "Ah how can you not have a dream? At your age? That must be wrong." Poet  : Then let me tell you my dream: My dream is not to dream. I want to sleep and wake in peace not panic. Is that not dream enough? I want to be happy Happy in the little things of life, Happy to live, to see my loved ones, Happy simply being me. Must I dream of a world that worships my name for my dream to be enough? Must my dream keep me awake at night, terrified by its own weight, just to prove that it is real? The little things they matter. They are beautiful too. Perhaps peace is the greatest dream of all. © Ebube

  She sat in the Lord's house or so it seemed. The eyes upon her made her skin crawl. Not because she feared attention, but because those eyes carried more judgment. She had come before the Throne of Grace, yet the congregation had already become the jury. The verdict? Guilty. But the story behind her, they never cared to hear. Friday night, she was at the club. "TGIF," she had laughed. Time to forget the weight of the week. Then came Saturday. Sirens. Shouting. Gunshots splitting the night apart. Fear found her before faith did. She hid in a corner, her trembling hands clasped together for the first time in a long while. "If You save me... just this once, I'll come and worship You." He heard. The gunfire faded. The chaos settled. A path opened. And she ran. She reached home, drank water with shaking hands, and slept until Sunday morning. When she awoke, only one thought remained. She had no church clothes. But a promise made in desperation was still a promi...

  I can't really tell when I turned pretty. Maybe it was after my JSS3 exams. I went away for the holidays, and when I came back, they said, You've added. What are you applying? You look more beautiful. Or maybe it was after my second year at university. I came home, and again they said, You've added. What are you eating? You look more beautiful. Or maybe it was during my youth service. Six months in, they smiled and said, You've added. Nigeria is serving you. What are you eating that the other corpers aren't? Maybe I can't really pinpoint the summer I turned pretty. Maybe there wasn't just one. Maybe beauty found me little by little, summer after summer, until every version of me was prettier than the last.  © Ebube

  How do I explain My mother tongue Rejected me? I'm Igbo From the ancient kingdom of Abiriba. I know the path to my family house, The stories stitched into its walls, The names of my ancestors Yet I cannot gather The language that gathered them. "I dēkwu ïle onye mba" (You speak as a Foreigner/Stranger) My aunt says. Her words arrive Like a door I should know how to open. How do I tell her That I have tried? That every syllable Stumbles at my lips, My mouth remembers English, But forgets the lullabies That first taught it to sing. Perhaps  I have lived in too many places, Collected too many tongues, Until my own began to sound Like someone else's. Perhaps I have been afraid Afraid to mispronounce, Afraid to be corrected, Afraid to become A stranger in my own language. So I hide Behind the comfort of Central Igbo, Pretending it was enough, While my mother dialect Waited for me Like a home I kept walking past. Maybe my mother tongue Never rejected me. Maybe I was the o...

 What goes on behind closed doors? When the light is shut What happens behind closed doors? Behind closed doors, matters are discussed the rise & fall of men the making of kings & kingdoms and the destruction of kings & kingdoms. Behind closed doors, Laws are made to the detriment & favour of the masses policy makers meet meets as lovers their bedroom, the boardroom With intertwining hands they seal their agreement their ink make love to the paper  And pen dances in the hand of the holder as they append their various signatures The men glare at each other Each agreeing truly he should have her first "The national cake is mine" "She was mine from the beginning" "She is to be mine now" "It's my turn to have her" "Come on gentlemen," she says as she comes in. "You shouldn't be doing this." Then she climbs the table in full stare of their , devouring eyes. Their greedy eyes stare at her seductive body as en...

I’m older now, Sitting in the dark Realizing "After school... What next?" That's a Reality check question I was told that I should graduate Make family proud That I did But what they didn’t tell me was "Life hits really hard" Daily I masquerade my fears Smiling as though I’m alright Deep down, I’m "suffocating" Sometimes I scream “God, can you hear me” other times I whisper where are "God eyes? The phone rings The “Devil's calling” Should I answer or let the phone ring I was taught to read books And somehow life expected me to  Read rooms I passed every test and exams Only to realize Life actually had practical tests Suddenly, broke and to prove I've grown up I can’t cry home I turn to God and socially he seems distant Where should my help come from? Daily, I knock on his door cause, He’s the only one that knows I didn’t really grow up After all, I’m just a baby girl © Ebube

 She Fight  A bruise she returns with a blade. Brutal she was, until she met him. He apologized for the mark, and for the first time, her hand did not answer with blood. That was the fracture not the bruise, but the restraint. She knew it was wrong, this silence where a cut should speak. So she walked away, aware she was no longer the same. How could she be the same? The question stalked her steps. Still, she left him a warning: “Let’s not meet again else you’ll pay with blood.” But fate is a stubborn thing. It circled them back. Not in battle, but across a table. No blood was drawn only coins. He paid for the meal. It felt strange how easily she softened, how much she liked it. So she named it "an ending". Though It was not. Coincidence upon coincidence, they kept meeting on the training ground, at sword practice, in the quiet spaces between breaths. Once, chance. Twice, curiosity. Again and again intent. “What’s going on?” she asked. “The truth is,...” he replied, “...I kno...

