Danieltoyin's

The Master Knows

2009-08-06T17:43:00.000-07:00

The Master knows, it’s far from good
For blessed he-man to dwell alone
For his warp, He’ll give a woof
To make a whole, the masterpiece

Two hearts there are that owns a rib
From one it was taken, to the other given
The trees are named, the birds christened
Yet none has a heart that beat as his

Two hearts there are that beat as one
Each other seek, though yet unknown
Calm they'll stay, facing each day
With hope alive, they'll one day meet

When the time is ripe on Master’s clock
He’ll wake the straight and show the curvy
His face will lighten, his lips will mutter
Of a truth, this is a Wao! Man

Bro. with missing rip, think less He sees
Your growing needs she is called to meet
Wipe your sleepy eyes, here she comes
Hmm, now you know the Master knows

©Toyin Daniel (00:49, 07/08/09)

LANCASTER IN WINTER / Bony trees, white grass

2008-12-11T16:58:00.000-08:00

Just before the power of winter
Start to release its chilly breath
And drop its tears of ice pellets
It was dense thickness of green and fresh
Ornamental shrubs, beautiful roses
Climbers, flowering bulbs and flourishing branches
The blossoming abodes of fragile birds

But now all I see is this frame
Work of unseen abrasive hands:
Bony trees with dried skins
With hairs shed laying around its foot
Mere skeletons, delicate and frail
Snatched ornaments, wrinkled waist

Where flew the shines
Where are the wrinkles from?
Who painted it white, the green leaves?
What a slippery path, I walked here before!
Who coat this road with this tender glass?
Where are the ducks that glide in this pool?
All I now see is a carpet of ice.

But reflecting on this I ask myself
Is this barrenness, unfruitfulness or sterility?
No! Life is in frames, just like seasons
Live each day expecting the best
But whatever comes, still live the best
Just as I am with my hands in gloves
Shh! My warmer is at home, run I must.

©Olutoyin Ogunmola, 05/12/08
Friday, 5/12/08 : around 1PM. I started reflecting on the windy, cold winter of Lancaster as I go to Project Management class by Steve Baron, and during the break in the class I started to write this poem. I wrote the last two verses on Wednesday, 10 December.

Rose has thorns

2008-12-11T16:53:00.000-08:00

Rose is beautiful, and it also has thorns
Fire can cook, and it can also burn
Salt sweetens, and it can also spoil the broth
Friendship is sweet, and it can also hurt the heart

Rose is beautiful, but thrust not yourself
Against its plant, it tears your skin
Fire can cook, but put off your gas
With naked fire, it burns your house

Salt sweetens but never use a scoop
In a meal for one, your tongue will revolt
Friendship is sweet, but never misuse it
Nothing tears the heart, more than a friend in hurt

Toyin Daniel, 12/12/08, 00:50

So far in Lancaster

2008-10-19T14:59:00.000-07:00

“Oh finally”, my lips muttered as the announcement of our arrival at the Lancaster station broke my wondering thoughts. I was in a train from London thinking of the next one year in a ‘foreign land’. I thought of lecturers and lectures, porters and what my room would look like, the LUSU I have read about and students I was sure to meet. The permutations of these thoughts got me heated that I did not feel the cold outside until the train stopped and I came out pulling my bags behind me as a snail does its shell.

Behold how time flies; now it is my third eventful week in Lancaster University. What a mix of ‘genres’! I have seen the ‘black’, the ‘yellow’ and the ‘white’. I flew over the Mediterranean Sea before I got here but the diversity of Lancaster University makes me proud; fourteen countries represented in my class cannot all be wrong. I’m in a group with Paulami - an Indian, played with Cabrera - a Mexican, discussed with Hatoon - an Arabian, danced with Jiaxin - a Chinese, drank tea with Sarah - a British, visited Nkele – a Cameroonian, ate pizza with Pelumi – a Nigerian and checked the map for Cyprus and Mauritius with Rowin – a Mauritius. I cannot count them all; it is a big world of diversities. In all of these, as said by Rene Dubos, I have learnt that human diversity makes tolerance more than a virtue; it makes it a requirement for survival.

