ORIENTATION OF A KING

Kunle Smith watched the racers intently from the VIP stand. His eyes were not trained on Martin Dash but on Jeff Stathers. Everyone in Maracana at that time had their eyes trained on Martin Dash because according to the Guinness Book of world records he was the fastest man alive - with a record 8.92 sec in the 100 meter dash.

Jeff Stathers on the other hand was a complete “nobody”; no one in the stands cared about him (apart from family and his team, that is), but here he was competing with the very best. His nation, Guernsey, was hardly known and when his name was mentioned by the commentator, no one batted an eye. 

The shot went off and all the racers shot forward; as expected Martin Dash beat everyone to the finish line… and everyone screamed their appreciation at the cheetah’s speed. Stathers, however, barely made it in 11 seconds. Only the commentator noticed it and he didn’t waste words trying to educate the screaming crowd on the last runner’s inefficiency.

Kunle turned to his 12 year old son, Eti, standing beside him. Eti was screaming his lungs out – quite inappropriate for the VIP lounge, but Kunle made no efforts to stop the boy; after all, the boy had come all the way from Nigeria to see his hero. Kunle on the other hand was interested in whoever the loser would be… Jeff Stathers just happened to be that loser

When the ovation died down, Eti turned to his father in excitement “Dad did you see that?” 

“Yes son, I saw what you saw but you didn’t see what I saw” Kunle replied

“What did I miss dad” Eti’s eagerness couldn’t be contained

“Did you notice the last man” Kunle asked 

“The loser?” 

“His name is Jeff Stathers” Kunle replied with a smile that reflected his understanding of Eti’s naiveté

“Why would I notice him dad? Nobody cares about losers” 

“God does” Kunle touched his son’s right shoulder “Did you know that three Olympic outings ago, Martin Dash was last in the 100 meter dash?” 

“Seriously?” Eti’s eyes popped 

“That was the second time he came last in the 100 meter dash” Kunle Continued “You see son, there is a vital lesson in life that people miss… Time and chance happens to us all…”

 “I don’t understand dad” 

“Whatever happened to Martin Dash 8 years ago to change his fate, can also happen to Stathers” Kunle answered as he rubbed his son’s shoulder “You see, most people will write you off in life when you don’t instantly succeed. God doesn’t; matter of fact, that’s when God is moulding you to fit his plan”

“So?” Eti still didn’t get his dad’s point 

“Maybe not this Olympics” Kunle replied “maybe not the next, or maybe not even in the Olympics… but Jeff Stathers will meet greatness… and greatness isn’t what people or the media say about you… Greatness is knowing you are doing exactly what God created you to do”

GUN SLINGER WITHOUT AMMO

This is not feel good poetry but the wrung out tale of a miscarriage (A misrepresentation of an artistic design supposedly destined for manifestation. A true false-appearance of what could have been the rise of another general)

I accepted the draft into the 85th platoon of writers in Zion Military and received all the necessary gear - what Ephesians would term the amour. I spent time in training filling up my arsenal. My mission was simple – decongest Hades through the media. Get fellow citizens of Zion back home by building bridges with my knees and getting the vultures off their backs with the blood from my ball point.

My first assignment was to blog… So I built camp with the C.I.A… significant progress was made until I felt I had “risen” in the ranks. When other opportunities offered more material gains I neglected my duty post… Right now, all I see are sing song cobwebs asking me to pay rent to spend a night in my own blog. 

With each passing humble dawn I paid less attention to the well-spelt assignment… Imagine my shock when I realized that each passing day didn’t change the way the sun rose… consistently it rises from the east and whether or not you acknowledge it, the sun still rises… It doesn’t matter who says “Good morning sun” or not… it still does its duty… and no matter how mundane the sun rise has become it doesn’t change the fact that the exotic beauties of life are dependent on its “mundane” rays

I felt that my blog wasn’t relevant because nobody reached out to tell me “awww… this was beautiful” or “that was just on point” but now I know better. Only one person called me into this army; The Field Marshall himself – Jesus. 

Whether or not I get any praise shouldn’t deter or determine my post rate… because only Christ can pay my minimum wage. My neglect of this duty post was a FALL… say what you want, I know what I know… It was a FALL… I fell because, fulfilling my duty was meant to refill my arsenal… so, after a long stretch I looked inwards and realized my magazine was empty… not even one clip… worse off, the few benefactors of my word arsenal were starved… my gentiles couldn’t become Jews because my pouch of circumcising words was empty…

Here is my apology… I am sorry… I don’t intend to stay down… I know my mistakes and I have received the grace to run the race once again… 

By grace I will stay here as long as the Field Marshall needs me here… By grace I will keep pouring this ink in… and one day your heart will receive it by Grace… 

Welcome back to C.I.A…

FREED SLAVE

Max’s ballpoint dribbled faster than his diary could take… his thoughts were scrambled yet he knew exactly what he had to tell God… he wanted to end it all… paranoia was now his homie, delusions slept next to him every night and hallucinations were the only ones he spoke with.

 “Dear God, they say nothing is impossible for you… absolutely nothing… it’s not like I don’t believe it… I do… but I just don’t get why you haven’t taken this cravings out of me… this beast… this monster eating me up… could you please get it out? Lord I need you… more than the moon needs the sun… I do…” Max kept scribbling… still, the thirst for just another “drag” mocked. The quartz alarm clock chimed 2:00 am…

Max stared at his fourteen year old brother sleeping on the other end of the bed. Timmy held Max in high regard. All Timmy saw was the young Christian R & B crooner that would send anointed ministers reeling on the floor anytime he held the mic. Not the weed addict

“Someday I would be like you… ministering till the heavens come down” Timmy would say… Max had never “used” anywhere there was the slightest chance of Timmy finding out. Truth is, he wasn’t as concerned about the church finding out as about being discovered by Timmy.

 He had become “Dad” to Timmy ever since their father had abandoned their mum for a younger “chic”.

Max stopped scribbling and stared at the backpack that had two wraps of weed in it. The intense lure urged his feet to the bathroom. He wrapped. He lit. He dragged. In the dark. His nerves calmed. He heard music notes. And he puffed some more. 

Then the bathroom door opened and the lights came on. There Timmy stood in his pyjamas… Timmy rubbed his eyes. Timmy stared. In shock. Timmy gasped. And coughed. Timmy choked. Timmy was asthmatic… Timmy gasped and dropped to the floor. The rest was a blur… 

“Oh God”… the only words that Max could utter… he dropped the wrap in the toilet bowl, flushed and rushed over to Timmy… He dropped to his knees… lifted Timmy to the room. Went in search of Timmy’s inhaler… 

The can was empty… Max was devastated… and Timmy was timing out… Timmy stopped gasping… Timmy went out

Max knelt… and the only words that came out where “Dear Lord, I promise to quit for real if you can just breathe life into Timmy” But there was no response… The tears… the regrets… the voices… those wretched monsters laughing… more regrets 

“Do you intend to keep that promise?” Max recognized the voice… but it wasn’t that of a monster… It was Timmy’s… 

“With the last drop of my blood” Max answered with a quivering voice “You know… we’ve been set free already” Timmy continued with a weak voice “just walk in the freedom Max… don’t be enslaved again… because I still want to be like you”