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The Written, Lagos (2026)

24/10/2025

Faith?

Hummmmm

21/10/2025

“The Story of a Soul in Confusion
(A narrative poem told by a dying observer — a witness to a life lost between right and wrong)
Ayobami Ayefele Abraham

I sat by his bedside, the air thick with time.
The room smelled of medicine and memory.
He was frail — bones like dry sticks under skin,
Eyes sunken, yet burning with stories untold.
He said, “Son… before I go, let me speak,
for this heart carries the echo of confusion.”

And I listened…
As the night wrapped us in its quiet shroud,
and his trembling voice began to weave the years.

1. THE BEGINNING — A WORLD UNKNOWN

“I was born,” he said, “into a world I did not understand.
The air was loud with voices telling me who to be.
I cried not just for milk — I cried for meaning,
For even as a child, I saw contradictions bloom.”

He spoke of parents, righteous in speech,
Yet quick to curse behind closed doors.
Of teachers who taught truth but sold lies to survive.
Of pastors who preached love, but envied the crowd.

“I thought right was right,” he said, “but soon I learned —
right was what the strong could afford,
and wrong was what the weak were blamed for.”

The boy in him learned early to blend,
To smile when he was bleeding,
To bow when he should have stood,
Because the world punished honesty
And praised convenience.

2. THE YOUTH — LEARNING TO SURVIVE

He grew into a young man with fire in his veins,
Dreams large enough to light the night.
But every flame met the rain of deceit.

“In school,” he said, “they told us success was truth,
but all I saw were cheats becoming kings.
Those who bent rules built castles,
Those who kept faith were mocked as fools.”

He tried to love — but love too,
Was measured in gifts and lies.
He learned to flatter, to pretend,
To wear masks upon masks
Until even his reflection grew confused.

“I watched my friends fall to lust,
I watched my faith grow thin.
They called sin freedom,
And holiness bo***ge.
They called wrong adventure,
And right, old-fashioned.”

He laughed then — a tired, cracked laugh.

“So I followed the crowd.
I wanted to belong.
I wanted applause more than peace.
And slowly… I became a stranger to my own soul.”

3. THE ADULTHOOD — THE GREAT CONFUSION

He spoke of work, of wealth, of weary striving.

“I made money, yes — but lost myself.
I gained friends, but none who knew me.
My house grew, my heart shrank.
I drank from every cup this world offered,
But still, I thirsted.”

He remembered sitting in church,
Hearing truth that no longer moved him.

“Even God’s name became a slogan,
Faith became performance.
We prayed with lips, not hearts —
And we sang louder than we loved.”

He watched his children learn the same.
Their innocence fading fast,
Their laughter traded for screens and noise.

“And I asked myself —
What world did I bring them into?”

4. THE FALL — WHEN THE BODY BREAKS, THE TRUTH SPEAKS

Then came the sickness, silent at first,
Then loud, angry, unstoppable.
The world that once clapped now looked away.
Those he pleased forgot his name.

“On my bed,” he said,
“I realized — I blended so well,
I disappeared.
I became what they wanted,
Not what I was born to be.”

He coughed, weakly smiled.

“Right had always been right, my son —
I just didn’t have the courage to follow it.
And wrong had always been wrong —
I just learned to justify it.”

5. THE END — CLARITY IN THE SHADOWS

The lamp flickered. His breath slowed.
But his words grew clearer, softer, deeper.

“The world is a stage of mirrors,” he whispered.
“Children are born with light —
But we teach them to dim it.
We call wisdom foolishness,
We call pride confidence.
We confuse the heart until it forgets its beat.”

He looked out the window — eyes glazed but glowing.

“If I could live again,
I’d dare to be misunderstood.
I’d rather be right alone
Than wrong with the crowd.
I’d hold onto truth,
Even if the world laughed at me.”

His hand trembled as he reached for mine.

“Tell them,” he said,
“That blending in is slow dying.
That this world’s approval
Is the most expensive poison.”

A tear rolled down his cheek.

“I was born into confusion, yes —
But I die with understanding:
Truth was never hidden —
It was just inconvenient.”

The night grew still.
His eyes drifted heavenward,
A faint smile resting on his lips.