Sitting, staring through the window, Lost in thought, Voices echo in the background: Why did she go out at that time? Why did she take that route? Why didn’t she go with someone? Why didn’t she wear jeans? Why wasn’t her gown longer? Who knows if she didn’t want it? Are you sure she’s telling the truth? You can’t trust girls nowadays. Her mother’s tears echo in her head: Why did this happen to you? Who did this to you? Her father paces the room, Phone pressed tight to his ear, Voice breaking between calls. But the system always disappoints. People gather, not to help, But to listen, To feed on the story, To dress judgment as concern I thought she was a good girl.” “After all that forming…” Her thoughts whisper: Maybe they’re right. What if I didn’t go out? What if I had stayed at home? What if I had waited for someone to escort me? So many what-ifs, Stacking like walls around her. Who will tell her That it wasn’t her fault? Who will tell her That monsters will always be monsters? Who w...

What do you see,  When you look at me?   A strong, independent woman,   Or   A weak, kindhearted woman?   I'm but a little girl,   Scared of the vast world I’m in,   Afraid I could be stepped on at any time.   So, I went behind the veil   And created a great mask—   A beautiful facade.   So when the world looks,   They see her.   She smiles and laughs, even when angry.   Her humor, but a dry myth.   She glares at the world,   And they can't ask her to shut it,   Because if she shuts,   The world experiences an eclipse.   What if you don’t meet the facade?   What if she doesn't teach you to create one?   What if she makes you one?   Would she be the monster, or the mother?   The world you will meet   Isn't ruled by angels.   I've been in it, and I...

Does she excite you—   So much that you lose your cool? Beware, she may be the one. With eyes that burn like flames,   That seem to call you in,   Like silent storms pulling you close,   With whispered promises within. As though planning to trap you,   Dark pools hiding danger’s gleam.   If you blink, you're gone;   If you don't—still trapped within the dream. With a voice alluring, enchanting, captivating,   Her smile makes even the strongest knees bend.   Innocent, gentle, yet confident—   She knows you can’t ignore. She stares right into your eyes and smiles;   Even if you escape her eyes, not the smile.   And if you escape both, then comes the voice—   A voice that hides blades beneath its charm.   It sounds like the voice of angels,   But demons lurk beneath. With confidence, she walks toward you.   Each step, a promise of e...

IB Quake said,   “ This is a testament that God is good .” When the waves rage harder,   He speaks: “Peace, be still.” MOBA is a story —   A story of God coming through   Even when all hope seems lost.   Of trying everything in your strength,   And just when you're at the edge, wondering, “What else can I do?” He shows up. It’s the story of knocking on countless doors,   Hearing nothing,   Then sinking to your knees, head bowed:   “God, I’m tired.” And He answers:   “How are you, child?” Then the door opens—   A long-awaited answer to prayer. A story of His never-ending love,   His endless favour,   His goodness,   His mercy—   A testament to His covenant-keeping nature. Truly, this is proof:   He is always doing good.   MOBA is a story. © Ebube

 Faith Over Fear (2 Timothy 1:7) Before I rise from my bed, She’s standing right beside me. I open my eyes to her stare— She’s Fear. I jolt quickly. She smiles. “What will happen today? What if it doesn’t go as planned? What will you do?”  She asks them all at once. “I don’t know,” I reply weakly. She smiles brightly. “Why trouble Her?” Faith says. She hasn’t even said "good morning" to her Maker. Faith taps Fear. “I’ll take over from here,” Faith tells Fear, Then sits beside me. “Why not say ‘hi’ to the Master And tell Him the report you received from Fear, Seeing you have no answer of your own? For He said, "Worry not about anything, because He cares for you." He’ll take care of it. Let’s go about your day. I’m with you.” — Faith Over Fear ©EBUBE

 I sat to see a movie with Him— a very long movie. “Let's move to the interesting part,” I said. No comment, but it was fast-forwarded. “What happened here?” I asked. “It was explained in a previous scene,” He told me. And we went back and saw: through quiet days, long silences, ordinary mornings with no music. Back to the scenes I called boring— the waiting, the learning, the becoming. And I understood— the sweet scenes don’t stand alone. They are built on hours no one claps for. Most times you want the miracle but skip the process. Yet the parts you rush through are the very ones teaching you how to stand when the spotlight comes. Every scene matters, and the movie only makes sense when you watch it all the way through. ©Ebube

