Kayode Makinde

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Kayode Makinde
Saturday 4 March 2023

Backhand, Sixth Sense and This Dilemma

The hand of bitter fact holds

Or so it seems truth

That corruption flourishing

Like the air we breathe feast

on the strengthless vitality

Of all we cling dear to our bosom

Now pretty tainted and harassed.


Immoral slurs in home fronts.

The breeding on rusted streets

Certain fellows of soiled wits.


Traffic crosses.

Air conditioned offices.

Market stalls.

Examination halls.


Road blocks

Where traffic jam rocks

For men abuse position,

Dark minds with black fashion

Crave for fifty boxes

Like mice scurry for stale cheese.


You can see all these

Equal traditional motifs 

That disdesign dreams

Philosophies and beliefs

To a future that should brightly beam.


Adorn the spectacle

Of the sixth sense

See unclouded

In the mind eyes

The promise land

Beyond the bulwark

Of the killing now.


When in us

The revelation unfolds,

Filthy murky gown

Of a mentality looking down

Can then be strangled.

Let awkward belts be firm.

For intrepid spirits bud already

Daring to beat forward a new path

Straight and unbent

Are you ready?



Kayode Makinde
Saturday 4 March 2023

When Will Morning Come?

When Will Morning Come?


The bed of our long night creaks.

Its troubledness in harmony

With the fret in our spirit asking

when morning would come.


Aching eyes tired from being bold

Missing faded glories of longest times

Bleed logical tears till tip of dawn.

Angry dogs bark at elements untold.


Cryptic owls hoot bothering plenty sleeps.

We thought during childhood days

These stupid witches have come again.

Tongues uncleave from rooftops

Of heavy mouths, we began to pray.


Still certain uncertainties sprinkle speckles

Into tomorrow’s hopeful days

The stern faces we beheld yesterday

Whisper unending promises into our ears.

They are still here and our night prolongs.


Like one prisoner I knew who awaited trial

Seven years until God’s mercy said final

Such is the brute night that strangles the song

From the throat of the skeptic strong


Evil shines under the blanket of darkness

A man, grey haired soon to celebrate

Double silver jubilee crawls about

This greenish oily wilderness.


His siblings tell the world of their great feat

How they grinned ear to ear

When the sun of hope peeped

On the black horizon of their slumbered east.

Our night is prolonged.

This bed of our long night quakes,

Its tension harmonizes the question

We keep asking our distressed selves

When will morning come?


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