And I, the witness, sat in silence —
Listening to the echo of a life that blended too well.

Outside, the world still buzzed in confusion,
But in that room… there was peace.
For one man had found clarity
At the edge of eternity

20/10/2025

Ọjọ Ikú ni Ilu Eko — 20.10.2020
(The Day of Death in Lagos — 20.10.2020)
Ayobami Ayefele Abraham

That night, Lagos wept.
Ẹ̀jẹ̀ sán bí odò nílẹ̀ tó yẹ̀ kí òdodo rọ̀.
(Blood flowed like rivers where flowers should bloom.)

We gathered with songs,
ọmọ tuntun, ẹ̀dá àlà,
children of tomorrow carrying placards of hope.
At Lekki Tollgate,
we raised the anthem with trembling voices,
singing not of war,
but of freedom,
praying with our flags lifted high.

But—
ọ̀run dákẹ́, ìmọ́lẹ̀ tàn pẹ̀lú ìrọ̀.
(Heaven fell silent, the lights betrayed us.)
Cameras blinded,
soldiers marched,
and suddenly—
Gbooo! Gbooo! — bullets cut through our chorus.

Ẹni tí ń sunkún kò mọ ẹni tí ń rẹrìn-ín.
(He who weeps does not know who still laughs.)
Some prayed, some ran,
some lay cold, lifeless.
And our flag, oh our flag—
green-white-green,
it turned to cloth of mourning,
soaked in crimson tears.

I carried my own fair share—
my feet my witness.
From Ajah, I walked.
Step after step,
ẹsẹ̀ mi di ẹ̀rí ìfarapa,
(my legs became evidence of pain,)
through silent streets that tasted of fear,
till Imude embraced me
like a mother holding her wounded child.
Every mile was a scar.
Every breath was resistance.

I asked myself:
“Ṣé ilẹ̀ yìí kò ní gbọ́ wa?”
(Will this land never hear us?)
“Ṣé àwa ọmọ ilẹ̀ yìí kì í ṣe ọmọ rẹ?”
(Are we not children of this soil?)

Ajah to Imude—
those steps were longer than years.
Tears mixed with sweat,
and hope mixed with sorrow.
Yet, I walked.
Because stopping was death,
and silence was slavery.

Oh Lagos!
Oh Nigeria!
Ẹ̀dá tí a bí fún ìrètí,
ọmọ tí a bí fún ìmọ́lára,
(Children birthed for hope,
souls born for freedom,)
why must your womb be soaked in gunfire?

20.10.2020—
not just a date,
but a wound in our chest.
Ẹ̀jẹ̀ náà ń ké, ó ń sunkún—
(the blood still cries, still weeps)
till justice rains like morning dew,
till freedom sings again in our streets.

We will not forget.
Àwa ọmọ ilẹ̀ yìí yóò rántí.
(We, the children of this land, will remember.)
For every drop of blood,
for every silent body at the toll,
for every weary step from Ajah to Imude,
we swear—
Ẹ̀dá ò ní gbàgbé 20.10.2020.
(Humanity will never forget 20.10.2020.)

13/10/2025

The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born
Because the Ugly Ones Refuse to Die
Ayobami Ayefele Abraham

I have walked through the cities of men
and seen their lights burn bright with lies.
I have heard their songs,
sweet to the ear, bitter to the soul.
We speak of change,
but our hands still build altars to corruption.
We dream of new beginnings,
but our hearts are married to decay.

The earth waits,
the sky watches,
the unborn hold their breath—
for the birth of the beautiful ones.
But the womb of the world stays closed,
and heaven whispers the truth:

The beautiful ones are not yet born
because the ugly ones refuse to die.

Ugly not in face,
but in spirit.
Ugly with greed,
ugly with lies,
ugly with pride dressed as wisdom.
They walk among us.
They sit in offices,
they preach in temples,
they sleep in our mirrors.
They wear our names.

We say we want change,
but we fear what it costs.
We shout for truth,
but kneel before comfort.
We sing of light,
yet guard the darkness we love.
And so the cycle spins—
old hearts raising new hypocrites.

The mother by her window still waits.
Her candle burns low.
She whispers,
“Maybe this one will be different.”
But her sons learn to lie before they learn to love,
and her daughters grow tired before they grow free.
And the wind returns her whisper:
The beautiful ones are not yet born
because the ugly ones refuse to die.

