Daropale's Blog

aI SpEaK


Posted by daropale on October 8, 2013

Trees don’t fly, they say.
At best, they sway.
My father is a tall tree
With heavy roots.
My mother has since sunk
Her sweet roots beside his,
Deep into rich dark humus
Of experience
From which
All are made.
To which
All return.
But your fears
Have nothing on me.
Don’t hold me back,
Or steal my youth.
I was born
To run fast,
Free fall,
Bruise skin
And chin up.
I’ll slam this
Soil, watch me!


Adetola Ojuolape…


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Human hair

Posted by daropale on September 11, 2013

A friend described the use of human hair as degenerate, I almost didn’t understand her, almost couldn’t agree with her, not because I support the madness but I Knew of it and it no more bothers me.
But is it that crazy? Is it not fashion? To go steal some bundle of hair some innocents gave to their god is rather gross to say the least, the thieves deprive the god of his beloved hair and made money from the worshipers without sharing the profits from such exports

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Posted by daropale on September 4, 2013

I packed my satchel and took a journey
Out of myself, out of my cocoon,
Into pseudo-reality, into the realm of fools
Where something is everything and everything is nothing.

I made jest of the story of the forbidden fruit;
The one in which the man ate the meal from the woman
And thus became her slave, her toy, her joke.
My jest; now my Nightmare.

I will trace my steps back,
wear my garb, return to my hideout.
Sing no dirge for me,
I was deceived, but not beaten.

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I forgot how to Laugh

Posted by daropale on August 19, 2013

I remember when I forgot the art of laughter, oh, my mouth made noise those days, I encouraged others to laugh, made them laugh. But I never laughed.  Because sorrow built its tent in my mind those days.
I knew sorrow  and sorrow scared me.  The clouds that formed in my mind,  blocked the rays of the sun,  blocked off the brightness of laughter,  blocked off joy and gayness and left me with tears  that won’t flow out of my eyes.

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We all have stories.

Posted by daropale on August 19, 2013

Everyone  has a story. I have mine too. Many times when I can afford to allow my mind to wander, I ask myself what the stories of the strangers around me are.
What are their regrets., what memories make them laugh or cry? What actions are they presently living out the consequences?
What is their story? Do they tell themselves the truth? Do they accept their faults and wrongs? Or like us all, do they also blame the world for their errors? Blame the rich for their poverty? the smart for their foolishness? Are they saints and the whole world villains?
I wonder at their scars, how did they get them? Their wisdom, where did they source them? Their opinions, how did they arrive at them? Why are they different from me? Or why am I different from them?
Questions that I have no answers to!  I just know that we all have our stories. I have mine too.

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i Hope You Dance

Posted by daropale on August 10, 2013

I see in the mirror, the scars,
The lines drawn where the hot knives of errors
Wickedly sought your heart to excise.

I see the furrows on your heels,
craters cut when you sought love in a land
raped by hurts, pains and regrets.

I see the fear starring out of your eyes
As the past streams in multi colours
Of red, crimson and blackness.

I fear to ask you to dance again,
For I lack the words to convince that
This floor is not strewn with live fire coals.

I fear to ask that you love again,
For the music is played with similar instruments.
This song will sound like the last
And you may throw a fit.

I hope you summon the faith
To dance again.

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i was lost again

Posted by daropale on July 30, 2013

I was lost again. My mum had to tap my shoulders to bring me back to the reality playing itself out before me. Her eyes were red, mine too, maybe. Tears have been so comforting. Tears have been my solace since the news of His death reached me back in school. I had packed my bag and had found my way home.

And it still appears to be a dream; maybe I’ll wake up. It’s hard to believe that he was the one lying so quietly, so dead, in the casket. But he was. I have known him for twenty years, and had loved him little of the time.

He had arrived as usual on Friday, and we all shouted gleefully to welcome him home. He always spends the weekend before travelling on the Monday. He was the visitor that comes with gifts every weekend. A routine we all love and accept. We shared the snacks he brought; I was the eldest so I do the sharing. We were always happy when he comes round. I cannot remember now the reason for our joy; His gifts or his presence. But today, I know the reason for our sorrow.

‘Our Brother has lived a full life, and the evidences are here before us’ the preached drooled on. I was only waiting for the time when I’ll give ashes to ashes. The preacher continued his monologue, ‘He lived every day, conscious of the time when he will go and give account of his life here, regularly paid his tithes…’

The weekend had gone like it always did. The visitor had taken our mum’s time, leaving her no time for us.

That Friday, I had slept early. I was hoping he will carry me in his laps as he’s fond of doing. But I slept off while waiting for him and my mother to finish their tete-a-tete. I knew I was one of the topics of their discussion, as I heard my name many times during the conversation. But they were conversing in the local dialect which we the children do not understand.

