A CHALLENGE TO MY GENERATION

The spirit came to me and took me back to the times of our fathers. 
I saw Ogunbiyi; her big bright eyes like little moon lights, sat in her dark complexion face. Her well plaited hair was like fine rows of African ridges. Two neatly carved tribal marks sat on her jolly cheeks divided by her large oily nose. 
When she walked, her sandal-less feet killed no ants caressing the stony paths, her arms swung swiftly in the air like two turtles doves. Her curves were well defined like the gourds of the elders. Her milky tender breasts danced with pointed adoration, navigating the village paths before her. Her buttocks were round and heavy; stained with mud from the red earth where she sat to weave corn ears for the children to laugh and play. Her pubic hair could not be seen; hidden perfectly behind the patch of animal skin that covered her private part. 
To my amazement, the young men ignored her, they were busy to the farms as the hunters headed to the forests for games. Even Kilani who admired her and had proposed to her parents, stood at a distance with glaring eyes at her beauty, but he had no erection on his manhood that was barely hid behind his small patch of hides. 
When I returned, I was ashamed when the news welcomed me to the rape of Hajara who despite her hijab and Islamic covering (from head to toes) was raped and dumped by the road side. I was embarrassed at the bus station by a young man who fell into a gutter when a woman with a big behind crossed the road. Another man had missed his bus station because he was so erect between his feet to alight from the bus. 
Our ladies can't wait to make public, their privates. Unashamed, they walk their own streets with gentlemen taking account (without a dowry) at how many times they have crashed into them with empty toasts and worthless coins. The young girls have become like a prey before our ferocious lion-like men who ought to protect them; rather they eat them. They (young girls) no longer carry water pots on their heads down the river sides, now they walk with them in their stomachs down to schools. 
Where are the days when men's strength was not in the thighs of women, when a lady's pride was in virginity, when men laboured rather than beg for bread or take a bribe. When the elders had a say, homes were homes and morality thrived without religion?
There is a problem with my generation, we are a shame! Yet, we are not Ashamed! Even with our religious backgrounds, educational drive and intellectual claims; we are worse than our fathers, whose bones now shiver in their graves at the level of decay we've experienced alive than their bodies in old graves. As the trends increases, I fear that the problem of my generation is not a lack of jobs, finance, opportunities, talent, gifts.... but a total state of moral degradation, sheer lust and lost history.
This is the Challenge to my generation - Jesus is the way, the truth and the life.
- (C) Melchizedek, son of Michael 2015 ‪#‎Share‬ and speak to Your generation#

BEHIND THE SCENCES

Her dark curly hairs are gently blown away, caressed by the air blowing against her gentle face. She's putting on a smile that matches her red velvet suit, black suede shoes, white neck beads and matching pin earrings. Her parting lips are well lined with a glossy light red lipstick. Her dimples form an emblem of peace on her rosy cheek. When she opened her mouth to talk to the driver, as she stepped out of the SUV, it revealed her bright, healthy, white sets of 32; like precious gems they seemed like the icing on her brown chocolate coloured face. But, there was only one thing we always didn't get to see (well, maybe a lot more); her eyes. Carefully hidden behind those pair of dark GUCCI glasses. No one truly knew. Every one actually knows, that she's a mother of two fine boys, daughter of a renowned wealthy business tycoon, sister to a bank's manager, a top ranking managing director at a popular telecommunication company and the wife of a rich handsome young popular celebrity. Everyone knows that, but no one knew; the colours of her white eyes stained with blood from the last fight with her husband. No one saw the small cut below her eye lashes. Did anyone ever saw her back? The fine rows of leather belt 'D&G' imprint from the latest assault. Does anyone know she prefers to be at work than to be at home? Did we know she would stop by every evening at the mall, pretend she was shopping while she secretly admired the poor beggar who despite his state carefully and lovingly attended to his little boy. Does anyone know, she wished her boys had a father like that? Did we know because her husband abuses her, she now abuses drugs in return? Do we know that she's never told anyone about it? That she would kiss, hold, hug and admire him in the public, while news papers and magazines, neighbours and family cheer 'what a wonderful couple'? Yes, I know how her lady friends complain about their husbands and wished they had one like hers. But, does anyone know, he raped the house help on a drunken night, and she had to pay heavily to bury the case? And every time she fought him over his derailed behaviour, drunken attitude, careless living... he would beat her, threaten a divorce and she would cry and beg him saying 'Please my love, please... don't leave me now, not ever. Father of my boys, love of my life, don't put me to shame'? I mean, Does anyone know! Nobody knows she's a victim of a 'broken' marriage portrayed perfect like those fragile beautiful ancient Chinese vases on display at the art gallery. Nobody knows she's the victim of abuse, a single mother living with an estranged husband, a sex machine who uses condoms with her husband for fear of STDs, a pretence of her true person. No body knows she truly loves him, never married him for money or fame nor name like some folks claim. Does anybody, I mean anybody knows? That there are many women battered and tattered like her out there; with smiling faces, bruised egos, wearing flowing gowns, costly jewellery, driving expensive cars, living large in great building with fine edifices but treated like litters? Living everyday, hoping their man would change, or death should come or better still the world should end? Do you know? If only she made the right choice, if only we had right men, If we only knew, if she only tells, if we ever learn... These are Behind the Scenes. Melchizedek, son of Michael.

