Even if the road to the cemetery is closed, We would buried our hero in the earth of Words. Uncle Pius Adesanmi, Thoughts are deep but the words are few, Humanity is paled by your gallant death, You are a deep fountain of intellect and illumination, Whose streams run through the crevices of the earth, Of which we have all worshiped and drank. For the first time in many moons , Humanity is stunned by the demise of a towering figure, The shadow of which influences our literary world, Vanguard of our fragile democracy, Shepherd of our national sanity, The mid-wife of our emancipation: Your words beautifully and humorously crafted, Nurtured the fading silhouette of our dreams, And we long to dance to the beats of your creativity. But suddenly the beats stopped… The water spilled and the gourd split! And what manner of life is this? Even if the road to the cemetery is closed, We would buried our hero in the earth of Words. Uncle...
“The connection between my childhood and my adulthood must not be lost. To lose that connection is to lose me.” Within every man dwells the little child who preceded him. Traditionally, children’s day has been misconstrued only as a juvenile convocation devoid of adult relevance and characterised by childish funfair. Irrespective of the side of the prism from which we look at it, we must not lose touch with the child in us. Every man is preceded by a boy and every woman is preceded by a girl. To understand the man that I have become, you need to meet the boy that I used to be. To understand the woman that I have become, you need to meet the girl that I used to be. To understand the adult that I have become, you need to meet the child that I used to be. Within every woman dwells the little child who preceded her. Adulthood is rooted in childhood. Many of the thoughts, ideologies and resolutions that we imbibe came from our early experiences as children. All the frui...
Can carry fire in his bosom and his clothes not be burnt? This is what we desire to do every day. We want to carry fire in our bosom: the fire of sexual passion and the little flame of lusts. We are heating up our destiny, spreading it out on the furnace of strange affection. We dare the messengers of fire and subjects of flames. We fan the little fire that destroys great destinies. Joseph had the opportunity for romance and sexual relationship with Mrs Potiphar but he fled. He could have been thinking “As long as I did not have sex with her, I am okay.” He could have done all the prelude to sexual intercourse and still be feeling like a saint. He could have survived the touches, he could have survived the urges, he could have survived the romance but he would not have survived the raging fire that would have engulfed his destiny. He would have kindled a seemingly innocent fire that would have burn silently under his bosom and the little innocent fire would have engulfed hi...
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