So also I have learnt that the only constant in life is change. Studying for Masters in Lancaster University is a different ball-game. Lancaster says, “read a mountain of books, dig out wealth of knowledge discussed by men, living and dead”. In two weeks of lecture I have been trained to skip and scan – great skills for intelligent knowledge searcher. The classrooms are world-class and the lecturers are dedicated researchers. “What a wonder of a library!”, said Emmanuel as I explained to him he could borrow a book without seeing the librarian, change his money from the ‘money changing machine’ and top-up his printing credit automatically with some coins in hand.

There are more to write as there are more to gain, I know time will tell of the volumes I will soon write of my experience in Lancaster. Lancaster University, here I come.

19Oct2008

His Rebuke ...

2008-10-08T06:24:00.000-07:00

As a guide for life
He gave His word
For us to beware
He proves He sees

Before we err
He sends his Spirit -
A gentle still voice
To warn ahead

But when we fail
By heeding to the flesh
He brings His rebuke
He has long withheld

Our hearts may ache
By His rod of rebuke
Painful to the bone
The fellowship impaired

But in His Rebuke
I see His love
That pains me more
For erring at all.

Lord give me grace
With you to walk
In Spirit every moment
The flesh subdued.

Toyin Daniel
08Oct2008
Reflecting in my room in Lancaster University.

SAFE THE TWO

2008-06-19T05:33:00.000-07:00

Hard to understand
The speech of love
Words fabricated
By hearts in glue
Expressions composed
By two minds as one
Written by hands
Soon to be in marriage glove
All can see
And all can read
But who can decode
The strings in cipher
Safe the two
The two in love

Olutoyin Daniel - 8:25am, October 10, 2006

This was written when I saw loaded words on the first inner page of a book a friend lent me, it must have been written there by her lover who might have given her the book. I tried to understand the expressions but they were just too ciphered. Something tells me this is nothing but real expressions of lovers that only the melted hearts could understand, I drew my system closer and I wrote this.

THE STRUGGLING BUTTERFLY

2007-12-12T08:54:00.000-08:00

THE STRUGGLING BUTTERFLY

Behold the fly, the strong and ardent
Fighting like warrior to pass through the glass
Struggling all day, exerting force
To do what it thought it had always done

Quite transparent the glass may be
Quite spotless the solid crystal
Light can pass through the colorless
But no! No! It is not the thinnest air

Who would help the helpless fly
To discover an opening on the other side
Should I whisper, it would not hear
Should I shout, I'll threaten it more
So is a man in his world unknown

Struggling, struggles, witty sidestep
To pass through the crystal of his life of war
Should a Master be found to whisper the Way.
Oh! What needless pain he'd dare to bear

Hmm,tired and worn, the fly layed
Wounded, exhausted and dying.
So it is of a Christless life
Who may labour in vain till death
---2002 ---

BUT WHY?

2007-12-12T06:17:00.000-08:00

"And one of the elders asked

What are these?

Whence came they?

To him who asked I muttered,

'Sir, Thou knowest' "

Just then one of the Elders addressed me:

"Who are these dressed in white robes,

and where did they come from?"
Taken aback, I said, "O Sir, I have no idea--but you must know." ...

Rev. 7:13-14

John was called to the valley of Patmos. He was taken on a tour to see what were supernatural to humans. Yet, while he was in a maze, his Guide asked him, 'Who are these? Whence came they?' I read that and I was amazed at the misery, then I wrote:

BUT WHY?

Who called up to see

Who then will know

What are these?

Whence came they?

Torrents of questions

My mind would ask

Pondering hours

My heart engaged

Over whys and whys of life

Why should he die, the little saint

Who knew no sin, save that of Adam

Nine months in belly, he killed no ant

Yet, at delivery for him to cry

Only to be lifted and christened a 'stillbirth'

Even when with the Master stay

Looking at me He asks me still

Who are these?

Whence came they?

