The Syrian Child I've never met, yet.

"Dear people of the world,

Are we the only ones who feel this cold?

Where were you, when on the shoulders of my father,

We screamed and marched for freedom at Daraa?

Where were you, when the people of Homs,

Were silenced in their homes?

Where were you, when my father,

Fell, fighting for the land of his fathers?

Where were you, when I was at Houla,

Hiding under the body of my brother,

As I watched armed men slit throats?

Where were you?

They say its the government,

But my teacher taught me that they are chosen to protect.

The government says it the enemy,

But my father fought with the enemy.

And mama told me he was a great man.

At this point,

I don't care who is right, or wrong.

I just don't want to see my friends burnt to bones,

I just want to be able to play with them on the streets of Homs.

I don't want to hide in burnt homes,

I just...want to go home.

I just want to run errands for mama.

And I must ask, where is my mama?

I last saw her at Hama,

She had a big wound across her neck.

They say it would be very bright the next time I see her neck.

They say I would meet her at a better place.

But where is the better place?

Why didn't she take me with her to the better place?

I need new clothes, these are stained with blood,

I need shoes, my feet are always covered in mud.

And here I am, with lots of children holding hands with their mothers.

We are going towards the border.

They say there's a better place there.

I know my mother is for waiting to me."

This is the message from the Syrian child screaming in my head.

I've never seen him, yet.

I hope I see him, before he gets to the better place.

THE REALITY

It must have taken a neighbour or a loved one,

It leaves sons with no fathers and fathers with no sons,

With so much stealth it can't be seen even under the sun.

Sometimes you feel its going to creep up from your behind,

And your life would be ripped from your inside.

Now let this reality diffuse through your cranium and into your brain,

You will expire, and yes, in pain.

And you are leaving with nothing of your gains,

And nothing would stop it even if your tears become rain,

You pray not to expire before your time,

But let me ask you this, one time.

Do you know if you will live to read the next line?

Or do you know if you even know your time?

Ask yourself about the child who died before he was nine,

Ask yourself about the foetus who died before he could even have a spine,

Ask yourself, about that person who expired without a goodbye.

You see, the earlier you accept this certain reality,

The better it is for your thinking faculty,

So now, you so badly want to know your time,

Relax, take a deep breath and I will tell you your time...

That time you take your last breath,

That is your time.

Prepare for your time,

It could come in no time.

TERROR ALERT!

May Day! May Day!!

There is a terror alert in my homeland!

The dead, uncountable,

The injured, still counting.

Its not just militant men bombing people, up north,

Or drilling holes and snatching people down south.

Its the greedy men who killed their democracy,

Quick to send it to the cemetery,

And re-branded their hypocrisy, democracy.

They've cornered our resources,

And turned deaf ears to our voices.

They come with sweet words and bare feet,

And leave us with our words of regret and bare feet.

There is a terror alert in my homeland,

And its not just ruthless business men raiding homes in bands.

Its a storm which has struck in every home,

Because we embraced it and made it a norm.

The Nigerian dream is just about our share of the National cake,

Not caring what it takes.

We've made it a do or die,

Or better still, just do, or do, or do!

And know that a rusty metal doesn't crumble in a day,

It is a gradual process of decay,

And at this pace, it can only get worse,

Because it feels while like we've been cursed.

Because why you look to the skies for help,

Your feet crushes the one who seeks your help.

My book told me these words;

"Allah will not change the condition of a people

Until they change the condition of what's within themselves."

My sister told me these words;

"You speak of change, yet ignore self-reform.

That is a concise definition of 'delusion'."

The end to this terror is from deep down,

And as near as it is, it seems so far.

And for those who landed to their deaths in Lagos,

They say it was an engine failure,

I say it was an act of terror.

Modus operandi? Corruption.

New York 9.11.01 is the equation,

Only this time, we know the culprits for sure.

This "war on terror" is our only cure,

That ARM of war, you must procure.

My prayer is simple; that they meet their Maker, as they lived their life.

CALL TO SERVICE

Its another call to service.

Her name is Ishola Badrat. She had an accident sometime around August last year and her left hand was broken, but she couldn't get a proper treatment since then due to financial difficulties. She tried local healers which only made it worse. Right now, the hand is infected and is badly swollen.

She was advised to go to Ladoke Akintola Univerdity of Technology Teaching Hosipital, Osogbo for medical examination, which she did. Now she needs at least 170,000 naira for the operation and other medical expenses like blood, drugs, bedding and so on.

All efforts made was able to. Raise 70,000 naira. That's progress.

I beg us to once again come to the aid of a desperately needy lady. Llet's think of how much we use in for our own entertainment. This is our own little service to humanity. May God bless you as head to the bank, or better still we could make e-transactions. If 20 people can drop 5000 naira each. This girls story might be history.

Please share this to people

Because she doesn't have the capacity to move around, her friend's account number is being used.

These are the bank details:

Account Name: Haleemot A.Ganiyu

Account Number: 1017326881

Bank sort Code: 254

Bank: Skye

"The likeness of those who spend their wealth in Allah's way is as the likeness of a grain which grows seven ears, in every ear a hundred grains. Allah gives increase manifold to whom He will. And Allah is All-Sufficient for His creatures' needs, the All-Knower." -Surah al-Baqarah, 261

"Blessed is he that considerth the poor: the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble. The Lord will preserve him, and keep him alive; and he shall be blessed upon the earth: and thou wilt not deliver him unto the will of his enemies." - Psalm 41:1, 2

There is no loss for he who spends in charity.

