Ink15 is a Creative Platform that encompasses all genres of writing and creative art (fashion, photography, painting, literature etc). Open your ink jars, allow your creativity to flow, to spill over into the pages of your thoughts, of your worlds...close your eyes, open your minds and imagine the impossible Ink15 — Imagine the Impossible
Do you see the harmonious congress of the palm trees Arranged in columns of green That stand on the shore of a now regressed sea, And wave at a nameless being – Who speaks not, yet teases and leaves no clue. Listen! You may catch the evening news Hidden deeply in the weather. Now or later, woman it doesn’t matter when you do Halt or haste, it doesn’t matter which you choose, For time hurries us forever.
She is but mellow; Soft like rose petals. In the Garden of Eden Lies the orchard of beauty. There, an apple of lust, I ate from my love. I know not which, For her beauty has blinded me. (C) Chukwudi Ezeamlukwuo Okoye Ink15 --- Imagine the impossible
I wonder in this hour about things...small neglible things like the shape of the water dripping from a lonesome fern, like the number of sands in my shoe, like the beauty of the fly trapped in the spider's web, like the little birds that wobble in their bones among the trees...I wonder about fate, about priviledges, about how it would have felt if I had a head start in this interesting journey called life. I think about that little soul I saw one night in the traffic, clothed in rags, eyes deep like the lekki oceans, singing softly her sad soronous songs. A child too, a child of two perhaps...lost in the music of her voice, oblivious of her fate, begging for alms for a mother who sat at a corner with another child in her arm, ready to fuck again and again to populate the world with many sweet little children who may know no love.
A serious look at our literary icons will reveal one distinct pattern, those are men and women that were discovered by the west. Achebe, Soyinka, Okigbo, Clark, Chimamanda and co were all recoginised first by the west before we all joined the band wagon of cheering fans. We have many great writers today that wallow in the jungle of obscurity, waiting for one white man to discover them like an Oil well in Egbema. How many world class writer have we discovered on our own. How many great scientists, engineers, philosophers, doctors, technicians, athletes, sportsmen etc have we groomed here in Nigeria. No! We are either waiting for the world to recognise them before we do, or like some of my brothers in Alaba and co we are busy waiting for them to release a record or publish one book so that we will pirate. We are majorly a people who are mentally lazy, who have lost the capacity to think, to envision and to appreciate hard work. We are busy waiting for new ideas from someone to plagiarise…thanks to lawlessness of the land, copyright is a word for those who have promises to keep.
Perfection is never achieved by praying and fasting or by wishful thing but by striving to live as perfect beings. Wherever you are, try and be a patriotic Nigerian. Keep your surroundings clean, speak up fiercely against injustice, tomorrow might be your turn. Do your own share perfectly…it might seen like a needle in a hay-sack but who can predict Tomorrow…Arab’s Spring started as a result of Bouazzi; a nonentity setting himself on fire…an event of no importance at the time. Please do not set yourself on fire, rather set your old habits ablaze…because if we should continue this way, who knows; one day Nigeria may become empty except for the rotting corpses of our failed aspirations as a Nation.
We circled the streets, looking for parties and prostitutes, Plundered the night – smelling of cigarettes and alcohol. Our drunken laughter rang loudly around us As we picked up a prostitute from the roadside. Who said, “A naira for a night, we are the best the city has to offer, A naira for a night, love cannot be any cheaper.”
“Tell me about yourself Linda. I want to know your story.” “You mean me?” she had replied, and turned slightly towards him with a perplexed look in her eyes; “Wetin you wan know? “Anything you can spare dear – how you came here? What you hope to achieve?” “Me. . .I come from Eket to Lagos. Me wan make money quick, send home to my family.” She had told him while lighting a cigarette. He remembered the silence that followed. A silence so deep, that it was loud and deafening, and dragged on for awhile. He recalled lying on the bed and contemplating what next to say to her. She appeared to him to be unaware of the dangerous path she was treading, almost impervious to it – almost. He recalled that the room was immediately besieged by white smoke from her cigarette which floated between the two of them, separating them into different eras, into different classes, into the exploiter and the exploited. He wanted to help her escape the life she was into. He still wanted to help her now. She stood then by the window for most of their conversation, looking into the night. She would occasionally draw at the cigarette with little care in the world, and puffed out the smoke with the same demeanour. “What are you thinking?” He remembered saying to her in a bid to breach the distance between them. “Me? Nothing oo, me just dey look outside.” “It’s beautiful ba?” She had shrugged and said nothing. The silence descended once more upon them then. It was thick like the nicotine-filled air around them. The room smelt of burnt tobacco. He remembered craving for a smoke, but he pushed the craving off his mind.
And thus here we part never returning And a thousand thoughts are through me running, From the tears to the words left unspoken, Of the raging storm that darkens my view; At that hour when all the heavens were blue
Imagine a world without distinctions. A world with no variation whatsoever; where A to Z fall within the same vowel and consonant sound - one figure of speech summed up into a singular alphabet - and all languages are but one word; Unus (Latin for One). Imagine a colourless world where everything appears like water - transparent and indistinguishable - slowly but steadily falling from the rock of creation into the river of unison. Imagine a world without white, without black, without race, tribes, gender, religious sects, countries and all other categorisations of Mankind. Imagine such a world; a world that can only take form for the briefest of moment - a flash of light in a distant galaxy - before disintegrating under the weight of its own monotony, unable to sustain or justify its existense because creation by its very nature is diversity. Creation is boundless, and so is life.