The ugly ones build kingdoms of glitter on graves of goodness.
They poison truth with laughter.
They make the world applaud their sins
and call it success.
They turn mercy to weakness,
and conscience to a curse.
And we—
we clap for them.
We envy them.
We become them.

The beautiful ones wait inside us,
kicking behind ribs of regret,
suffocating in the womb of excuses.
They beg to live,
but we keep them chained with comfort.
We tell them, “Not now.
The world is not ready.”
But the world will never be ready
until we are willing to die to who we’ve been.

Because no flower blooms while weeds still reign.
No dawn breaks while the night still boasts.
No beauty is born
while ugliness still rules the throne.

Yet I have seen a vision—
a crack in the darkness,
a trembling light.
I saw hands once used for taking
open wide to give.
I saw lips once used for lies
speak truth like thunder.
I saw hearts that once served self
rise in service to all.

And the heavens whispered,
“They have come.”
The ones who cannot be bought.
The ones who will not bend.
The ones who burn with the fire of what is right.
The beautiful ones.
The long-awaited ones.

Born not from comfort,
but from courage.
Born not from luxury,
but from love.
Born because, at last,
the ugly ones have died.

Until that day,
the world remains pregnant with promise,
groaning in the pain of what it could be.
And the voice still echoes through time and dust:

The beautiful ones are not yet born
because the ugly ones refuse to die.
But one day they will.
And when they do—
beauty will rise from the ashes,
and truth will walk free again.
And we will finally know
what it means to be born.

10/10/2025

With Seema G Nair – I just got recognised as one of their top fans! 🎉

10/10/2025

With CoolFM969 – I just got recognised as one of their top fans! 🎉

10/10/2025

THE STORY OUR WORDS
Ayobami Ayefele Abraham

There was once a boy named Ayọ̀.
He was gentle, full of questions, full of dreams.
But every morning, he woke to voices that cut deeper than knives:

“You are lazy.”
“You are slow.”
“You will never become anything.”

At first, they were just sounds in the air.
But words are never just sounds —
They are seeds.
And when you hear them again and again,
They take root.

Soon, Ayọ̀ began to see himself through their voices.
He stopped running with the other children.
He stopped raising his hand in class.
Because the mirror he looked into was made of words…
And all it showed him was “nothing.”

One day, tired and broken, he sat under the old tree in the village square.
He whispered to himself:
“Maybe this is who I am… maybe they are right.”

But God never leaves a story unfinished.
That day, an old woman selling oranges walked by.
She looked at him and said,
“My son, I don’t know you… but I see greatness in your eyes.
Don’t you know? Ahọn l’ọba ara — the tongue rules the body.
Don’t let their tongue rule you.
Find your own tongue, and speak your own truth.”

At first, Ayọ̀ laughed bitterly.
How could words change what felt so heavy?
But that night, he remembered her voice.
And he whispered to himself before sleeping:
“I am not nothing. I am loved. I am chosen.”

The next day, he said it again.
The next week, again.
Soon, the whisper became a voice,
And the voice became a roar.
And as he spoke, his heart began to believe.

That is the mystery of the mouth.
It feeds the stomach with food, yes…
But it also feeds the soul with declarations.
Curses enter through it.
Blessings flow from it.
Life and death are hidden in its power.

We are more than flesh and bone —
We are the echoes of everything spoken into us,
And the sum of what we choose to believe.

“Ahọn ni ń pa ènìyàn run, kì í ṣe idà.”
(It is the tongue that destroys a man, not the sword.)
“Ahọn rere dá ilé sile, ahọn burúkú sì lè pa ìdílé run.”
(A good tongue builds a home, a bad tongue ruins it.)

Ayọ̀ learned this truth slowly.
He began to remember the words of God above the words of men.
When they said, “You cannot,” he said, “With Christ, I can.”
When they said, “You are nothing,” he declared, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”
When fear whispered, “You are finished,”
He answered with faith: “This is only the beginning.”

And his life changed.
Not because the village stopped speaking,
But because Ayọ̀ chose to believe a louder voice.
He refused to eat the fruit of curses,
And chose instead the fruit of blessings.