What else could I say

Only, only Thou knowest

Process and People

2007-11-14T01:36:00.000-08:00

Process is great, if well defined
Written with skill, detailed and clear
Audited by the learned, words defined
But process is nothing, if people are lost

'Dependable' she aspire, her core value
Yves has written, Victor has checked
On paper it will remain, lest 'the people' know
What the essence is and what is for them to do

Excellence remains written
Except the mind is taught
Except the people are trained and motivated
To run and fly with it

All because I have ‘THE DREAM’

2007-01-22T06:49:00.000-08:00

I have a dream,
Yes, I have a dream.
To ride a car, so nice and cute
To glide on alloys and move on wheels

I have a dream,
Yes, I have a dream
To buy a land, and start to build
To walk on bricks I can call my own.

I have a dream,
Yes, I have a dream
To marry the lady, the gift of God
At home by five o clock, for a back to pat.

Reality they can be, yes even now
With these few zeros behind this “1”
Then, why do they still remain as dreams?
Hmm, It is just because I have THE DREAM

Yea THE DREAM, the superlative
To others a fuss, to me the crux
Beyond this borders to go for a fill
A fill of passion, the passion for knowledge

To throw the four-cornered cap
And shout He reigns, in the midst of colors
Of men and ladies, from far and near
Who has come to fill their tanks.

Now I know what other ones are - dreams
Should they challenge, they’ll be told what they are
And what they are likely to be till they serve their terms
All because I have THE DREAM

Olutoyin Daniel

Thinking of my dream ...

2007-01-22T06:45:00.000-08:00

Thinking of my dream on my sofa ...

In my minds as I sat down on my sofa, I think of my dream and what I need, the thoughts well up in streams as I type them on the keyboard. Not many men have treasure in inheritance, not many had merchandise passed to them from men of yore. Out of few who had this opportunity, only few doeth well all the rest squandered the sweat of their fathers like fool men of Babylon.

I have a dream so deep and high, that two and a half years of work has been for this goal. My goal, to go abroad for knowledge so lacking, to mix with men and share in knowledge, to come back home endowed with wealth of experience, to leverage on this knowledge to meet the need of men, to get some golden coin in exchange for my products, this to buy the burger and Ankara for my neck, to serve my God and help others that are less privileged.

I have been laboring for these two and a half years to save for my journey. The richest men in Babylon had suggested 10 % for a man who wants to build wealth in life, but I had laboured to save 37% of my income for this dream. Youthful days pose demands of pleasure, this I could not afford my yearning passion. Men had wondered why I smile when I could not ride on adorned camels like my friends in the city. Sometimes, when I envied the rides of my fellows I get consoled by the sweetness of my vision.

I know the rich had learnt never to throw away, they know the value of money, even more than the poor, may be that is why they become richer than the ‘pooring’ folks. To an investment that’ll yield 200% a man will invest, but who can see the great enterprise in a boy in search for knowledge. Knowledge he hopes to resell in weights of diamonds. Should I stop eating till the month of September when the caravan is due to move, I cannot save enough from my labour to meet the demand of the Rabbi of Bradford. I need a miracle, I need a help. I need someone, but better I need an idea.

Should my father have a land I can sell, I would have. Should my mother have gold in a can, the lid would have been lifted for a treasure to sell. But now I know the only source is God, the only source is me. Who can help, can the reader? But who will help, will the reader?

Give me your idea if not your cash, feel what I feel, feel my heart. I yearn not to leave this land like my fellow youths, just for ‘greener pasture’ that is just an illusion, I leave not for erotic hope of going to rake gold on the streets and return with many camels and rings in ear as though jewels are for men. But I long to have what the expatriates on our land have that makes them god of the CEOs, what makes Japan a nation from the rear to the fore, what is changing China, India and Indonesia, knowledge.

