Beethoven Akinjiwonuola III

Beethoven Akinjiwonuola III
(April 3, 2018. 6:38am)

Let me tell you about Beethoven Akinjiwonuola III (it’s alright if you can’t pronounce his name properly; I can’t either).

Yes, his mother named him after the famous composer.
But unfortunately he held the violin’s bow the way he held his fork.
And he couldn’t tell a music note from a Greek letter.
His music teachers gave up in despair and one said even the Sphinx can’t solve the riddle of how it was possible to be so utterly lacking in talent.
In other words Beethoven couldn’t do music if his life depended on it.
That of course was the source of much angst From friends and foes alike. No wonder of course, with a name like Beethoven.

But there was one thing Beethoven liked doing – that was running.
Unfortunately his other issue had made him much too shy, so no one ever knew about his true gift.
Beethoven grew up more or less in obscurity.
You could always find him near the curtains at parties.
Or pretending to be furniture.
Or at the refreshment table debating whether a piece of bread or a croissant is the way to go.
Because he never did learn how to make small talk, all the girls with no exception found him curious but no fun at all. As one put it “disturbing and nice” (but nice never a boyfriend made.)

Nevertheless Beethoven knew how to run.
He ran past the rectory which caused the priest to think the second coming was at hand.
Leading to several sermons on how the congregation ought to be ready because no one he said, can outrun the coming apocalypse.

He ran past the bakery.
The wind rushed through the oven
The fire burnt so hot it turned all that day’s bread to ashes.
And for the first time since old Mr. Peterson (the war hero) could recall, there was not a loaf of fresh bread in all the town.

He ran across the river.
And all that witnessed it said the river was parted for a minute.
With fishes flapping on dry ground.
Just like the Red Sea in Moses days.

He ran past the court house.
And blew away all the papers.
The clerk said there were no copies
The accused was teetering at heaven’s door anyway.
So the judge set him free for lack of evidence.

He ran through the cornfield.
All the ears of corn fell off their stalks, peeled themselves, and the grains jumped off the cobs and piled up at one end of the field.
The farmers woke up to the miracle of the harvest.

He ran and he ran and he ran, and he ran and he ran into the past.
No he didn’t grow younger like Benjamin Button.
But he ran so fast and so far that his grown self met his preteen self.
So he told his young self what he ought to do and what he ought not to do.

One would have thought that was the end of it. But no, he didn’t stop running. He ran, and he ran, and he ran all the way to that first day when there was no day and no night and the earth was just a chunk of darkness spinning in the nothingness. Then he ran some more.

No one truly knows what became of Beethoven Akinjiwonuola III. (It’s alright if you can’t pronounce his name properly; I can’t either). But it seems very likely that he just ran out of time.

Ayotunde Itayemi (April 3, 2018. 7:21 am)

The Hitman

The Hitman

I paid the hitman yesterday
Though his price was steep
I gladly paid
For what I wanted done
Few could do

I paid the hitman yesterday
I went to his temple
But would not bow the knee
Nor bend the neck
For though people thought him god
He was not my God

I paid the hitman yesterday
I almost doubted
His weapons were quaint
Shiny like toys
And small in form

I paid the hitman yesterday
I asked his name
For though I knew
I was told his voice was music to the ears
“Cupid” he said, with a smile on his lips

The Good Doctor: 2 years on

The Good Doctor: 2 years on

It is of course 2 years ago today when the good doctor took his leave.

I must admit the complete piece to which the following poem belonged was long and rambling, so I am only posting the poem here.

Father, your work is done
You have laid down the axe, the hoe and the surgeon’s blade
Now with keen eyes, steady hands and fingers sure, strum your guitar with the hosts of heaven

On quiet days when my task is done
Under a tree’s leafy shade
I will catch the strains of the music you make and bless the God of heaven

And when I too am done
And exit this worldly glade
I pray we meet again with kith and kin in God’s blessed heaven


Under the mid day sun, the drums beat
The music – entrancing
The young women – feet floating
Men young and old – admiring
Little girls admire their beads

The pace is exciting
The tune is enchanting
The atmosphere expectant
The old men nod in the shade
Transported to days of their youth

Little streams of water
From foreheads and under armpits
Glinting like glass
Salty taste in the mouth
Smiling faces all around 

The mood – attracting
The movements – intoxicating
All things new from the earth
The smell of wondrous food
Women stirring huge pots to the rhythm of the beat

I look on in awe
Tentative steps on the edge
The smile – inviting
The hand – outstretching
Beckoning one and all

The circle – embracing
The songs – uplifting
Am I really dancing?
Tomorrow – backbreaking
But today, – breathtaking

The sun is retreating
The wind – encircling
The voices – engaging
A celebration of life
The new yam – imposing