For what we declare with our mouth becomes who we are.
We are stories written by sentences.
We are gardens watered by words.
We are temples shaped by truth or torn down by lies.

So I ask you —
What do you believe about yourself?
What do you whisper when no one is listening?
What words are building your tomorrow?

As for me…
I will no longer be the prisoner of their curses.
I will not let bitterness be the harvest of my tongue.
I will not allow fear to write my story.

Instead… I will declare:
“I am loved.”
“I am chosen.”
“I am redeemed.”
“I am more than enough.”

I am the child of the King.
I am the echo of Heaven’s blessing.
I am not what they called me —
I am what God calls me.

So let my mouth be a fountain, not a fire.
Let my words be blessings, not curses.
Let my declarations be light in the dark.
For every word I speak is a seed,
And one day, I will eat the fruit of what I’ve spoken.

This is my truth:
I am the sum of words spoken, yes…
But I choose which ones take root.
And with my mouth,
I will write a story of hope,
A song of life,
A testimony of grace.

09/10/2025

MY CUP OF TEA — A TASTE OF LIFE
Ayobami Ayefele Abraham

Life is like my cup of tea.
It begins in the garden of the unseen — small, green, tender.
Every leaf starts soft, full of dreams,
But to release its fragrance, it must be plucked, crushed, and dried.
So before we taste our purpose, we too must pass through pressure.
Pain does not come to destroy; it comes to prepare.
Every leaf that survives the sun learns the beauty of surrender.

Then comes the water — calm, clear, waiting.
It knows nothing of bitterness, yet it carries destiny in silence.
Like some people, it mirrors everything around it,
Taking the shape of every vessel it finds itself in.
Water teaches me that life flows — not always straight, but true,
And that peace is not the absence of movement,
But the grace to flow without breaking.

But no leaf becomes tea without fire.
Ah, fire — the great revealer.
It burns, yes. But it also brings out aroma.
Without the heat, there is no taste.
Without trials, there is no transformation.
Some people run from the flame,
But I have learned that sometimes, God hides blessings in the boiling point.
It is in the burning that bitterness becomes depth,
And fragrance is born out of what could have been forgotten.

Then, there is the cup —
That silent vessel that holds everything together.
It bears the heat, it holds the storm,
And never complains that the world is too hot to handle.
The cup reminds me of people who carry others quietly —
Mothers, fathers, friends who hold the broken without spilling.
The strength of the cup is not in its size,
But in its willingness to contain.
To be steady even when everything inside it trembles.

The spoon comes next — simple, gentle, yet purposeful.
It stirs, not to destroy, but to unite.
Because even sweetness must meet bitterness halfway.
Sometimes life stirs us —
Loss, love, delay, rejection —
All spinning us round and round until everything we hide mixes with who we are.
And when the stirring stops, we taste what we’ve become.
Some call it wisdom. Some call it weariness.
But it is all part of the brew.

Then, the sugar —
That small mercy that reminds me grace still exists.
Some take much — drowning truth in sweetness,
Living in denial of life’s flavor.
Some take none — embracing pain too deeply,
Believing bitterness proves strength.
But balance…
Balance is the beauty of discernment.
Knowing when to add a little joy to the sorrow,
A little hope to the heaviness,
And a little gratitude to every gulp.

And then, the steam.
Ah, the steam — that rising, fleeting spirit that dances above the cup.
It never stays long, but it makes its presence known.
It reminds me of how people come and go —
How some blessings only visit,
And how some memories fade yet remain fragrant.
Even what disappears still teaches us something.
Not every goodbye is grief; some are grace wearing a veil.

Then finally — the sip.
Different tongues, different tastes.
Some say it’s too hot,
Some say too cold,
Some say too bitter,
Some call it perfect.
The tea doesn’t change — only the tongue does.
So I’ve learned that what we taste in life
Often says more about our heart than our circumstance.
For two people can live the same story,
And one will call it curse,
While the other calls it calling.

So I sip slowly.
I let time steep my soul.
I let the heat reveal what’s real.
I let patience draw out what rushing would waste.
And as I hold the cup,
I realize life is not about avoiding the burn —
It’s about embracing the warmth.
It’s not about escaping the bitterness —
It’s about learning what sweetness truly means.

