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ProsebySteph, Lagos (2026)

18/05/2026

“Play, Even When It Hurts”

They don’t see the weight in your fingers,
How every string you touch still stings.
They just hear music.
They don’t hear the things it brings.

You play like pain is a language,
Like sorrow has a sound.
Like every note you pull from wood
Is something you once found…
Buried.
Broken.
Background.

Your eyes close — not for show,
But because you’ve been places they don’t know.
Places where hunger hums low,
Where dreams move slow,
Where hope feels like a shadow.

Yet here you stand —
Bow in hand,
Turning struggle into symphony.
Turning survival into harmony.

Multiple hands holding you steady —
Because nobody rises alone.
Every scar becomes a melody
When courage finds a tone.

That white dust on your temple?
Not weakness.
Not shame.
It’s evidence you’re still fighting
Through heat, through hurt, through flame.

You press the violin to your chin
Like you’re holding yourself together.
Because sometimes music is the only thing
That makes the breaking better.

You are not just playing notes.
You are playing proof.
Proof that beauty can bloom
From a cracked roof.

Proof that even when life grips tight
Around your throat —
You can still release
A trembling, powerful note.

And listen —
If the world never claps loud enough,
If stages never come,
If lights never find you —

Remember…

Somewhere a child hears you.
Somewhere a future sees you.
Somewhere hope believes you.

So play.
Even when your hands shake.
Play.
Even when your heart aches.
Play —

Because sometimes the bravest thing a soul can do
Is make music
While it’s breaking in two.

18/05/2026

“He Carries Tomorrow”

He carries more than a child on his back,
He carries prayers he never learned to lack.
Calloused hands, but his heart intact,
A quiet warrior the whole world attacked.

This cross ain’t jewelry — it’s history’s weight,
Grandmother’s whispers about love over hate.
It’s nights he broke but still called it faith,
It’s choosing hope… when hope came late.

See, nobody clapped when he swallowed his pride,
Nobody saw all the tears he denied.
He learned to be strong ’cause he had to survive,
Not because strength didn’t hurt inside.

Little fingers tracing silver lines,
Learning courage between the signs.
On his father’s back — sacred shrine,
Breaking curses one day at a time.

He was never hugged the way he hugs you,
Still he builds what he never knew.
He fathers forward, stitches what tore,
Gives you the love he was never given before.

His spine bent early from burdens and blame,
From carrying shame that wasn’t his name.
From fighting battles without any fame,
From smiling through systemic flame.

But look —
Look how gentle he holds that child.
Look how trauma turns tender and mild.
Look how a man once broken and wild
Now guards a future undefiled.

If tears fall, let them fall free,
That’s what healing looks like, see.
A Black man rewriting destiny,
Planting roots so his son can be.

He carries more than a child — it’s true.
He carries tomorrow.
He carries breakthrough.
He carries a promise the world never knew.

And if you ever doubt what love can do —
Look at a father
And the way he carries you.

06/05/2026

“Stand, Even When the Wind Calls Your Name”

They say be steadfast.
But they do not tell you
how the night stretches like an unending road,
how the wind will test your knees,
how loneliness can echo louder than applause.

Steadfast.

Like a tree that refuses to bow
though the storm has memorized its address.
Like a candle that keeps preaching light
while drowning in its own melting.

They say be steadfast—
as if it is easy
to hold your ground
when the ground itself is shaking.

But listen—

The tortoise did not win by speed.
The river did not carve rock by shouting.
And the sun does not beg the darkness
before it rises.

Steadfastness is not noise.
It is quiet loyalty to purpose.
It is showing up
when motivation has packed its bags.

My father once said,
“The lizard that jumps from a high iroko tree
nods its head—not for pride,
but to remind itself it survived.”

Sometimes steadfastness
is simply nodding—
“I am still here.”

When doors close like stubborn mouths,
when friends fade like evening shadows,
when dreams delay like unpaid wages—

Stand.

For the bamboo bends
but does not break.
For the eagle waits
but never forgets it has wings.

Steadfastness is faith
with its sleeves rolled up.
It is patience
with scars on its back.
It is hope
that refuses to retire.

You will be tested.
Time will question you.
Failure will laugh.

But remember—
a goldsmith does not fear fire,
for fire reveals what is real.

Stand in the fire.
Stand in the doubt.
Stand in the silence
when no one claps for your consistency.

Because roots grow deeper
in unseen places.
Because foundations strengthen
in hidden hours.

They will celebrate you later.
But now—
be loyal to the process.