Though reared like a slave, I know I have the heart of a prince. I wait not for the bags of coins to be handed over to me before I start, not for merchandise of others to be turned to me, but I believe in the drops of coins that have hitherto made this half-filled cup. I need a little lift, just a little aid, just a help from a friend, just sacrifice from a touched heart. Just as I have given to others behind me not minding the needs of my life. But I know the God of luck, who I have learnt mostly rewards the working arms will favour me, I know the God of compassion who I have learnt gives liberally to those who also give compassion to others will remember to favour me and send help from his hill of help.

If the reader has a farm I can plow to meet the target before the month of September that the caravan will pass, I will gladly plow, if it is baking I have no skill of, I can lay down my willingness to learn. My ability to sleep few for week and still retain my soundness is a promise to work in master’s bakery. If any of my coins can do the work to bring more with guarantee, this I can readily send.

Dear reader, I know you have an idea; you might even have a coin for me. My youthful heart taught by the wisdom of the old will rejoice and my memory of youth will retain thy gesture. Thy rose gift I shall use well and I know its fragrance shall forever remain in your hands that give it.

Though now is service of slavery, I vow to work harder and smarter, in my work is embedded the work of prayer. I’ll work till my slavery is ransomed and I partner with richest man in Babylon or he that strives to be one. I am not ashamed of my torn garment; this tray of goods is not of lesser dignity because it sits on the head of a dignified heart. This sky is surely loaded, I am sure I will surely make it. There is dignity in labour, and in this I have delighted myself. Sure, I will! Make it.

I saw a need ...

2006-05-30T02:16:00.000-07:00

Youthful exuberance was replacing strive for academic excellence in my town (Awe). The young girls I left in JSS 1 for University were with pregnancy. The young boys roam the streets at night. Results of various secondary school examination were becoming alarmingly poor. This spurred a passion in my heart to do my part. I developed programmes that could expose these youths to good models (like me) who once lived in the same town. I went to four Universities and one Polytechnic during my semester break to sell the vision to other university students who had one time or the other passed through Awe township. We discussed this menace with the king and one of the chiefs. To highlight the academic views of secondary school students in Awe, quetionnaires were printed, administered and analyzed. Aawe Excellence Club was formed and now, Awe Excellence Conference (a programme that features academic seminar, Questions and Answers, Career Counseling, etc) holds every year. The seeds are being sown and I believe that one day, the fruits will be uncoverable. I simply saw a need.

I've got a Story! Story! Part Two

2006-05-14T14:28:00.000-07:00

It was 2am, three months after the death and burial of Mrs. Adelakin. The wind had just finished blowing his whistling cold breeze as it opened the heavens for release of rain. As the rain hits the iron roofing sheets, it produced the ‘music’ no one would have cared to dance even if they were awake. No! Mr. Adelakin whose eyes, though red and sullen, was wide open, would not shake to the rhythm of the best drummer not to talk of the smattering sound of the rain on the roof. His mind was busy while his heart was heavy. As he raised his right arm to use his sleeve to clean the drops of tears from his right eye, a drop of cold water fell on his left arm. It was from a hole on the roof. He was shocked and he became conscious of been awake and lost in thought all through the night.
- “Oh no! This is a dream; I must wake up on time and wash my face with water. Then I will go and pray and fast that this dream will not come to pass.”
- “How will I raise these five children?”
- “Why is this happening to me?”
- “Oh, God! My God, what of my last born, Akin?”
Just as he turned to see the drops of water rolling on the wall from the hole in his roof, he saw Akin’s innocent body laid on the bed with his right hand on his mummy’s pillow. Drops rolled down his face at greater speed. He burst into tears.

The cock had crowed, the night had passed, the rain had stopped and the birds were singing. It was three days after he had agreed to leave his children. Dupe, being the only daughter of the five children, was dear to his father’s heart so much that every one called her daddy’s pet. Though Mr. Adelakin wouldn’t want any of his children to go and leave under another man’s roof, he had to release Dupe to go and stay with her uncle in Ilorin. He couldn’t put himself together to carry the load alone; pitiable poor bricklayer. What a way to start life; Akin had to go and stay with Late Mrs. Adelakin’s parents (Mama and Papa).

