Thursday picture prompt

        IT'S STILL 'I CALL ON!'

Hay Kween! You recall this game?
Remember how we play?
We would call one name,
So they can run away.
Let your Joy not be lame,
For these are modern days
The rules are no longer the the same
We developed new ways.
Somehow we didn't change the name,
It's still 'I call on!'

Like those kids on the street,
We all play this game.
Our knowledge about it
Might be lame.
When troubles calls on us,
If you hear, please run away,
Or you'll get lost
Or get broken a thousand way.
It's still 'I call on!'

People of nowadays,
Like loose tap, the run their mouth.
The earth now has plenty les' and gays,
Crime and sex is all our youth talk about.
There are more ritual bay
Than we last count.
Please if you can hear me
Run to Christ, he's the only way.
Out of this Destruction we've called on.
It's still 'I call on'
                             © C. Timothy Jr. 2017

             The old times

Who remembers when we bath in the rain together,
Or pick a rubber and paper to shoot at each other.
If you truly you were around during our days,
Then you'll know suwe, Tenten, and I-call-on were our grace.

Do you remember when pictures were always black and white,
When our parents listened to songs by Baristar or Ebenezer,
When we go out to play and end them with fights,
Or when our parents watched T.V and we serve as the remote and antenna.
And also listened to sings and ask us to rewind the tapes.

Oh,  how I wish those days where here again
Although they had their downside but I still love the games
I pray my memory of you will remain,
Cos those are the times in which I played.
And there my youth remains.
                                                   ©Vecxux

               IF ONLY

If only time were a willing servant
I would send her to replay my childhood tape
Before my very sight;
I would watch with gaeity and pride
Craving those moments
When our mirths filled the streets
As we bantered, and blabbed, and blabbered
Beguiled by puerile innocence;
_Boju-boju_ was a friend not to miss
Every twillight  in our neighbourhoods
After _okele_ had revived us
From school day's tiring tasks;
Saturdays were kite-flying moments
In the feverish hours
Our crafts dangling from electric wires
Some littering the roads
Upsetting passersby to curse
Under their breaths
Yet it was all fun to see those faces squeezed;
Often a mad man would come by
And trailing him from behind
We formed a taunting crowd;
Under the baobabs at nights
Old mama's tortoise tales filled our ears
Until sleep lured us to our beds
To commune with indigenes of dreamland

If only days were not swept into oblivion
I would gladly turn an actor again
Acting out those "daddy" roles;
In a dark room
Whilst our make-shift children feigned sleep
My finger would fiddle
With the underneath of a girl crush;
Sand and water were our sumptuous meals afterwards
Which we never really ate;
Those old moments were days of naivety
Yet worthwhile;
The world seemed to us a stage
And we never knew a second phase;
Our world now is no longer
Some illusory stage
But a war zone of hustle and bustle
Where the instinct for survival matters.
                                      ©Jones Phoenix

           This picture is a fool 

Rehoboth this picture is a fool,
It's a fool cause its makes me remember
Those days we turn erosion into pool,
Those days we carved our house from
The wood, 
Those days we shared the little we
have with our goons,
Those days we felt excited to share
our foods .
It makes me remember when our 
Knowledge was an infant and we acted 
Like a wise fool, 
Looking at those days, this picture
is a fool though it's cool. 

Rehoboth this picture is a fool,
It's a fool cause its makes me
Remember 'Yemisi' and 'Pelumi',
We acted daddy and mommy in an
Uncompleted building,
Yemisi and Pelumi fought for whom 
To be my wife for the day and
I smiled like a Snake,
During the process,
I make sure i put my pen on their papers  
Though it's not proper. 
But we are children we didn't know
We were playing with danger. 
Though my pen never drop inks on their papers
But we feel the pressure.

Rehoboth this picture is a fool
It's a fool cause its makes me 
Remember our house in number twenty five,
We will all trek in squad from our house down 
To the last number of the street and that was number two twenty five,
I remember a man called 'Baba' fifty five,
He never allowed us to play in front of 
His house and he gave birth to almost
Children of thirty five,
'Baba' fifty five died two thousands and five
 In a plane clash,
And he was seventy five.
Rest in peace 'Baba' fifty five. 
                                Afolabi onlyGodknows 

            Magical days

Under the behemoth tree
Which served as a meeting point.
We dodged our parents running out of the house.
Knowing that we'll be caned.
But the ecstatic joy knows no bound.

I remember,
When Bùkòlà struck us
With her dulcet voice singing a melodious song:
"B'òju b'òju o,
Òlòrò nbò..."
You'll see the member pacing about with their pànlà's legs
If you're being caught...

I remember,
When Adesola would say:
Let's art Òba ati olori.
This innocent drama took us five minutes to give everyone a role.
And we dramatised with such a brisk expertise.

I remember,
Under the behemoth tree,
On the branch of the tree
Adedomola would chant the eulogy of rough play:
"Baba mi k'ole bè,
Iya mi k'ole bè..."
Beautiful old days!

Under the behemoth tree,
We used sand artistically to build a hut-like house round our legs,
Screaming aloud: Ilè mì tobì.
If only you could see the way we used the plants of the tree to design ourselves as actors and actresses.
The beautiful days.

We moved on,
To the neighbourhood
Where iyà Enitàn would throw a lump of sugar,
So she could gather us.
We lost our brains while licking the sugar,
She intruded into our plans
Not knowing she wants to stop our disturbance in the community.
Oh!
Have you heard of aròdan?
What a conundrum played on us,
Every member would be sent roaming for one hour asking different people for arodan.
This journey scattered the communal process.
Later in the day,
We became tired.

I remember,
When iya agba would tell us beautiful tales of heroes and heroines such as: Òrùnmilà, Moremi and the like.
                                  ©LAWAL ADE 2017

Mighty inkers Thursday picture prompt
Signed by
Afolabi onlyGodknows