We all have a cup.
Some cracked, some polished, some borrowed, some broken.
But the miracle is not in the porcelain —
It’s in the pouring.
And though my cup may not look like yours,
The steam still rises the same.
The leaf still sings when it meets the water.
And grace still tastes like peace at the bottom of it all.

So yes, life is my cup of tea.
Sometimes sweet, sometimes silent, sometimes steeped in struggle.
But always — always — worth sipping slowly.
Because when you drink it with gratitude,
Every swallow becomes a song,
And even the bitter notes
Become a kind of worship.

08/10/2025

THE WEIGHT OF BALANCE
Ayobami Ayefele Abraham

He prayed every morning —
loud, long, and early.
He spoke with God…
but never spoke kindly to his wife.
He carried the Bible…
but forgot the faces of his children.

They said, “Brother, you are on fire!”
But no one knew…
his house was quietly burning too.

Another man —
he chased wealth like it was air.
He woke before the sun,
slept after the moon.
He built empires in the sky…
but lost the peace inside his chest.
He bought his family gold,
but they would have preferred his presence.

He laughed at rest —
until his body stopped laughing back.
He worked himself into silence…
and called it success.

And then… there was her.
Soft spirit. Beautiful heart.
She loved everyone…
except herself.
She gave until she was empty,
helped until she was hurting.
She thought sacrifice meant exhaustion —
until she collapsed under her own kindness.

They called her Mother of Many,
but inside, she was a child unhealed.

Balance.
It’s not a suggestion —
it’s survival.
Even the ocean knows its boundary,
the sun knows when to set,
and heaven itself rests on rhythm.

We call it spirituality
when we ignore our emotions,
but God calls it imbalance.
For He made the body and the breath,
the spirit and the soil —
and called both good.

You can speak in tongues
and still speak death to your dreams.
You can have vision
and still forget provision.
You can chase purpose
and lose peace.
You can carry anointing
but have no alignment.

I have seen pastors die young —
not because they lacked faith,
but because they lacked rest.
I’ve seen dreamers lose direction —
not because God wasn’t speaking,
but because they never stopped to listen.

I’ve seen people who love God deeply
but treat people terribly.
And people who give to others
but never forgive themselves.

Life is not one color —
it’s a full palette.
You must learn to paint with all —
Spirit. Mind. Body. Work. Family. Rest. Joy.

For if one shade fades,
the whole picture suffers.

Tell me,
what is spirituality without sanity?
What is faith without focus?
What is success without sleep?
What is ministry without relationship?
What is giving if it breaks you to dust?

Even Jesus withdrew to rest.
Even Elijah slept under a tree.
Even God, Creator of galaxies,
paused — not in weakness,
but in wisdom.

So, learn the rhythm of heaven:
Pray, but plan.
Fast, but feed your mind.
Serve, but also smile.
Dream, but breathe.
Work, but rest.
Love God — but love people too.
And in all, love yourself enough
to stay whole.

Because if you don’t find balance,
life will teach it to you —
through pain,
through regret,
through the slow dependency
of those who once stood tall.

Many are not tired —
they are tilted.
Not defeated —
just disorganized.
Not broken —
just imbalanced.

Balance…
is the gospel your body preaches
when your words can no longer speak.

So before you chase another dream,
check your diet.
Before you promise another prayer,
check your heart.
Before you pour into others,
check your cup.

Whisper this to your soul tonight:

“I am spirit — but I am also dust.
I am light — but I need oil.
I am called — but I must care.
I am chosen — but I must change.”

For even the strongest bridge
falls apart when one side carries all the weight.

Live holy, yes…
but live whole.
Be spiritual — but stay sensible.
For it is better to live balanced in grace
than to die in the name of zeal.

“Even God rested…
Not because He was tired —
but because He was balanced.”

07/10/2025

WHAT IS SLEEP? (ORUN — BETWEEN TEARS AND DAWN)
Ayobami Ayefele Abraham

When we think too much… we don’t sleep.
When we’re sad… we can’t sleep.
When we’re broken… we fear to sleep.
And when we’re expecting joy — we still don’t sleep.

Sleep — that small death we take each night,
Yet wake to live again.
The mystery that humbles kings and comforts babies.

