THE FOREST COULD NOT SWALLOW THE SUN (A Companion to "The Forest of Stolen Dawns")

 

The Forest Could Not Swallow the Sun 

The forest unclenched its ancient hand today,

Releasing the dawn it could not keep away.

The path found again each forgotten name,

And morning returned wrapped in freedom's flame.

The ìrókò lifted its weather-beaten head,

No longer counting the tears the dark had shed.

Its roots drank hope from the generous earth,

Then sang of homecoming and radiant birth.

The òrò tree whispered to leaves overhead,

"The child is alive; let sorrow be dead."

The baobab answered with echoes that rolled,

"No night can imprison the sunrise in gold." 

For sixty long mornings the pathways grew cold,

While silence traded in stories untold.

Yet every footprint remembered its way,

Awaiting the laughter that blossoms today.

The wind tied the gángan across its broad chest,

And carried good tidings from east unto west.

The dùndún awakened the valleys once more,

Till joy overflowed from each doorway and door. 

The chalk found again the embrace of the board,

As learning returned with its plentiful hoard.

The school bell scattered bright birds through the air, 

Their songs sewing hope into every prayer.

Our teachers returned like the silk-cotton tree,

Still sheltering dreams with enduring decree 

Though tempests had wrestled their branches with pain,

Their wisdom flowed back like the life-giving rain.

Our children came home with the sunrise aglow,

Their smiles made the weary old river to flow.

The dust kissed their sandals with jubilant grace,

As every compound embraced every face.

Olódùmarè heard what the night could not hide, 

He walked with our hope as its steadfast guide.

The ancestors cleared every hidden trail,

So courage would blossom where terrors grew pale.

We honour the hunters who read every tree,

Whose eyes knew the language no coward could see.

The vigilant watchmen who challenged the night,

Till fear dropped its spear at the coming of light. 

We honour each mother whose tears became streams,

Whose prayers watered forests and nurtured our dreams.

Each father whose silence stood firmer than stone,

Refusing to leave any child alone. 

We honour all voices that would not be still, 

Whose courage stood taller than terror's will.

The hands that united when darkness drew near,

Transforming our trembling to triumph and cheer. 

Oriire, arise like the dawn after rain, 

Your harvest has conquered the season of pain.

Let every veranda and marketplace sing, 

For hope has returned with the wings of the spring. 

Let every bàtá awaken the plain, 

Let every agidigbo answer again.

Let talking drums carry one message afar,

"No forest can swallow the morning star." 

The earth keeps a memory deeper than fear,

It summons lost footsteps year after year.

The dawn may be stolen for one mournful span, 

But never forever, such power crowns no man.

So let every child lift tomorrow on high, 

Like eagles that challenge the breadth of the sky.

For the forest has learnt what all ages have sung,

No darkness can swallow the rising sun. 

@Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Saturday 11th July, 2026

Ejigbo Lagos, Nigeria. 

02:55:00am (WAT).

Reflection:

The Forest Could Not Swallow the Sun emerged from a place where relief embraced remembrance. It is a companion to my earlier poem, The Forest of Stolen Dawns, which was written while forty-five innocent schoolchildren and their teachers from Oriire, Oyo State, languished in captivity. That earlier work gave voice to a nation's anguish, to the silence that settled over classrooms, to the unanswered questions of parents, and to the fear that every sunrise might arrive without those children. This poem, however, is the song that follows the storm—the triumphant return of dawn after a long night of waiting.

The rescue of the abductees was more than a security success; it was the restoration of hope, the reaffirmation of our shared humanity, and a reminder that the collective conscience of a people can never be held hostage. It is a tribute to the resilience of the rescued children and their teachers, the unwavering faith of their families, the dedication of security personnel, local vigilantes, traditional rulers, community leaders, civil society organisations, and every Nigerian whose prayers, advocacy, vigilance and refusal to remain silent helped sustain hope throughout those painful weeks.

In crafting this poem, I deliberately turned away from borrowed imagery and sought inspiration from the living soul of Yorubaland. The forest, the dawn, the ìrókò, the baobab, the talking drums, the red earth, ancestral pathways, and the eternal presence of Olódùmarè are not merely decorative symbols; they are living witnesses in our cultural memory. Within Yoruba cosmology, nature is never silent. Trees remember. Rivers carry stories. The wind bears both lamentation and praise. The earth preserves footprints long after travellers have departed. Through these indigenous images, I sought to tell this story in a language that belongs to the land where it unfolded.

Yet this poem is not merely a celebration of a happy ending. It is also an invitation to national reflection. Every child deserves to walk to school without fear. Every teacher deserves to shape young minds without becoming a victim of violence. Every classroom should remain a sanctuary of learning rather than a place haunted by the possibility of abduction. Our rejoicing must therefore strengthen, rather than weaken, our collective resolve to protect education, defend human dignity, and ensure that no family is forced to endure such an ordeal again.