It's scary over there—   There’s pain, trouble, and fear.   Out there,   There’s war and terror Over here, It doesn't feel safe to stay.   So I thought. Then I went to the graveside.   It’s calm out here.   The pain, the trouble, the fear—   They all end here.   The war and the noise cease   The moment you drop dead.   It feels like peace.   But is it better?   Came a reply to my thought. Whatever dream you had   Ends the moment you come here.   Whatever hope,   Whatever aspiration—   All of it dies   The moment you do. The cold wind brushed my skin   As I stood there,   Pondering.   Have you truly thought   What it’s like here?   Do people leave the world above   Happy to arrive?   Are they fulfilled?   Or do they come   With dre...

  In the beauty of lines,   I found solace—   Not deep comfort,   Not overflowing joy,   But just enough   To keep me going. " Poetry is dry ,"   They say.   And yes, I know—   Because many don't understand   The depth from which these lines call to me. How I’m free to offend English ,   Yet still stand justified   In the court of grammar.   Poetic license—   My faithful lawyer,   Defending me   Before an honourable judge   Trying to find fault,   While Literature itself   Stands as my witness. How do I explain   That I once said,   “He’s beautiful,”   Knowing full well   “Beautiful” is for the female folk,   And what I spoke of   Wasn’t human—   Nor animate—   But inanimate ? Or when I pleaded with the sun   To look...

One day,   I said,   Staring at the mirror—   "I'll be sought after." Though reality isn't particularly kind,   And time mocks the dreams I bear,   Still, I know.   Because I believe,   I become.   And therefore...   I am. ©Ebube 

I've toiled the path a bit,   I guess I can tell little about pressure —   For though my days on earth seem few,   My eyes have seen,   And my ears have heard   The voice of pressure. But of excellence ,   I can say a few...   Or maybe nothing.   For I still seek her   Even as you do.   The pressure is on us all—   As we struggle to attain   Greater heights,   Which give us more   To fight for. Yet in that climb,   Even as we sought her,   May we not lose sight of ourselves—   Chasing stars but forgetting   The light within. May we not lose the joy   That first lit the fire.   May pressure not become   A prison we mistake for purpose. Let excellence be a journey ,   Not a crown we bleed to wear—   But a seed we grow   In courage and care. ©Ebube

 Celebrating Men's mental health month  I present to us "Boys cry silently" it's a poem that sheds light on a truth that often goes unspoken - that many men and boys carry emotional pains quietly just to appear as the society wants, that's to appear strong or unbothered. This poem reflect the inner battles many face that are never express. It encourages healing. It's a reminder that vulnerability isn't weakness and not limited to a particular gender." BOYS CRY SILENTLY From afar,   I watched   As he was scolded—   "Why cry?   Men don't cry." Was it a lie?   The men around never shed tears.   Crying was weakness,   A shame to be feared. You learn from watching.   So they hide the pain,   The weight of regret,   The sting of mistakes—   They won’t let you see that. He was trained not to cry.   So as a boy, when hit,   He struck back with fists....

 Poem title:" Nigeria, We Hail Thee..." People's Opposition © Ebube " Nigeria , we hail thee,   Our own dear native land .   Though tribes and tongues may differ,   In brotherhood, we stand.   Nigerians all are proud to serve   Our sovereign Motherland".   Maybe at one time or another,   This was something I said with admiration in my heart.   But alas, I doubt my fellow kinsmen would say the same today.   I would love to say the system hurt me—   Or perhaps, those in charge of it.   By midnight, the king was crowned.   By daylight, it felt like mourning—   A silence heavy and loud,   A national mourning was never this deafening.   And yet again,   It's time to return to the system,   Hoping it gets it right.   But those behind the wheel   Do not plan to play nice—   Thus, neither ...

Lagos is a story of various tales. Tales of wars and rumors of war,   Of victories won and defeats endured.   From OKO, once the land of husbands and farms,   To EKO, now the city that never sleeps —   A place where dreams rise with the sun   And sweat builds legacies in the sand. Tale of strength and patriotism,   Tale of battles fought with conviction.   From times long before From Eshugbayi Eleko’s royal resistance,   To Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti’s fearless voice,   A lineage of defiance against injustice.   Tales etched in courage,   Now woven with beauty and entertainment Eko rising, ever vibrant. A city with dirts as flower beds,   With stares icy enough to rip your dress off, With fear enough to make you missing . "All roads lead to Rome " Must have been speaking of Lagos.  As far and near the flashlight of parties draws all to her. Her vibrant nightlife defea...