Papa was a no-nonsense, hardworking peasant farmer, 62 years old. His hands were callous by hard labour in his cassava farm in Gbadún and his yam farm in Òhòòho. Akin would later know what it means to stay with Mama, a strong but kind 59 years old woman. Mama was a trader with all her stocks of goods in a single old tray. Her tribal marks were already getting faded with her wrinkled face.

It was his first day in this new home, Akin fixed his eyes on the wall in a mixture of fear and amazement like a child looking up to his tall father. His eyes were on an agama lizard high up on the muddy lintel. Little did he know he would live the next seventeen years of his life in this muddy house. Mama noticed the amazement on his innocent face, with tears on her wrinkled cheek; she pressed the little Akin against her chest with her head bowed on him.

Now, that Akin is no more with dad and mum, the story begins …

I've got a story! Story!

2006-05-06T09:35:00.000-07:00

Akin lived in Aawe
In December 1982, Akinwumi was born to the family of Mr. Adelakin. Mrs. Adelakin was a principal in a secondary school in Oyo. Though she was richer than her husband who was a bricklayer at Bond Chemicals Ltd, she remained humble, gentle, caring, godly and hospitable to him and all students in her school, so much that all parents admired her for her skills at handling children. This family of five children was happy; the bills were paid on time, delicious meals were always on their table (in fact, the family had timetable for their meals), their clothing needs were always met, and construction work was been done on the site for their new house. Akin, being the last born, was always acting like the mummy’s pet. It was all fun.

It was a Wednesday, in July 11, 1984. The afternoon was bright and sultry; the morning drizzle had already been swallowed up by raging sun. Mrs. Adelakin, who was pregnant at this time, entered a taxi after celebrating the mid-term break with her family. She was going back to Oyo. The taxi had slowed down a bit since this pregnant woman stepped into it; even the birds of the town had wished her well, and all looked fine until a scream covered up the croaky noise of the rickety car on the “semi-tired” road. “Blood, blood, blood …”, that was a scream from the lady beside Mrs. Adelakin in the car. “This is a miscarriage”, a woman unconsciously muttered, “No, it can’t be; this pregnancy should be about four months old”. The blood was from Mrs. Adelakin’s body. She was rushed to the State Hospital in Oyo and the doctors and nurses did what they were trained to do.

Then it was Friday, two days after Mrs. Adelakin’s haemorrhage. What a day is this? Oritamerin market was deserted as market women would not shade their products, the roads to the farms lacked patronage as the talking drummers filed in the town center, playing their drums to say “Oju opo di, enu isa n saisan”, “iku, iku alumuntu”, "Omi gboro titi". The students arranged themselves like throngs of ants following the hooting ambulance, the only car on the road to Odo Oje Cemetery. The rest of the town followed the file soberly with eyes laced with balls of tears. Mrs. Adelakin’s body was lowered into the grave and each of the children, apart from Akinwumi - who was just one and a half years old- sprinkled dust on the coffin as it was the tradition. This they did in turn as the Baptist pastor recites “Eeru fun eeru, erupe fun erupe”. Million words of condolences were offered to the bereaved and everybody went back to his house. Iya Tisha, as Mrs. Adelakin was popularly called, was buried and then the story about Akin, the poor little boy, started.

Hmm, this story continues in Part 2, posted already in this blog on May, 2006. Go to read about his life, his suffering, his self esteem, his thought about life, his struggles, his attitudes to education, his trials, his triumphs, etc shall it unfolds. The story is exemplary, quite educative, motivating, god-centered, challenging, hope-inspiring and humorous. Don’t miss it; you may see your story in the life of Akin as you read along.

Common! Info is Power!

2006-05-03T03:02:00.000-07:00

I never knew it could be this simple. I have Internet access 24/7. I read my friends' blogs and add comments, always feel like having one but seem 'too busy' to ask or search for how.

I went, I saw, I heard and I acted. After the 180 degree programme organised by Deolu Akinyemi and Gbenga Sesan, I created this.

Just placing the ladder on the ground, watch out for the wall I'll lean it on. I'll place my right foot on the first rung soon.