Ultimately, The Forest Could Not Swallow the Sun is a testament to an enduring truth: darkness may delay the morning, but it cannot abolish the dawn. Fear may stalk the forest, but it cannot devour the future. As long as courage walks beside compassion, justice follows perseverance, and hope refuses to surrender, the sun will always find its way back to the horizon.

@Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Poet | Researcher | Human Rights Advocate | Advocacy Coordinator, Unchained Vibes Africa (UVA)

THE FOREST OF STOLEN DAWNS (For Chibok, Dapchi, Kankara, Jangebe, Kuriga, Oriire, and every child whose name became a headline).

The Forest of Stolen Dawns

The forests have learned our children's names, 

And whisper them low to the moonlit sky, 

Each stolen dawn feeds their crimson flames,

While mothers teach wounded stars to cry.

The wind drags grief through the fields of Baga, 

Where ashes still bloom on a blood-soaked plain, 

The earth wears scars like a shattered calabash, 

And harvests sorrow instead of grain.

Chibok still waits by a rusted gate, 

Where silence kneels in a tattered gown, 

The years march past, but they hesitate, 

Afraid to tell who has not come down.

Dapchi still sings through a broken choir, 

Its echoes trapped in a cage of pain, 

While Leah remains like an altar fire, 

Refusing to bow to the storm and chain.

Kankara dreams of abandoned books, 

Whose pages flutter like wounded doves, 

The classrooms stare with hollow looks, 

Bereft of the laughter a nation loves.

Jangebe weeps through the harmattan dust, 

As footprints vanish where children ran, 

The sky hangs low with betrayed trust, 

Like a torn-out map in a trembling hand.

Kuriga counts every absent chair, 

As daylight drowns in a sea of fears, 

The blackboard gathers a coat of despair, 

And writes its lessons in parents' tears.

Oriire woke to a predator's song, 

When darkness feasted on tender light, 

The roads stood mute as the night grew long, 

And swallowed innocence whole from sight.

Some captives returned in coffins of pain, 

Though ransoms were paid with desperate hands, 

Their names became echoes lost in the rain, 

While grief built kingdoms across the lands.

Some daughters returned with shattered wings, 

Their laughter buried beneath the shame, 

The night had stolen too many things, 

And left deep wounds without a name.

Some fathers were slaughtered after release, 

Some mothers were silenced beside the way, 

The merchants of terror denied them peace, 

And traded in death as a daily pay.

Some soldiers fell where the ambush lay, 

Their uniforms stained by a crimson flood, 

Some vigilantes were swept away, 

Defending their homes with their final blood.

The highways wear funeral robes of dust, 

The farmlands blossom with graves instead, 

Even the rivers have learned distrust, 

For too many dreams have floated dead.

Fifty attacks in a single week, 

Fifty fresh wounds on the nation's face, 

Yet power grows eloquent when the weak 

Are left to perish without a trace.

The forests breed merchants of human pain, 

Who traffic in terror and ransom gold, 

They water their kingdoms with grief and gain, 

While villages shiver in fear and cold.

What began as bullets soon became trade, 

A marketplace fed by despair and dread, 

Where human lives are appraised and weighed, 

And hope is auctioned to ransom the dead.

The brokers gather where shadows meet, 

Some dressed in turbans, some draped in ties, 

They profit while victims retreat, 

And feast where a wounded nation cries.

The jackals wear robes of respectability, 

And speak of virtue by day and night, 

Yet somewhere beneath their civility, 

The scent of betrayal escapes their sight.

The vultures circling are dressed as kings, 

With polished smiles and immaculate speech, 

They campaign on hope with borrowed wings, 

Then govern beyond the people's reach.

They build their castles from public tears, 

And mortar the walls with neglected cries, 

While citizens stagger through haunted years, 

Beneath a republic of alibis.

A farmer now plants beneath armed skies, 

Unsure if his crop or life will fall, 

The soil drinks blood where the seedling lies, 

And death keeps watch at the harvest call.

The mothers have mastered the art of prayer, 

Their voices worn thin by the weight of grief, 

Each dawn they search for their children there, 

Like sailors pursuing a vanished reef.

Owo remembers the Sunday bell, 

That rang through worship and ended in flame, 

Kaduna still hears the iron yell, 

Of a train attack history cannot tame.

Plateau still gathers her shattered bones, 

While Benue buries another dream, 

The nation is stitched with mourning tones, 

And rivers of anguish that never redeem.

Yet louder than gunfire, louder than fear, 

The cry of the captives still rends the air, 

A chorus the powerful refuse to hear, 

Though its wounds stain every public square.

Bring back our children from forest and cave, 

From camps where nightmares patrol the night, 

For no nation deserves to be brave, 

While abandoning innocence to its plight.

Bring back our children from shadow and chain, 

From pathways where hope was brutally torn, 

For every child rescued from terror's reign 

Returns to the world as a new-born dawn.