I woke up behind the sofa in the sitting room… the preacher’s voice floated to me again. ‘… his first son Dare, is in the university studying Medicine, who knows maybe he’ll find the cure for diabetes’ I am not sure whether it was the mentioning of my name that woke me up or the howling and wailing that greeted my citation.

‘He invested in his kids and gave them the best of education; this is a lesson for all of us…’ Sunday came so quickly for me that weekend because of the anticipation of travelling with him on Monday morning, he had informed me of this on Saturday and my mum had made so much fuss while my younger ones had looked on with envy.

I had gone to sleep that Sunday night with the anxiety that comes before a new experience, my hope was high, and I would be travelling with the man who brings the gifts. My mother dressed me in my new crisp clothes, today; we are all in new crisp clothes; the uniform for his burial.

As I stood up to go pour the sand into his grave; to give ashes to ashes, I remembered and smiled through my tears. He never took me for the journey. The crisp clothes were my school uniform, he took me to the nearby primary school to enrol me and it was when the school official asked him who he was, that I found out he was my Dad.

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Culled from somewhere

Posted by daropale on July 30, 2013

Teaching Maths at Unilag:

A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is 4/5 of the price. What is his profit?


Teaching Maths at UNIBEN:

A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is 4/5 of the price, or $80. What is his profit?


Teaching Maths at OAU:

A logger exchanges a set “L” of lumber for a set “M” of money. The cardinality of set “M” is 100. Each element is worth one dollar. Make 100 dots representing the elements of the set “M.” The set “C”, the cost of production contains 20 fewer points than set “M.” Represent the set “C” as a subset of set “M” and answer the following question: What is the cardinality of the set “P” of profits?


Teaching Maths at Babcock University:

A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is $80 remaining $20. Your assignment: Underline the Profit


 Culled from somewhere

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July 4, 2004

Posted by daropale on July 30, 2013

right in the dispenser’s abartoir
surrounded right and left by drugs
substances that spell the life of many
i wonder at the fragilty of life
i wonder why men strive to live

my mind was made to stray on a lonely path
as i had to name and decipher
the nucleus of existence
but i can’t
i just can’t understand why men die to live

why men die to live
why the strife of man is with death
why the ways of life is strewn with many a thorn


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From Jail

Posted by daropale on July 30, 2013

i heard the big steel doors drag on its hinges as it closed behind me. I did not bother to look back. I will never look back. For the last ten years I had told myself how innocent I was, how different I could have acted to have prevented the course of events that got me into the jail. But, I had served my term, learnt my lessons and decided to move on. I had just N200 in my pocket, the friendly prison guard had given it to me earlier in the day when my release papers were been processed.
“Alabi, you can have this token; I hope it will take you home, we have not been paid in the last three months.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. “Thank you so much, you are the kindest man in the world” I replied with all my heart. He had been the only man to have shown me kindness in the last ten years.
“Don’t start these your tears again, at least you are now free” he drew me to his chest like he had done for the last six years since he had been posted to the prison.
“But, but I was innocent, I never committed the crime” I repeated my ten year litany as I choked on my tears.
I walked out of the prison. My destination? the house, my house from which I was arrested ten years ago. But I wasn’t sure if the N200 will take me home and I am much more uncertain if there will be home in the house I remembered. She had stopped coming to visit me in the prison six years ago. I knew she will stop. I wasn’t at all disappointed when she did, I only got lonelier: she was the only other person who believed in my innocence. Everything had changed. I went round the park searching for the taxi that goes to my part of town. I felt the eyes of the taxi drivers and the motor park touts bore into me. They knew. They shouldn’t find it difficult to identify those of us who had just been let out of the jail. The lost look, uncertain footsteps, and the rough clothing always will give us out.
“Please which of the taxis is going to lagelu?” I ventured to ask one of the kindly looking ones.
“Go to the other end of the park, they are there”
I was about to turn away to head to where he described when he held my palm and squeezed something into it. I looked into his eyes questioning.
“I was once in there too, that should help you on your way” he said nodding towards the prison.
I looked into my palm, they were naira notes, I couldn’t tell how much as my sight clouded with tears. He was the second man to show me kindness in the last ten years.
“If you ever need help in settling down, you can come to see me. Don’t be tempted to return to crime.” The look on his face was too kind.
“I was innocent” I whispered, my voice was choked, “I did not commit the crime”.
“If you need me, I will be here.” He did not believe me.
Nobody who had been inside believes that any other inmate is innocent. I walked away from him in search of the taxi. I found it. I got the sit in front of the taxi. He later drove off. I saw the town unfold before me. Everything has changed.

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