But sometimes…
Sleep hides from the eyes that cry too much.
It escapes the heart that’s heavy,
And avoids the soul that still hopes.

We toss… we turn.
We hold our thoughts like stones in our chest.
We count hours, not stars.
We pray, not from strength — but from survival.

Ìsun rere, ìbùkún ni Ọlọ́run ń fún ni.
Good sleep is a blessing from God.

Yet why does it flee when we need it most?
Why does it feel like peace belongs to others —
And not to us?

When the heart is full of sorrow,
The night becomes long…
The ticking clock — a reminder of our restlessness.
Every shadow on the wall begins to speak.
Every silence starts to sound like noise.

Ọ̀kan tí kì í sùn, ọ̀kan tí ń rò púpọ̀.
The heart that does not sleep is the one that thinks too much.

Yes… we think —
Of what was lost,
Of what could have been,
Of words left unsaid,
Of prayers unanswered.

But then, there are nights of joy —
When expectation burns brighter than the stars.
The night before a wedding,
The eve of success,
The moment before breakthrough —
Still, we cannot sleep.

Hope and sorrow — two travelers of the same night.
Both knock on the same door of the heart.
Both keep the soul awake

So… what is sleep?
Maybe it’s not just rest for the body —
Maybe it’s healing for the heart.
Maybe it’s not the closing of eyes,
But the opening of trust.

Sleep is surrender.
It is telling God:
“Even if I don’t understand today,
I will still lay my head in Your arms.”

Sleep is worship in silence.
Faith without words.
Peace without proof.

Some nights, we wrestle with dreams we never asked for.
Some nights, we wake up in tears and don’t even know why.
Because pain has memory —
And sorrow, a voice.
But peace… peace has a whisper.
You must be still to hear it.

Lord, teach us to rest.
To lay down worry like a sword.
To believe that even in darkness,
You are still working light.

Ìwọ tó dá ọ̀run àti ayé, má jẹ́ kí ìrònú mi gba ìsun mi lọ.
You who made heaven and earth, don’t let my thoughts steal my sleep.

Because even the birds sleep after they sing,
Even the sea rests between its waves.
So why can’t we —
The ones You love the most?

Maybe the world has taught us to fight for everything…
Even when we should simply rest.

But You, oh God…
You never sleep —
So we can.

You keep the night watch,
So we can close our eyes without fear.
You hold the stars in their places —
So our hearts can stop holding the sky.

Sleep is not running away — it’s returning home.
It’s where the body stops working,
And the soul begins to heal.

It’s where sorrow meets mercy,
And fear meets faith.
It’s where tears dry quietly,
And tomorrow starts being written.

“Ìsun rere, ìbùkún ni Ọlọ́run ń fún ni,
Ẹ̀mí mi, sùn lórí àánú Rẹ.”
Good sleep is God’s blessing,
My soul, rest upon His mercy.

So when next your eyes refuse to close,
When the weight of life feels too heavy for your chest,
When pain and promise both hold you awake —
Remember…

Sleep is not absence — it is grace.
It is God’s way of saying,
“Rest, my child… I’ll take it from here.”

And when morning comes —
You will rise.
Not because the night was easy,
But because grace kept you through it.

Sleep…
Maybe it isn’t the end of the day.
Maybe…
It’s the beginning of peace.

06/10/2025

EVERY FAMILY HAS A CROSS

In every home… "behind the laughter, behind the lights…
There lies a cross.
Some wooden, some unseen — but all are real.

A mother’s whisper in the midnight hour,
A father’s sigh beneath the weight of duty,
A child’s silent cry to the heavens —
These are not mere moments,
They are the crosses that shape our faith.

Every family has a cross —
A story carried in silence,
A trial dressed in Sunday smiles.

For the house that dances in daylight
Has known dark nights of weeping.
The table that overflows with laughter
Was once an altar of prayer and hunger.

Àìní kì í pa ẹni tí Ọlọ́run ń tọ́.
Lack never kills the one whom God is leading.

Every burden has a reason.
Every scar, a scripture written in flesh.
The fire that refines is not meant to destroy —
It is meant to reveal gold.

Abraham had his altar.
Mary had her sword.
Job had his silence.
Christ had His cross.

