The Written

“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

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.)

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.”

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.