Steadfastness is not glamorous.
It is repetition.
It is discipline.
It is choosing the long road
when shortcuts whisper sweet lies.

The farmer who plants today
does not harvest tomorrow—
yet he waters anyway.

So water your dream.
Water your discipline.
Water your becoming.

Even when progress looks invisible.
Even when results seem silent.

For mountains are not built in a day—
they are the testimony
of pressure that refused to quit.

And when the winds finally bow to your endurance,
when the storms grow tired of fighting you,
when the harvest answers your waiting—

They will call you lucky.

But you will know.

You were simply steadfast.

And that—
is how destiny is defended.

06/05/2026

“They Say Men Don’t Cry”

They say men don’t cry.
They say iron doesn’t bend,
that thunder never trembles,
that mountains never sigh.

They say men don’t cry—
as if tear ducts were revoked at birth,
as if the Maker carved our chests from stone
and forgot to give us rain.

But even the sky breaks.
Even the clouds confess.
And no one calls the storm weak
for emptying its chest.

They say men don’t cry.
They hand us proverbs twisted like ropes—
“Be strong.”
“Man up.”
“Swallow it.”

But my grandfather used to say,
A river that refuses to flow
will one day flood the village.

Tell me—
what is strength
if not the courage to feel?
What is bravery
if not standing unarmed before your own pain
and saying,
“I see you.”

They say men don’t cry.
Yet David wept in the wilderness,
and still wore a crown.
Even warriors wash their wounds—
why then shame the water
that cleans the soul?

Listen—
A closed fist cannot receive blessings.
A locked heart cannot house peace.
And a man who buries every sorrow
plants a forest of silent wars inside his chest.

They say men don’t cry.
But pressure makes diamonds,
and pressure also makes explosions.
Which will you choose?

Brother,
there is no medal for suffocating.
No trophy for pretending.
No applause in the graveyard of emotions
where too many strong men lie
unmourned by themselves.

An Igbo adage whispers,
“The child who hides his illness
dies in silence.”

So why hide the ache?
Why mask the fracture?
Even the tallest iroko tree
needs the rain.

Crying is not weakness—
it is wisdom leaving the body.
It is grief refusing to become bitterness.
It is pain choosing poetry
instead of violence.

A man who cries
is a man who refuses to drown
in the ocean of pride.
A man who cries
is a man who knows
that healing begins
where honesty breathes.

They say men don’t cry.

But I have seen fathers cry
when no one was watching—
tears falling like unpaid debts
for sacrifices their children will never see.

I have seen sons cry
in the dark,
asking heaven questions
they’re too proud to ask aloud.

And I have learned this:
The strongest walls
have cracks—
that’s how the light gets in.

So cry, king.
Cry and rise.
Cry and rebuild.
Cry and become.

Because the same rain
that falls in weakness
also feeds the harvest.

And when they say,
“Men don’t cry,”

Smile gently—
for you now know
that real men do.

And in their tears,
they are not breaking.

They are becoming.

30/04/2026

Today, I don’t just celebrate your birth—
I celebrate a man who became my worth.
A man who stood when the storms grew loud,
Who wore his pain like a silent shroud.

You were never perfect—no, not at all,
But somehow you still answered every call.
In moments when life tried breaking me down,
You showed me strength without making a sound.

You taught me that courage isn’t the absence of fear,
It’s standing your ground when the end feels near.
You watered my dreams when they started to dry,
Placed hope in my hands and said, “Try… just try.”

And I saw you—
Not just as “Dad,” but as a man with scars,
Fighting quiet battles, carrying invisible wars.
Yet you never let your weakness become my weight,
You turned your struggles into lessons of fate.

Even when life pulled you in every direction,
You still found time for my correction—
Not with anger, but wisdom deep,
The kind that plants roots your soul can keep.

You showed up.
Again. And again. And again.
Not always loud—but always present.
Not always strong—but always enough.

And that… that is love in its purest form.

You became my compass when I lost my way,
My shelter on every unpredictable day.
Your voice still echoes in choices I make,
Every step forward is a path you helped shape.

So today, I don’t just say “Happy Birthday”—
I say thank you…
For the sacrifices you never announced,
For the prayers you whispered when hope was discounted,
For being human… yet still my hero in disguise.

Because the truth is—
I didn’t need perfection.
I needed you.

And you were there.
Always there.
Still here.

Happy birthday, Dad.

19/04/2026

Today, we celebrate the women who became strong so we could be soft…
who carried dreams in one hand and responsibilities in the other.

To our mothers — we see you.
We see the sleepless nights you never complained about.
We see the meals you skipped so we could eat twice.
We see the prayers you whispered when we didn’t even know we were in danger.

