When it was just a boy and a blog

It might have been annoying to some of you at that time but I didn’t really care. I just wanted to write, to the extent that I wasn’t so critical about what I wrote. As long as I got it out of my mind and in a coffin of words I could burry somewhere I was fine. Honestly, the thing I was most exited about was other people actually reading my shit.

Any time I saw the WordPress notification on my phone, either a like or a comment, I got high as the cow jumping over the money. It meant to me, in the most minute way, that I had communicate – exactly what I had set out to do.

Then with the falling of leaves, it all started to dry up and wither. The feelings became fish out of water. I got caught up in the likes and the view. I was more interested in being seen than being heard. I also branched out, which is a perfectly normal symptom of any artistic growth. I went swimming in oceans and lakes and I met all sort of fishes and creatures, saw all sorts of shores and drank all sorts of waters.

Now I don’t even know where my body has washed ashore. Writing is not what it used to be for me. And this is driving me insane, not because I don’t know but because I need it to be cathartic and it just doesn’t seem to be. It’s became obligatory to write which should be good but its also sucked out the serendipity in it.

This is not any promise or radical change. I haven’t written a post in one take for years. So in honor of those days when it was just me and my hunger and passion to write,  satisfying just that – I want to communicate.

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Day says

One day I just wake up and realize that I’m just a mass floating around. Being pushed and shoved aimlessly by systems and institutions. Kneaded and molded by experience. Skilled in the art of being skill-less. Learning to forget. Applying to the dead.
One day I look outside and see the vibrant, seamless grass with shadows lounging on them. The luminescent, falling sun prying through the cracks of silhouetted leaves. I feel the sunshine caress my labored skin, and cool refreshing breeze calm my disarrayed soul.
I open my eyes and try to resist the urge to floa…….

Random shot By Wendy Opoku.
Random shot By Wendy Opoku.

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Written By Hakeem

Photography by Wendy Opoku.

Free Writing: Coming Of Age

These days I find myself questioning more phenomenon than I would have in the past. I tend to link this occurrence to coming of age.  Unlike Hollywood’s profiteering depiction, coming of age is not fun. You don’t find the love of your life and live happily ever after.  You don’t get accepted into Harvard.  Television has and will continue to deceive the inactive mind. However I will discuss the media later. 
Coming of age to me feels like an amalgamation of soo many little decisions.  Choosing to sit on that seat in class. Taking this route home.  Talking to that guy. Unconsciously,  we make these little and “not soo significant” choices that end up shaping what the chunk of our lives look like. A sort of metaphysical collage.  Yet,  the spine chilling momment is not making the choices, but when the picture is not turning out as you anticipated. 
We all begin to doubt who we are becoming.  That self doubt could be crippling depending on your resolve. I discovered that my conviction strengthened as I experienced more. I began to have more faith in my ability.  I began to pay attention to detail.  I became analytical.  Although the fear lingers, it doesn’t hold me back. I am not scared of the future. Rather I am fascinated by the endless possibilities it holds for me. I have gained a fair understanding of the mechanics of life.
I think coming of age is not just a particular stipulated period in time, marked by certain physical, emotional and social events.  It is a chain reaction, where as you experience the world,  you learn lessons that shape your life untill you become too lazy to continue learning. 
Like what quantum superposition suggest; you and I can exist in any form but In reality, just one true form. That one state is determined by the series of events I like to describe as coming of age.

Guilty Pleasures

Here is another piece from our featured writer Finagle Jones: The Provost. Enjoy!

 

Guilty Pleasures

You put the tea in the kettle and light it, put your hand on the metal and feel it, but do you even feel it anymore? Are we numb to mistakes? The border line between good and bad is much like simulated texture. On paper, we can easily distinguish between the two but on the ground it may look like a herculean task. Yes, mistakes are part and parcel of the human make-up but surely a recurring act of wrongdoing should cease to be judged as an honest unconscious mistake.

Unpopularly, I’d gladly make some mistakes again – shameful but truthful. Short term pleasures are equivalent to long term losses. I’ve made consciously made mistakes with the possible lifeline of confession lingering in my cerebrum. Cliché, but for the benevolence of our Supreme Dictator where will we be? You give a human a meter so why can’t he have a yard? Dig deep and you’ll find out that the benevolence of your superior could create some empathy in relation to a malpractice. Believe me, we need unstained thoughts.

