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Jovita Efehi Obadolagbonyi

Jovita Efehi Obadolagbonyi

Nationality: Nigeria
Email: jovitaefehi@gmail.com


Jovita Efehi Obadolagbonyi

Jovita Efehi Obadolagbonyi is a bilingual Author. He is the Author of the book Tales of An African Child. Legend of Idia: The call of the mask. The voice of the unseen. The New Nigeria and the boy. Codes of a successful life

He writes in English and Italian. He's one of the foremost African Author. He has written several books including fiction and poetry for Adult and children. His famous book that got him to the lime light are Tales of An African Child and legend of Idia: the call of the mask. Crusade at dawn and murders in St Anne’s 

Jovita Efehi Obadolagbonyi has bagged so many nominations including the Africa Youth Literary Excellence Award.  

Jovita Efehi Obadolagbonyi is a proven talent in story telling.




Upon the sun I gazed, a certain woeful day of mine
and by the potter’s design, I looked into her radiant face
long and deep and there pierced the apogee of a mongrel’s mind,
even its great trek, dastardly balancing as it went,
by inchmeal steps upon the equator’s brittle beam,
conversing singly, that---
`Probably there are droplets of rain capsuled
in the claws of drought and every famine secrets
within its bosom a ripe and heavy field;
Probably inside the parched earth, locked into
its pores, are rills, rivers, rivulets and streams
all playing the potter’s hide and seek--
Probably in profound heart-rending sadness,
groans beatifying joy,
Probably in forlorn fastening sorrow,
choruses a jolly hope,
and bubbling in mighty grief,
a babe’s gladness---
Probably in the jaws of excruciating regret,
fights, an instruction’s gift’
Probably in the loneliness of death,
abides a life’s wish,
and in the night sky, lurks sagging clouds,
dripping with rainbow light---
And probably, this earth is a big green crusty ball,
waiting to be peeled’
and the earth-children, gawking at time’s reeling yarn
from gaols of steel, await not a pitiful end,
but when the last man shall draw breath
to perform the ancient vow---
‘beckoning the great search come’
that all men paying heed, to this course, shall cleave’
But in the moment,
all things subsist to be bested in bonds,
longing to be redeemed’
and if there be but one willing to join in now,
in the potter’s game of hide and seek,
Probably then, all that peep out of the chaos
would be unraveled’
and from their primordial hiding,
finally, be freed.



Often, the manner of the cosmos must change,
Often the vicissitudes of a star’s spray must rain,
the animal-coated dwellers of the Universe
once more be eulogized and their affective deities,
cast a curious eye---
Often, the cacophony of the thirsty waterfall must crash,
the whistle of death, again, passing its shores,
the pounding thunder of horses’ charge, grow faint
and the peace-mongers hunger for holy war---
Often, must our vanity stir its awful head to
offer us a dance,
and how scarce the souls that turn to seek
rectitude’s morbid hand---
Yet the contention swings to infinity,
the valiant and chicken-hearted together fall and rise,
the Adamic orchestra chant away their descant,
the wheel of spirit and soul,
reeling away the treasures we hoisted to its mill,
the manna we let crawl from our knees,
the pellets of time we let die’
And we,
when the stage is bare and the curtains drawn,
appear as shifting motifs spread over a scarlet dusk’
a pathetic picture of shoulders drooped, eyes, sullen,
necks, thrown backwards and hearts broken--
but the lip swears by all things small and great,
that if by chance the hours run by again,
they’d grab it by the heel and to
vanity’s threshold run, for to seek out another dance,
and into her gaunt face again behold,
for the peace therein was a flood,
and amidst her iris rocked a sea of deep hypnotic grey,
that could steal any heart away’
Wherefore, we plead no remorse for falling
prey to her pretense’
and since like this lot, I am equally hapless
and pleasantly deluded, often must my head run away
to wander modest lands,
often must I forget the man,
as often does the man forget me---
But I’m always perplexed,
wondering how to reconcile the Deity in him
and the gullible sheep’
For in life or hereafter,
mortality and its shackles refrain us,
and in secret we know these bonds,
we know it to our shame’
hence, my anthem for this race goes thus;
‘still born are we all, still born we shall return,
to warm the earth, to keep her pulse breathing
and her pace in the Creator’s course’
But I prefer neither side nonetheless,
So, from this nameless pod,
I dissect my world,
and though it profits me little,
consider it forever, I must.