MAD MAN, MAD MAN

He lay down on the walk way in rags, his uncut, unkempt hair clogged together in dirt, something amused his big bright eyes that lay wide open, not blinking, as though he saw spirits. His dry white lips didn't move, his hands formed a pillow on the concrete floor. His nostrils didn't twitch, neither was he irritated by the smell of the green garbage cart that lay in front of him. Onlookers walked past and I could hear the mouths of every heart call him 'The Mad Man' but we were all wrong! To the mad man, we are all mad; dressed in fine ironed suits, skirts, blouses and shirts, hurrying to work. Too afraid of our bosses, too concerned about our monthly stipends. With faces littered with scars of sacrificed passions, lost to jobs we took for money or to kill the common boredom of a societal unemployment. Like ants, we rush to our sugar coated jobs, we are all sick, thinks the mad man, who's too petrified by our delusions and illusions, too petrified that if he called us 'mad men' we would look and laugh, point and spit, shake our worried heads spitefully at him and call him 'Mad man, mad man'. - Melchizedek has spoken

WHAT IS LOVE?

WHAT IS LOVE

She's dazzled by the fine pack of heart-shaped chocolates, the cream cakes and bottle of Baron de vals. A big gift of red furred Teddy bear, an expensive perfume, even a pack of new clothes and underwear. Then to KFC, the beach, the Cinema with popcorns and a cozy hugs, then to the night party. Inflated, confused by the uncontrolled rush of adrenaline running through her body, errodding her mind and making her say again and again 'He Loves me, This is Love...'

Finally, she's in the five star hotel, Radisson Blu, the lights are reduced to bed side lamps, the air is cold, they let the window open against the waters. He walked up to her 'I love you' he says. Kissed her gently against the lips and gradually robbed her of her red val gown, then her white set of underwares, she's too petrified, her heart beats faster as she tries to catch her own breath, she couldn't wait for him to explore her, breathless, she let him in, skin against skin...

Then the night passed slowly and days, weeks made her want more of him: 'My val' her heart recalls, as she sits on a metallic red painted bus station bench; bitter! He's gone and here is another man, with such promises; 'Is this love' she mistakenly asked the man, the stranger next to her. 'Excuse me' he asked. He was actually lost in the tought of his last val too, how she walked away on him.

The bus arrived and they both had similar thoughts: love is not in the box of chocolates, red outfits, wine, outings, sex, kisses... Love is a commitment, it's a personality. If you don't have it and live it, you just can't give it.

Greater Love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his brothers. Jesus is Love; do you have Him? Happy Valentine. 

Our CHANGE Will Come

She sits at Postponement Bus stop  

Our Mother of many children and large natural breasts

Her malnourished children crying; frustrated by the conduct of the conductor

Whose claim is that, Our driver would not start Our Bus

We her troubled children with righteous restless spirits

Demand an explanation

We have threatened to puncture the tyres, break the wind shields and burn Our Bus

But We know too well it will do us no good

“This is Our Bus, not Our driver’s” We chant in one accord

Our weak mother sits back with sunken eyes and pleads

Her grey hairs on bony head, dangling as though it would roll off,

No longer fits in her tattered Green Gele

Her skeletal frame, held loosely her wrinkled black-pale skin,

Covering her shame in her already stained White Buba

Her thin long legs, like Pharaoh’s dream cows, no longer could carry her

Reaching to her kneels, her Green Iro, attempting to uphold her honour

Our Mother yet mutters amidst gasping breaths:

“Although this bus would not start

Although this driver would not move Us forward

Although corruption thrives and evil drives with pride

I’ll hold on a little longer, no matter how long

I’m certain, most certain

Our CHANGE will come!”

-          Kayode Michael Melchizedek ©2015

   

What Defines Us?

I tried to sleep but it won't come, a thousand headaches wrestled with me but my resilience brought me dizziness as I stumbled out of bed and fumbled with a glass of water, I stood and watched the Digital Satellite against the wall of my flat. Here was the Prince of Saudi having difficulty breathing, there was a royal prince of England accused of underage sex, another plane was still be looked for in the belly of the sea, over a hundred souls missing. I'm asking what defines Us? Is it the money we have? It buys pills and pays bills but never heals or guarantee health. Is it Security? I saw the black gold plated gates of the rich, the security cameras that lined his beautifully painted mansion, the proud broad chested body guards that harassed with inspection, even a passing fly. Yet a man walked in unnoticed, and killed him without a scratch, this man also ran a truck into the gentle man who sat in front of his newly bought car. His name: death. Is it Our Class? The American boasted he wasn't born black and in a poor African continent to a 'niggar'. That night, a hurricane swept him, his house and his family. Even the surgeon was helpless when his daughter died of a cold and the farmer's son was saved under his blade after a borrowed fund and hours of operation. The priest who raised the dead died by evening. What defines Us? It's not class or color, age, size, place or name but the common things that unite Us: That we are Humans and to Err is human. Therefore, let every one reading this put off the garments of pride, wash away guilt and filth of inhumanity in the pool of righteousness, come out whole to be the bridge of love across the oceans of divide. Melchizedek (C)2015, January

The Awakening

They That Know their God shall renew their strength