The Birthday Salon


I walk into the shop. I see eyes piercing deep into my marrow. I take a sit. I beckon on an attendant. She frowns. She comes any way but lakadaisically and stands hand akimbo.
I scowl.

I say I want to a new hairdo. She smirks and walks away.

I stare into the mirror, looking over my shoulders I see lips move without making an iota of sound.

I strain my ears, I try to gleen but hear nothing.

I see a pile of magazines, am sure they are old as usual. I stretch my arm to pick one.

Now, I turn my head to stare at my attendant, she stares back at me and walks over to her boss who had earlier beckoned.

Now the voices have risen. I hear more of boys and men. I hear of heart breaks and girls gone wild. I hear of weaves and curls.

My ears itch as I listen to more blabs and more tales of escapades and aristos.

More ladies troop in like an alarm has just been blared. Some skimpily dressed, some modestly dressed but to each, fashion has been defined.

All of a sudden it is dark. I see nothing, am sure nothing could see me – but I wasn’t sure. Just then a hand came over my mouth. I try to scream but my voice was lost to the jungle. I try to wriggle but I am tied; tied to what I didn’t know.

Then the lights come on.

Where was I?
This wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I look around I see grinning faces fiercely looking and I wonder, what I had done again?

He walks up to me, his 12 packs pounding as he moves closer. His bloodshot eyes pierced through my soul, I try to scream.

I couldn’t.

In my head I hear voices, inaudible voices.

He walks on, stops right before me and lovingly touched my shoulders. I am scared to death. How can he look so scary and yet act so caring.

He asks my name, I answer.
He says I am pretty, I thank him.

Then I realised I just talked.

What happened earlier. Why couldn’t I scream?

Just like he read my mind, he smiles and says not to wonder why I lost my voice.

A calendar is placed before me. I see nothing but today’s date circled in red marker.

He urges me to take a closer look.
Still I see nothing. He walks away, laughing hysterically. I pray for help.

Just then, I hear footsteps. I hear audible voices marching closer, I wonder why am held.
I wonder if help is near.

From behind I heard a uniform scream- ‘happy birthday Ma’.

I was taken aback. Was it my birthday.
Oh yes, It was my birthday. I had become too busy to notice.

They turn me around. I see faces lit in love and affection. They burst into merry songs.
Then he walks out of the mob. Same steps, same packs but this time handsomely looking, the bloodshot eyes were gone.

He touched me again, it was holy grail.

I open my mouth in shock to ask what happened to his eyes earlier, he stops me just in time and says it was a mask.

I smile.
Tears freely flow.
I was kidnapped but it felt safe.

I look from one face to another, I see a cross section of all my friends, writers and non-writers. I see them smiling mischieviously.

I see orijin. I see wine- different shapes and sizes. I see a cake, taller than I stand. I see food displayed on a buffet stand. I see even palm wine.

They were all involved. And no one told me.

They are crazy like that.

Just then I hear a voice screaming into my ears “madam where you say you dey go, we don reach our last bus stop, it was the bus conductor.

Gathering of Words

Take a cab from facebook junction, tell the driver you would be be alighting at poetry avenue.
Walk into the street till you get to an intersection called words close. Take a walk into the close till you arrive at Maureen’s estate.
Take a longer walk head-on for about 5 minutes till you get to the door marked purple ville.


Proceed to knock.
Before you even make contact with the gate it will be flung open screaming poet alert! poet alert!

Walk right into the living room to a room filled with words and a dining table serving lyrics.

Looking forward to seeing you soon.


Words do a tap dance in my head,
I wonder who tutores them –
incredible dance moves they are.

Beautifully incredible are each move they make,
I wonder when dance lessons would teach me
how to do what words do
and how they do them.

Words dance better than man.

Men are at mercy of words
as the war turns messy.

If words could freestyle
like they do,
I wonder when I’d do my dance
unashamed and unchained.

Words twist and whine
as waists stand and stare
in awe.

If I could live a day as a word,
am sure I’d paint the world in beautiful hues of mine.

Words do a tap dance in my head,
wish I could dance to its tune;
wish I could unlock my calmness
and go wild –
doing the word dance like
words alone can.

Words and dance
dance and words-
what union?