We see the sacrifices.
The silent battles.
The postponed dreams.

You carried burdens so heavy, yet you carried us like we weighed nothing.
You gave up pieces of your youth so we could have a future.
And even when life pressed you down, you still showed up — with strength, with grace, with love.

We may not say it every day, but we notice.
We appreciate.
We are grateful.

And we promise — to work hard, to grow, to become everything you prayed for.
To make you proud.
To give you the life you deserved but put on hold for us.

Today we rise in church pews and quiet gratitude,
celebrating the women who carried us before we carried attitudes.

Motherhood is not just soft lullabies and Sunday smiles,
it is midnight prayers whispered across tired miles.
It is love that cooks when the body is weak,
faith that stands when the future looks bleak.

It is sacrifice dressed in wrapper and grace,
strength with gentle lines on her face.

To every mother — biological, spiritual, chosen by heart —
thank you for giving pieces of yourself from the very start.

Happy Mother’s Sunday 🤍
Your love is the first sermon we ever heard… and the one we never forget.

Happy Mother’s Sunday to every mother and every mother-figure.
Your sacrifices are not forgotten.
Your love is not unnoticed.
Your strength built generations. ❤️

15/04/2026

“I Was Never the Monster”

“I was never the monster.”

That’s what mercy whispered
When shame tried to rename me.

When my worst mistake
Became my loudest introduction.
When my failure walked into rooms
Before I did.

“I was never the monster.”

Yes, I fell.
Yes, I wandered.
Yes, I let appetite
Outrun discipline.

But I was never
The headline of my weakness.

Sin stained me—
It did not author me.

And mercy—
Mercy knew the difference.

Because mercy does not look at you
And see a beast to be buried.
It sees a son misled.
A daughter misplaced.
A heart that forgot its address.

We are too quick to label.
Too quick to cancel.
Too quick to carve people
Into permanent villains.

One mistake—
And we build a cage.
One scandal—
And we write a page
That erases every good thing
They’ve ever done.

But hear the gospel rhythm—

The cross was not built
For monsters.
It was built
For image-bearers
Who lost their reflection.

“I was never the monster.”

I was the prodigal
Who thought distance meant freedom.
I was Peter
Swearing loyalty at dinner
And denying it by firelight.
I was David
With worship on my lips
And weakness in my will.

Flawed? Yes.
Broken? Absolutely.
But never beyond
The reach of mercy.

And if that is true for me—
It must be true for them.

The addict is not a monster.
The angry man is not a monster.
The girl who chose wrong
Is not a monster.

They are stories
Still being written.

Mercy understands
That behavior is loud—
But identity is deeper.

Mercy says,
“I will confront the sin
Without crucifying the soul.”

Mercy says,
“I refuse to reduce you
To your worst chapter.”

Because if God had called you
What you acted like—
You would not be here.

If He had defined you
By your darkest night—
You would not see light.

But He looked at you—
In rebellion.
In denial.
In compromise.

And said,
“Mine.”

That is mercy.

So the next time someone falls,
Before you sharpen your stones,
Remember the days
You barely made it home.

Remember the prayers
You prayed in secret.
Remember the grace
That met you
Before consequences could complete you.

You were never the monster.

And neither are they.

Just people
In desperate need
Of the same mercy
That kept your name
From becoming your ruin.

We are not monsters.

We are miracles
Still under construction.

12/04/2026

“Mercy Looks Like the Father”

Before we learned to preach,
Before we learned to sing,
Before we learned the language of “hallelujah”
And everything—

We were carried.

Carried by mercy.

Because if justice had spoken first,
We would have been dust rehearsed.
If judgment had taken the throne,
We would be seeds never sown.

But mercy—
Mercy interrupted the verdict.

Mercy said,
“Not yet.”

Mercy bent low
Into our mess,
Into our pride-dressed righteousness,
Into our hidden shame
We baptized as “progress.”

Mercy did not ignore the sin—
It absorbed it.

That’s the scandal.

We love the cross
But forget what it cost.
Justice was satisfied—
But mercy decided
We were still worth the blood.

And now we,
Recipients of relentless grace,
Walk past broken people
With stone in our face.

We who were forgiven debts
We could never repay,
Now calculate interest
When others lose their way.

What irony.

The servant freed from chains
Gripping another by the throat.
Forgetting the day
He could not float.

Mercy is not weakness.
It is strength restrained.
It is power
That chooses not to humiliate pain.

Mercy sees failure
And whispers,
“Stand again.”

Mercy sees addiction
And says,
“You are more than this chain.”