The campfire raised an ode,
and the moon hurried to the stage in a regalia
of soot, and his face smeared with silver dross’
I, who was no more than an idle spectator,
employed a heavy necklet, beaded with gentleness,
a wastefully faithful meekness,
and weighing down my shoulders,
were tablets of stone.
And when the time was ripe,
the sun looked under my eyes, hoping to find
per chance, the great ball of the Wild,
just to see if, in grace, these soulless forms
could outdo the human race
and in the cover of darkness,
their ritual rippled through the air,
the ground shivered under their effortless march,
but with me was no more the mettle to found any matter’
As with the call of every morn,
under my nose a tired breath escapes,
against my lip, a bitter prayer weaves its way
into my throat and pinned to its cleft is the sign
of an eternal curse’
Under my chin, hangs a banner professing
a panegyric to peace, a mockery of time
and a tribute to the dawn’
Upon my chest a quartet runs,
a parodic quartet, a quartet and a psalm,
and on my hardened nipples dangle
crabs, hard clay, and clams’
Upon my belly, the seed of woman swim,
gurgle and drown and by my piss is the caked
steaming desert cured of her barrenness;
On my thigh, a dead fox lays,
its red-red blood, running down to my feet
and encircling my ankle are copper, onyx, bdellium,
diamond, brass and steel’
On my blighted sole stays, a map,
a map of eight galaxies,
with a human hand showing their tracks,
But I rise to shake this all off for weariness,
And there is sinking mud pinning me fast
to the ground, but by the wetness of a ripe tear
I break from its hold’
I raise myself erect in relief, stagger
and sway to balance and lifting my hands to the clouds,
I pray earnestly for the apocalyptic rain to wash me
entirely clean’
I open my eyes, North-wise, making certain
I brush a star as I touch the sky,
Hoping that, just maybe,
the creator would laden upon me
some other burden;
that he would consider how I am made to
mother paradise so daunting.
Oh how, I’m certain he knows,
I would rather I died!



I became, overtime, accustomed to
another kind of bravery’
The kind that sits on sidelines,
shuffling uncanny imaginations,
the kind that incubates hope’s commodity
as it waits on the shimmer of a silver day
and the wistful tar blackness of night,
for reasons entirely unknown to reason’
The kind that pins its tent upon the bridge
joining fear and faith, that one could call the
‘Quasi-valiant’ or ‘the Quasi-unafraid’,
but something of that matter, still;
But on a certain day,
even the sun all of a sudden went an unusual path,
hiding its rays; running away;
So I waited for the moon to do me the half-gain
of a glimmer of light,
and at about midnight, she came,
ever pearlescent with a chaste untouchable sermon,
solemn, yet almost vain I reckoned,
and shy as the grave.
Still, she travelled on and never returned,
leaving me in the company, yet again,
of a vast stridulating nothingness.
How could I, by the gallant heavens,
not be crossed with this fate?!
Then., a raging turmoil, a senseless resistance
unsettled me; an unnerving sickness;
an arousing belly-deep disgust
that brewed a maddening fury’
and in a carefree heartbeat,
I picked up my feet and ran twelve miles,
till I came about my unmoving home,
but even there, she appeared surreal,
never landing on her feet, floating over a swamp,
fading into the wave of haze and heat and glowing again,
caressing the tides, bidding me come nearer,
heralding the elements,
melting away my heart and my eyes.
Now, this bliss, I promised,
I would never ever let slip away.
But as the instance of a fork of lightening hitting the earth,
A reverberation sounded suddenly;
a bombinating here and there,
my soul jumping back in me;
a flutter of sad lashes,
my eyes opening to a new mourning.
Yes, this must be a peculiar sort of bravery’
That I could turn away again,
and spring awake to her crushing absence.
To this plastic face that darkens every day.



For the many times the hush coursed through me,
I fell’
For the numberless times the pang bore into me,
I groaned, I wondered,
I fell.
For the innumerable times I felt it all at once like a surge,
my eyes watered, I moaned, I mumbled a lament,
I fell.
In these timeless times, there was a bridge in sight,
of papyrus and straw and majestic candles lit;
and upon it,
a procession of inanimate beings,
tottering their heads,
flexing their power,
resounding a heart-warming dactyl,
reckoning they were alive,
and that was their unsurmountable power.
For the many times I saw this,
a silence spilled over me,
I staggered, I muttered a prayer,
I fell.
For the many times the summon announced itself,
A tear warmed my cheek, I rebuked it,
I fell.
Yes, the summon was mine,
of this laughter amongst friends,
when yet in me, death’s hold was chief,
Of this falseness it, showed me,
it slew me, these visions in my head.
But I must come alive now
and weigh my heart’
I must flee this falseness before the dark
comes again to chide away;
I must to Heaven go, to plead another bargain;
for any burden, lighter, than this pernicious,
subtle decay.
That I may be emboldened to turn again
to the one that makes me whole.
To the only one that enables me forget
I’m not.

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