She missed her first date for surgery due to lack of funds. You won't let that happen again, or would you?

Make a pledge to do something now and act fast. Please!

BROTHER

I have a brother,

I was born in the quiet of dawn,

My cry breaking the quiet.

He was born in the chaos of a bright, dark night,

A night lit by bombs of dark knights,

His cries drowned by louder cries,

While my cries drowned the other cries,

He grew in this chaos

I threw rocks as pranks,

He threw them at tanks.

My friends, who pranked at the wrong places, got shouted at,

His friends, who played at the wrong places got shot at,

He lived his everyday like my movie, action packed.

And as we hit puberty,

My dream was to ditch the rocks and be the cool boy on the block,

His dream was to ditch the rocks and own his glock,

To stalk, dock behind blocks, and hit them in flocks like 2010 Bangkok.

And as we grew hairs on our faces,

His war bore two faces.

It was against the uniformed thugs on the streets,

And nagging of family critics.

And one day,

Struggling like every other,

The thugs struck, and my brother hit the ground...

My brother hit the the ground,

Never to feel or hear any sound, anymore.

I had a brother

I loved my brother,

I wish he heard me,

And if he heard me,

I wish I could prove how much I love him.

My brother is from Palestine,

My brother is from Afghanistan,

My brother is from Iraq,

My brother is from Somalia,

I love my brother.

And even though distance seperates us,

Our love bridges the gap between us.

I have a sister...

...I had a sister...

Hey Barbie!

Hey barbie,

I'd love to have a word or two with you,

She said, "who do you think you are talking to?"

I said, "please barbie,

Don't treat me like a poor old cabbie,

I don't know what you call fresh, but my clothes ain't shabby.

Lemme get this over with before you think me creepy."

I asked her name and she answered 'Abby'.

Abby, I'd like to tell u a thing or two about 'barbieness',

And please don't take this with carelessness,

Cuz I'm not here due to idleness.

I said, "what do u think of all your plastic,

Do u think it makes you look fantastic?"

She asked me, "what do you mean by plastic?"

I mean your plastic hairs and lens,

Scary eyelashes and plastic nails.

She tried to speak, but her tongue felt nailed.

I said, "hold on, I haven't nailed it yet".

I said, "are your eyebrows naturally bare,

Or did you escape from a government research lair?"

I know this might sound offensive,

But I really don't know a better way to make this comprehensive.

I know you miss ur dolly friend,

Who back then, was there when there was no friend,

But years have gone by and you need to let go,

I mean, how would you get inspiration,

From a doll, in your mode of expression?

I mean a barbie is a creation from a person's imagination.

I mean, its like telling your Creator He is terrible in creation.

You say its an expression of your taste in fashion,

And making boys drool gives u satisfaction.

But seriously, this assault on their senses is making you look senseless.

And you think you have fans in guys with Henessey tendencies?

This is how they see you,

Like the cheap weed they buy in the corner,

Smoke you to pieces and dump your ashes in a corner.

Or Let me tell you something which should go well with common sense.

When a barbie becomes worthless,

It is thrown into the trash, recycled into trash bags,

And used to pack more trash.

As much as u look like a barbie,

I hope u don't end up like one.

Just know that we humans care about you,

Or at least what's left of you.

So please, stick to the real you, not plastic.

Sent from my BlackBerry® smartphone provided by Airtel Nigeria.

THESE ARE THE TIMES

Time,

Every moment  prime,

Cuz u can never get it back with the dime.

But these are sour times,

Times which seem like grimes on time itself,

These are the times,

Born of the words and actions of the past times.

Because prophecies come true like its a mime.

These are the times,

When the baby suckles from his mother, holding a whip,

When our women have become Hour glasses with the swaying of their hips,

When zina is an occupation with unimaginable reap.

These are the times,

When our screened boxes of fitna have appreciated,

And our own bodies have depreciated,

These are the times,

When the barefooted men have made their homes in the sky,

And the hyena has been made to lead the pride

When a girl knowing barbie better than she knows her mama isn't seen as a disaster,

And the best soccer on tv is given to us by the brewmaster.

These are the times,

When my ummah has become eat free n take away,

Much to the delight of the beasts of prey.

And leave their lives savaged by the end of the day.

These are the times,

When David's son has become Golaith,

When Moses brother has become the Pharaoh,

And the seeds of the sahabah has bore the tyrants.

These are the times,

When my brothers made tommorrow's headlines yesterday,

Because they made their triggers their sixth fingers,

Because their tongues couldn't shoot to kill.

And just like old times bore these times,

These times will bear later times,

Times which would still come like a mime,

When the sun rises from the west,

When the two Messiahs and the guided ones put us to test,

When in Lydda, the Messiah lays the other Messiah to waste,

When the son with no father will uncross many 'T's,

When d window of repentance would be closed, no pleas.

We can go on and on with these,

But know that this is no brain tease,

These aren't guesses, rather guarantees.

Peace.