Mercy sees anger
And asks,
“Who hurt you?”

Mercy understands
That wounded people
Bleed on people
Who never cut them.

And how many lives
Could be saved
If we chose mercy
Before rage?

How many sons
Would come home sooner
If the porch light
Was compassion?

How many daughters
Would speak the truth
If they knew
We wouldn’t stone confession?

Mercy does not cancel truth—
It carries it gently.
It confronts without crushing.
Corrects without condemning.

Because the same God
Who hates sin
Still sits and eats
With sinners.

And if we are His children—
Then mercy must be
Our family resemblance.

Not selective kindness.
Not tribal grace.
Not love only extended
To familiar faces.

But reckless compassion.
Radical patience.
Forgiveness that outlives provocation.

Mercy says,
“I remember who I was
When God found me.”

Mercy says,
“If He could rewrite my story,
Who am I to end yours?”

We think revival
Is loud altars and crowded rooms.
But maybe revival
Is learning
To lower the stones we hold.

Maybe salvation spreads fastest
Through gentleness.

Because a harsh word
Can push a soul away—
But mercy
Can make a heart stay.

Listen—

People don’t just need sermons.
They need safety.
They need someone
Who mirrors the Father’s heart.

And the Father’s heart
Is not quick to abandon.
Not eager to expose.
Not delighted in downfall.

It is patient.
It is kind.
It keeps the door open
Longer than logic says it should.

We are alive
Because mercy outran our rebellion.

So let it outrun someone else’s.

Let mercy be the first response.
Let grace be the loudest tone.
Let forgiveness become muscle memory
In our bones.

Because every time we choose mercy—
Heaven recognizes home.

And maybe—
Just maybe—
The life you spare with compassion
Will become the testimony
That spares another.

Mercy saved you.

Now let it
Save someone else.

11/04/2026

“The Man Who Carried Gates”

He was born a prophecy.
Before he had a name,
He had an assignment.

He didn’t cry into destiny—
He roared into it.

Hair uncut,
Covenant untouched,
Oil heavy on his head like thunder waiting to happen.

They said,
“He will begin to deliver Israel.”

Begin.
Not finish.
Because some callings are heavy like that.

Samson—
The man who tore lions
Like loose paper in a violent wind.
The man who caught foxes
And tied fire to their tails
Like judgment with legs.

The man who lifted city gates—
Not doors.
Gates.

Carried them on his shoulders
Like groceries.
Like inconvenience.
Like strength had no limits.

But here’s the rhythm—
Strength in public.
Weakness in private.

He could break ropes
But not resist whispers.
He could shatter armies
But not silence desire.

Isn’t it ironic?

That someone with Anointed hands could have an a Undisciplined heart

He knew the secret of his power—
But kept playing near the scissors.

And then came
Delilah.

Not loud.
Not violent.
Just persistent.

“What makes you strong?”

She asked sweetly,
Like temptation always does.

Three lies.
Three escapes.
Three warnings wrapped in mercy.

But when purpose grows comfortable with compromise,
It starts negotiating with danger.

“Tell me your secret…”

And this time—
He did.

Not because she was powerful.
But because he was tired of guarding what God gave him.

The hair fell.
The strength left.
The anointing lifted quietly—
And he did not even know.

That line frightens me.

“He did not know
The Lord had departed from him.”

Grinding in circles.
Eyes gone.
Strength reduced to memory.

The man who once carried gates
Now carried shame.

But hear this—
Failure is loud.
Mercy is louder.

Hair grows back.

Chains cannot choke destiny
When repentance breathes.

They brought him out to entertain enemies—
Mocked.
Displayed.
Reduced.

But they forgot—
God doesn’t need eyesight to restore vision.

“Lord, remember me.”

Not a long prayer.
Not polished.
Just desperate.

“Strengthen me…
Just once more.”

And heaven leaned in.

The pillars felt familiar in his hands.
Not because he was strong—
But because God was still God.

He pushed.

And the same man
Who fell because of compromise
Rose because of surrender.

He killed more in his death
Than in his life.

Because sometimes
God will use your breaking
To complete your calling.

Samson—
Not perfect.
Not disciplined.
Not cautious.

But chosen.

And that’s the gospel rhythm, isn’t it?

That God can use flawed vessels.
That strength without obedience is fragile.
That calling without character is dangerous.
But mercy?

Mercy is relentless.

So if you’ve been grinding in circles…
If your eyes feel shut by consequence…
If you think your best days were before the haircut—

Remember this:

Hair grows back.
Grace grows stronger.
And the God who called you
Is not intimidated by your collapse.