Fantasies rule the world – women as well, but this notion shall be deliberated on a later date – You don’t dream, you’re as good as a toothless bulldog but how tight is your grip on your fantasies? We can all attest to ill fantasies. Putting a cap on them seems a tall order the more they keep occurring; so says Psych 101. Whether borne out of mere pleasure or anger, ill fantasies can only afford us a wee bit of immediate fulfillment which eventually dies out. Should you make a big break financially and then forget that something like a financial adviser existed, the outcome will be boldly painted and underlined on the walls but you will be blind to it. That’s a short term pleasure. Pleasure which doesn’t last leaves you licking your wounds in a bid to experience it again. When that hunger kicks in……yes, man will do anything.

Climbing the age ladder, it has kicked in that the things that last forever are what I should be geared towards gaining. The one who uses iron and steel to construct stands a greater chance to survive in the era of disaster. God’s grace, Family, love, tight bonds; all these are long term projects. You need to give a part of you in order to gain them and it’s not just a day’s work in the field, but when it pays off you can afford to smile forever. We are our choices. A brain with a staggering amount of clean thoughts floating inside will certainly make the right choices while we are young for the adult battle that awaits us.

 

Finagle Jones: The Provost

Slaves To Sapiosexuality?

This here is a piece on Sapiosexuality by a featured writer called Finagle Jones: The Provost. Enjoy

 

 

Brains over beauty is a common saying. Do we pay attention to what we utter? Are you willing to make intellectual prowess cover up for a physical flaw in your partner? Unconsciously, this seems to be the order of the day in today’s society. Sapiosexuality may be deemed as a natural occurrence but in today’s world a man may be setting a death trap for himself if he is to pick a woman who cannot steer the family ride with him as a wife. Suicidal choice, if you ask me.

There’s no escaping the fact that comfort is the peak of satisfaction in life. Hence, to make it in this world, brains are required. The ability to make life changing decisions is just another feature of a sky high IQ. Life changing decisions entail risk taking; calculated risk taking. Therefore, taking of risks invariably determines one’s status in life. Turn back the clock to the time of our forefathers, life partners were literally handpicked by parents, with all issues concerning the marriage taken care of by them. Women were marginalized to domestic duties and men were supposed to naturally have a knack for hard work which will be vital in keeping a family afloat financially. People of marriageable age back then had to rely on a good choice of a suitor made by their parents. However, in today’s age, the decision lies in the hands of the ones who want to get married.

Society demands a lot from us humans intellectually to make it by the book. As a member of the youth, my mind wanders far away on many occasions concerning what the future has to offer. Similarly, attraction to the opposite sex plagues my inner thoughts; I mean, man is not growing any younger, feelings and hormones….you know what I’m saying. Putting these two together, one cannot help but envision a future with a BEAUTIFUL SMART lady. Problem is, more often than not, these two qualities are not at par in a woman and beauty is the premiere feature family members look out for when evaluating a wife-elect.

So then would you concede to being a slave of sapiosexuality or let beauty overshadow an intellectual flaw?

                                                                                  

Finagle Jones: The Provost

I Have A BIG problem

Today in a lecture, someone passed a comment that we write to please the reader.
     I found this extremely disturbing. If writing to please the reader is the aim of writing then i think there is no point in it. I know that it is essential to allow your audience understand the message you want to put across, but i don’t think it is necessary to write with the aim of pleasing.
        In my opinion writing is a very personal act. The one way  i am able to bring out my true feelings from the dark Abyss to the bright gardens. Writing(poetry) is the only way i give myself a voice
           I can never ever understand why someone will therefore write with the aim of pleasing. Although we try to hide it, everyone seeks validation in this troubled world. I don’t seek validation. Rather i seek respect. RESPECT. I write with the aim that my thoughts and opinions will be respected, appreciate and heavily criticized.
         This is not a rant, but my honest opinion. No one should write to please but rather to express. I expressed my views!

Hakeem Adam 

The Executioner

The bow of a slave ship, points forward
To the doom,to which we’ve led our daughters
The red of the Atlantic is only seen by the most affected
boodshed all over, has left our soil soiled and dejected
Form the coast to the Sahara the waves spared no soul
My tears today are mere African political policy
And a Reminder of a dark period in our history
The himbeergeist is poured into the sea
As we pray for the forgiveness of the sins of the executioner

Tuff Assassin