And yet — through pain,
They touched glory.

Ìjà ò sì, ànìkè, ade ò sí láìyé.
There’s no life without battle, no crown without pain.

“Oh Lord, carry us…”
So when your roof leaks with tears,
When your faith trembles like a candle in the wind —
Remember…
You are not forsaken.

The cross in your home is not a curse —
It is a calling.
A bridge to glory.
A mark that Heaven has visited your house.

For every family has a cross,
But also a crown.
Every storm hides a sunrise.
Every loss prepares the soil for joy.

Ọlọ́run tí ń mú ìrora di ayọ̀,
The God who turns sorrow into songs,
He is still with you —
Walking the corridor of your pain,
Turning ashes to oil,
And tears to testimony.

So lift your head, o weary home.
Let your faith not fail.
For the cross you carry today
Will become the glory you wear tomorrow.

Because in the end…
It’s not the cross that breaks us —
It’s the cross that makes us. ✝️

05/10/2025

There was a time I thought it was over…
When silence became louder than prayer,
When my dreams, once bright,
Fell like dry leaves in harmattan wind.

I tried…
I pushed…
But every step ended at a locked door.
And I said to myself, “Maybe this is it… maybe Grace forgot my name.”

But then… in the stillness of that night,
I heard a whisper that broke the darkness —
“Ọmọ mi, rise again… Grace still speaks "

Grace found me where reason failed,
Where prayers felt empty and tears felt dry.
It wasn’t loud —
It was gentle,
Like a drop of rain on thirsty ground.

Grace didn’t ask if I was worthy,
Grace came because He is faithful.

When man said “It’s finished,”
God smiled and said, “Mo ń bẹ̀rẹ̀ nísinsin yìí — I’m just beginning.”
That’s how Grace works —
It starts at the grave,
And brings resurrection to dead dreams.

Grace —
The river that never runs dry,
Flowing through deserts,
Washing away shame,
Restoring color to faded lives.

Grace steps in when effort fails,
Grace speaks when strength is gone,
And suddenly — the impossible bows.

If Sarah could laugh and still conceive,
If Joseph could rise from prison to palace,
If David could move from the field to the throne,
Then tell me… who says your story is over?

Because Grace — Grace changes everything.

He turned my pain into purpose,
My delay into divine display,
My fear into fuel for faith.
He took my “not enough” and made it overflow.

Ọ̀fé… àánú tí kò ní ètò ayé…
Grace unearned, mercy undeserved.
You picked me up when all was lost,
You called me Yours… when I called myself nothing.

Sometimes Grace hides in closed doors,
Because God knows what’s behind them.
Sometimes He delays,
Not to deny, but to prepare.
For what Grace builds takes time —
And Heaven’s timing never fails

I’ve seen Him turn tears into testimonies,
Failures into foundations,
And fear into fire for revival.

Where logic ends,
Faith begins,
And Grace writes stories that leave the world speechless.

When Grace enters the battlefield,
Mountains melt,
Chains fall,
And destiny awakens.

Ọlọ́run mi ní àṣẹ — My God has the final say.
The Potter is not done with the clay.

He molds broken pieces into beauty,
He paints purpose with pain,
He writes new beginnings from old endings.

I am a living proof of Grace.
I shouldn’t be standing… but I am.
I shouldn’t be singing… but I am.
Because Grace —
Grace carried me.

Every breath I breathe is borrowed mercy,
Every step I take is guided by love.
Even when I doubted,
Grace believed in me.

Grace —
The bridge between my weakness and His wonder,
Between my past and His promise,
Between who I was and who I am becoming.

So when the world says, “There is no way,”
I will lift my hands and say,

“My God makes a way where there is none.”

For this is not a story of my effort,
But a testimony of His endless possibilities.

Grace made a nobody a vessel.
Grace made a mistake a message.
Grace made death bow to life.
And Grace… is still writing my story

Grace found me…
Grace kept me…
Grace is still working in me.

And because of Grace —
I will never be the same again.

The Written

24/10/2025

21/10/2025

20/10/2025

13/10/2025

10/10/2025

10/10/2025

10/10/2025

09/10/2025

08/10/2025

07/10/2025

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05/10/2025

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