Echoes of who you are

I don’t know how to show you except by telling you.
Whilst the act of doing is better than the act of saying,
that’s only because people don’t know how to say.

But what if I showed you the way,
with words connected carefully,
weaved intentionally,
delivered in a bouquet,
as lyrical ballet,
and show you how to stretch your skin tight,
so your heart can beat right,
and the club that beats it,
is your soul set alight.

There’s no room for a dishonest soul.
I have to gather myself together and fight me with me.
Pit myself against myself.
Fuel both and ignite them so they combust and turn to vapour.


not feminism


not feminism

once upon a time
newborn girls were buried alive
out of shame

the world hasn’t changed
now we have no shame
we just extend the funeral procession
and women are walking dead


Prior to Islam being established amongst the Arabs, Pagans, Christians, Jews and the like of the era would bury their female newborn alive.

A social norm, a collectively accepted and unquestioned custom.
At the outset of Islam, it abolished many social and cultural traits that were deemed inhumane, unjust and unlawful according to divine laws as prior espoused or by new dictates.

Women were to be offered rights the world had not seen or heard of,  seen in the light that they should be seen, the mothers of humanity, the only womb carriers, the only child bearers, in essence, the only warmth of mercy that can extend love appropriately to suckle humankind into social and spiritual cohesion.

This wave of beauty wouldn’t last long before men, being men do what they do and exhorting their social, political and physical dominance, interpreting texts and mandates as they see fit to suit their agendas and forcing a social oppression on the development of women.

Occasionally, a woman of grandeur would slip between the cracks of normality and society would see brilliance, mercy, beauty, kindness that was missing. Like a bosom engorging once again with milk that we all need to drink from after such a long pang of thirst from the origin of where we came from.

Such a woman, whether by force, or by the inability of the world to counter such beauty and mercy or whether it be by the utter mercy God may have protected her with comes and goes but they are looked at with marvel and disbelief. Heralded as saviours with utter ignorance of the perpetual miracles that take place daily in pregnancy, child birth and rearing amongst other meaningful and important things, albeit these things alone, placing her far above the achievements of men.

We now have male created industries of band aid solutions, with labels and slots conveniently appropriated, but otherwise monitored and manicured by men. Industries misleading women into a false ideal that they need to be represented by a silly label to be someone.

Well, it drains me, it literally anchors the soul of my existence to drudgery to have to constantly explain to both males and females alike, that not a soul possesses the right to oppress another soul, irrespective of gender.

In the context of the above, males reserve no right to hold women hostage, thus extending this pre-islamic cultural barbarity, spreading it beyond the pales of just ignorant Arab circles to the Colosseum of human fibre, to every nationality, religion and culture. Males, not religions, males, forcing their way on to women, entrenching our social narrative to appear on the surface with such labels as being pro-women, but in reality, still a cover of soil ready in their hands, to bury women’s voices, their opinions, their actions and their souls under the ground of our ignorance.

As such, my daughter does whatever my sons do. She will have to choose her path when I die and I would rather her raising her hands in litanies of hope for forgiveness and mercy for her father than calling upon Gods curse for the stifling I may have incurred.

I want no part of a male narrative ready to spit back into the womb that bore them. Ingrates, nothing more! There is nothing uglier than a man who will not acknowledge truth except on equal measure a woman that reinforces it or takes his words to be by default superior.

Superiority is through truth and action not gender and as Moses implored his Lord, I pray it manifests even if on my enemies tongue. I care not for the source as long as it is made manifest, truth after all is genderless, ironically why one of the meanings of the word Kufr is ‘covering’, in this context, a covering over truth.

It is knowing well in the pits of you the answer but choosing to intellectualise or philosophise against it for the establishment of nothing more than egotistical dominance.




There’s a brutality
to saying the things
that are on peoples minds

But it’s savagery
when you show them
what is in their hearts

The death of them
is when you bring to surface
what is in their souls.


Have it which way you like,
the truth will bleed out of you eventually,
some are just better procrastinators than others.

I haven’t met many that call upon death,
just to be presented with a ray of light.


-digging deeper than you want to

-digging deeper than you want to

It is possible to love and hate something at once.
‘How?’ asked truth.
‘Look in the mirror’, replied the sage.
‘No one has ever been as persecuted or worshipped as much as you.’


Not many people are willing to be this naked,
To float in the obscurity of honesty and truthfulness,
To slay the lies within them to reveal the beauty of the real.
So they swagger in and out of appearances like winds,
Winds that rage through deserts,
Sandstorms of harm,
Against themselves,
Drying out their very eyes,
Without tears,
Without remorse.
They whimper at their ignorance,
Only when their skin is cracked,
When their flesh is exposed,
When they bleed so profusely they would kill again to heal.
Maybe that is why we’re at each others throats,
All of us, barren, cracked wide open,
Eyes tightly shut,
Eating at the carcass of humanity with blunt teeth,
Never satiated, never satisfied.
Eyelids painted, eyebrows tattooed, skin sprayed, body injected,
Fed on the lies of appearances in every conceivable way,
Mocking others, crying for relevance with the same breath.
I feel pity and rage,
I feel sorrow and despondence,
I am empowered, on my own,
And utterly helpless with you.



Art by David Uzochukwu

Where truth manifests


I’ve never given a shit who comes up with the truth,
If it is you, me or them.
But I’ll fight with tooth and nail for it to manifest.
What I can’t stand are ego’s so fucking big, they cannot see past their inner swaying, who refuse to acknowledge a truth and argue for the sake of arguing.
To somehow let it sit well with themselves that what they said was correct, and therefore must be the truth, blinding them from seeing the actual truth when it does present itself.
I hate that about myself, oblivious, constantly blinded by that big dog of an ego.