The man who carried gates
Teaches us this—

Your weakness is not the end of your story.
It might just be
Where surrender
Makes you stronger than ever before.

11/04/2026

“The Sweet Exhaustion”

They told her motherhood is joy—
Soft lullabies and a glowing boy,
Tiny fingers, powder scent,
Heaven wrapped in rent unpaid and sleep misspent.

They told her,
“You will bloom.”
They forgot to mention
You bloom in a messy room.

With dishes singing in the sink,
With eyes too tired to even blink,
With coffee cold for the third time—
Yet she calls this chaos divine.

Joy, they said.

Yes—
Joy that cries at 2 a.m.,
Joy that leaks through cotton hems,
Joy that kicks from the inside ribs,
Then grows up breaking household fibs.

Joy that paints on freshly cleaned walls,
Joy that stumbles and loudly falls,
Joy that asks a thousand “whys”
While she negotiates with swollen eyes.

Oh, the irony—
She has never been this tired,
Never this stretched,
Never this wired.

Her body a map of silent wars,
Her heart now walks on toddler floors.
Privacy? A myth she knew.
Bathroom doors? A breakthrough.

And yet—
Ask her if she’d trade it all.

Watch her laugh.
Watch her call
That tiny human, sticky and wild,
“My greatest blessing… my stubborn child.”

Because joy is not always glitter and grace.
Sometimes it’s mashed bananas on your face.
Sometimes it’s sacrifice dressed up as routine,
An unseen crown for an unseen queen.

Motherhood is ironic like that—
She loses herself,
Then finds herself back.

She gives up sleep,
Gives up space,
Gives up silence—
But gains a heartbeat with her face.

She becomes the villain in teenage eyes,
The hero in midnight cries.
She is blamed for storms she didn’t start,
Yet stitched into every broken heart.

They said it would be beautiful—
They just forgot to explain
That beauty sometimes limps through pain.

That joy can ache.
That love can drain.
That sunshine can fall like rain.

And still—
When small arms wrap around her waist,
When tiny lips her cheek have traced,
When a voice says, “Mum, stay near,”
The whole wide world grows strangely clear.

Yes, it’s ironic—
This joy that costs her everything.
This crown of chaos she gladly wears like a ring.

Motherhood—
The art of breaking softly apart
Just to grow another heart.

Exhausted.
Unseen.
Overflowing.

She calls it joy.

10/04/2026

“Compassion is Not Weakness”

Compassion is not weakness—
It is strength on its knees,
Listening before speaking,
Bending without breaking in the breeze.

In a world that rewards the loudest voice,
Compassion is a quieter choice.
It doesn’t trend,
It doesn’t flex,
It doesn’t come with special effects.

But it heals.

It heals the spaces
Between “me” and “you,”
Turns “What did you do?”
Into “What happened to you?”

Compassion is the pause
Before the post.
It is choosing understanding
When you could’ve hurt the most.

It is seeing anger
And asking about pain.
It is standing in the storm
Just to shield someone from rain.

We are quick with opinions,
Slow with grace.
Quick to judge a story
From a single face.

But you don’t know
What battle lives behind that smile.
You don’t know
Who hasn’t slept in a while.
You don’t know
How heavy silence can be—
So choose kindness intentionally.

Compassion is not pity.
It is presence.
It is saying, “I see you,”
Without turning someone
Into a lesson.

It is feeding dignity,
Not just hunger.
It is protecting softness
In a world growing younger
In age,
But older in rage.

Compassion says:
“I refuse to let cruelty
Become my language.”

It says:
“I will not let pain
Turn me savage.”

Because broken people
Break people—
But healed people
Heal people.

And sometimes
The miracle isn’t money.
It isn’t advice.
It isn’t being right.

Sometimes the miracle
Is sitting beside someone
In the dark
And not switching on a light—
Just reminding them
They are not alone in the night.

Compassion is courage.
It is love with skin on.
It is choosing to stay human
When everything feels wrong.

So before you scroll past,
Before you clap back,
Before you attack—
Ask yourself:

“Can I respond
With a heart intact?”

Because this world doesn’t need
More sharp replies.
It needs softer eyes.
It needs open hands.
It needs people who understand

That strength
Is not how hard you hit—
But how gently you hold
What’s fragile in it.

Let compassion be your aesthetic.
Let empathy be your brand.
Let kindness be the loudest thing
You let this world understand.

Compassion is not weakness.
It is power restrained.
It is love sustained.
It is humanity—
Unchained. 🤍

ProsebySteph

18/05/2026

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