Monthly Archives: April 2017



I find it really difficult to understand how and why most people are comfortable with people who live a stereotypical life. It just beats my imagination, seriously. When you decide to be yourself and not want to live other people’s lives, these same people will come at you with all forms of abusive content.

Many years ago, I used to be at the mercy of people around me: always looking up to their opinions about my looks; my body size, butts, boobs, dress sense, how I talked, walked, how I chewed my food, how I smiled, etc. (especially growing up with tomboyish traits). What I didn’t know was that I was unconsciously stuffing my wonderfully made self into a confining casket. I was slowly killing myself. It affected how I related with these same people and those I was yet to come in contact with. I was my own correctional murderer. I tried several times to murder my true self over and over again until one day I took a conscious stand to being lady-like and very different from the norm. (I am still under construction)

Every day we find most ladies trying really hard to impress the opposite sex, especially when you are meeting for the first time. You’d have to put everything in check before you stepped out on that date (trust me, the guy may not even care about the whole enchilada). I see these ladies put a false character just to grab their attention, and at that point they lose their sense of ‘true self’ (call it whatever). I have seen and read stories from other ladies who at some point made same mistakes, and at the end of the day, truth shone on them (most times they realise this when it’s too late).

In as much as Social Media is good, it has increased the rate of falsehood in the lives of many young men and women who I have named ‘internet Masquerades’ all in the name of impression and exploitation.

I believe the reason why God created a variety of things on earth is just so we all can realise how a combination of all kinds of people make the world a better place, where people can just be themselves without having to tread the path of falseness (mimickery or whatever it is called). Being a STEREOTYPE seems like fun, but it is cloaked in falsehood and has driven many to their early graves or Waterloo.

I am an advocate of ‘Be your true self’, and will always preach this gospel. It is not a must for you to get in ‘formation’ of others for you to get information about who you are. Search yourself and you will find you. When you eventually find ‘You’, do not be arrogant about letting others know, but just nicely tell them how you have grown to accept you for you.

I wish you all the best in finding yourself and not allowing others determine how you portray yourself.


(c) Neofloetry




Words that navigate
through staccato rhythms…




They hypnotize the vulnerable
Their members eat grass like goats
They inhale insecticides to kill demons
Their followers are like carpets for their feet
They have ‘Special sewage water’ for healing
Their members are doused in anointing oil
They have small snakes on standby for desperate
members to swallow… Selah

These men of gods
are now gods of their fellow men
They frolic with the devil to pervert the gospel

These gods of men
are con artists; false as the Bible says
Be careful where you fellowship
you might just be in tune with the devil
and his demons on assignment!



Two Seasons, one fight


There is serious fighting going on outside my house. This isn’t a human fight, but two seasons fighting.

8:00am: This morning, the weather woke up with a slight frown, but the sun flashed its smile and humans are going about their business, not minding what may have ensued the previous night.

12:00pm: The sun may have encountered some scolding, for smiling too much, and taking sides with the dry season, so it went and hid behind some grey clouds for shelter. Just after that happened, the rain started to rain abuses on the Harmattan weather. They both got into a heated argument, but it looked like the rain was winning, because it continued raining abuses on every dry dusty rooftop and road paths. Every human on its’ path ran away for shelter. The rain began gathering the clouds as its’ cheerleaders, and it went on a slight rampage, but the Harmattan wind began howling. It howled so much that both seasons couldn’t contain themselves again, until one (the rain) abruptly went into hiding, for fear of being choked by the dry Harmattan wind.

12:08pm: The sun has refused to smile anymore, because the grey clouds are still sheltering it.

12:13pm: Both the rain and Harmattan season have been summoned by their maker for a closed door meeting.

12:16pm: Humans in this part of Port Harcourt are still not sure if these two will still fight today. They are hoping the sun will tell them what might happen next.

In the meantime, I am indoors, looking through my window and staring at the the grey clouds.





THIS IS NO LUNATIC (For Basiru Sunday Amuneni)

There is indeed a lunatic in every town…
Like Sunday, he comes forth; soothing.
He is like one ready to leap without a frown,
raising men with fiery words; chanting
conjuring spirits to awaken a new horizon.

This one is no lunatic warped with lunacy,
for he BAShes men with inherent lunacy.
His tweaks the heartbroken; spinning
laughter in their hearts with words.

His gaze upon tired italics, straightens weary sentences,
sentencing this generation to wrapping gifts
of one voice, in togetherness; filling surroundings
with correctional values.

He never goes down with the sunset;
he shines still, from the source of true light;
birthing dreams, living free
dangling the the gong of time, whispering
strong words to break the chains
of lunatics in every town.






The three blades of my fan
reminds me of you…
constantly, fanning my embers of passion,
sending me to sleep
sending me to sleep
sending me to s
then, I slipped into
seeing your form in my dream; a picture
framing your name at my every unchecKed snore.

In My

and in the flurry of mY own excitement,
i pick letters of your name like lavenders
growing happily in my garden.
Like a child, Ignoring love enders,
like a brown skinned lover,
hopping out of danger.

Love is for they who (c)are to dare
and for they who dare to surprise love,
but I know in all, love endures;
fanning off chaff of fear,
gradually waking me up
from my sleep…






She says a thousand words,
Then ends it with periods…
Over and over her ramblings
ripple like several pebbles thrown in a lake PERIOD

She says periods are tips of pins
Pointing, piercing blank sheets,
and picking out errors in a conversation
when her words stay unspoken.

Periods are RED Period
Periods a like screaming PMS

She says nothing you hear
Your imagination is stilled for peace sake
For when a frown clothes her face
her scaling anger says nothing.

Periods are softly angry 😠
Periods are dual personality

Receive what she says
For peace to reign PERIOD


© Neofloetry



it is dawn, and my awakened thoughts race,
driving me through a river’s journey.
i listened to the rivers speak of new birth,
and i am wide-eyed to celebrate
before the seas and under the clear skies,
as my happy thoughts stand naked watching the waves
flowing, and cascading like waterfalls of rushing emotions.

i surrendered my rainstorm of tears,
singing to this birthsong, like a mad note
burning within me; inextinguishable.
my feet found the theme of life, of beauty, of love, and dancing,
gathering dust on the soil of this grand land,
this revelation unscathed; an unfailing declaration
of a new beginning.

like the blossoming of flower,
and the succulence of tasty grapes; i see a sweet soul
like magic, enchanted; lightening all that is dark,
and all that has become religion;
like a poem simply written without questions of departure
or remembrances, or cackles of rambling.

when gods are possessed
love begins singing a tune to build a bridge,
connecting loves’ purity and hates’ ambiguity
you are never alone, like the clustering of sequins; glistening
your words are like a totem of new beginning
announcing your birth at the riverside of applause
somewhere in the forest of life
on march twenty eight.


© Neofloetry
(Scribbled thoughts from a collection of poems a river’s journey and a field of echoes by amu nnadi)