And when history gathers these broken years, 

To judge what was lost and who looked away, 

It shall weigh not speeches, nor titles, nor cheers, 

But the children we failed to bring home one day.

Until then, the forests will carry their names, 

And scatter them wide through the smoke-filled air, 

Until then, the mountain remains in flames, 

And the world must know there is fire there.

@Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Thursday 18th June 2026

2:52:00am

Ejigbo, Lagos Nigeria.

REFLECTION:

The Forest of Stolen Dawns is yet again a poetic response to the persistent insecurity, terrorism, banditry, mass abductions, and violence that have scarred Nigeria over the past decade. This poem draws inspiration from real events, including the Chibok, Dapchi, Kankara, Jangebe, Kuriga, and Oriire kidnappings, as well as countless attacks on communities, schools, places of worship, security personnel, and innocent citizens whose stories rarely make international headlines.

The title itself is symbolic. A forest traditionally evokes mystery, danger, and concealment, while dawn represents hope, innocence, renewal, and the promise of a new day. By describing these dawns as "stolen," the poem mourns the theft of childhoods, dreams, futures, and lives by forces of terror and indifference.

This poem employs extended metaphors, personification, symbolism, and recurring natural imagery, forests, rivers, mountains, flames, vultures, dust, and dawns to transform statistics and news headlines into a human story of grief, resilience, and collective responsibility. The forest becomes both a physical and psychological landscape where fear thrives, while the mountain on fire symbolizes a nation confronting a crisis too grave to ignore.

My goal is not merely an indictment of armed groups who perpetrate violence. But also a reflection on systemic failures, political indifference, corruption, profiteering, and the normalization of suffering. I employed this poem to interrogate the conditions that allow insecurity to flourish in our country, and asks difficult questions about leadership, accountability, and citizenship.

Above all, this poem is dedicated to all the victims, the children who never returned home, the families who continue to wait, the survivors carrying invisible wounds, the farmers displaced from their ancestral lands, the security personnel who paid the ultimate sacrifice, and every citizen whose life has been altered by violence.

I pray their stories never be forgotten 🙏

©Prince Adeola Goloba2026

There is Fire on the Mountain

THERE IS FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN

There is fire on the mountain, hear the warning drum's vibration,

A storm is brewing softly through the veins of every nation.

The vultures draw their circles in the twilight's crimson light,

While brothers turn on brothers in a tragic, senseless fight.

The map was drawn by strangers with a ruler cold and thin,

Yet now we guard the fences as though they grew beneath our skin.

Berlin's ghost still whispers through the corridors of pain,

Sowing seeds of separation in the fertile fields again.

The baobab stands weeping where the rivers used to sing,

Watching sons of one inheritance forget their common spring.

From Lagos to Johannesburg, from Cairo to Cape Town,

The crown of African brotherhood is slipping to the ground.

Who taught the lion's children they were strangers in the den?

Who taught the eagle's offspring not to trust their nest again?

The chains that once were iron have become a state of mind,

Invisible yet powerful enough to make us blind.

The fire is not accidental, it was kindled long ago,

By hands that understood the art of making hatred grow.

They planted walls where pathways stood and watched suspicion bloom,

Transforming fields of promise into gardens filled with gloom.

Now passports weigh much heavier than ancestry and blood,

As kinship drowns beneath the tide like villages in flood.

The Niger greets the Orange, and the Congo greets the Nile,

Yet politicians trade our peace for profit all the while.

Africa, awaken from the slumber of deceit,

The enemy is not the one you happen to meet.

The stranger that you curse today may share your ancient song,

May carry fragments of your past that with your roots belong.

No African is foreign where African hearts reside,

The continent is not a cage where unity has died.

Let Ubuntu be the lantern when the clouds obscure the way,

Let solidarity become the dawn that births a brighter day.

For every tongue and tribe upon this sacred, ancient land,

Was fashioned by the same Creator's wise and loving hand.

The mountains may be burning and the skies may darkly cry,

But hope remains a phoenix that no hatred can deny.

So let the drums of unity resound from shore to shore,

And let the walls of Afrophobia divide our hearts no more.

For Africa is one house beneath the heavens wide and free,

One heartbeat, one inheritance, one shared destiny.

Wake up, Africa, wake up before the flames consume the plain,

For divided we are wounded, but united we shall reign.

Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Wednesday 17th June 2026 - 3:24am

Ejigbo, Lagos Nigeria. 

#SayNoToXenophobia

#ICondemnAfrophobia

#OneAfricaOnePeople

#HomeBeyondBorders

#AfricanUnity

Statement and Reflection

THERE IS FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN

"There Is Fire on the Mountain" is a poetic response to the growing wave of xenophobia, Afrophobia, and social divisions affecting parts of the African continent. This work draws inspiration from contemporary events and the historical realities that continue to shape relationships among African peoples. Through vivid imagery, symbolism, and rhythmic language, the poem examines how colonial-era divisions have evolved into modern forms of exclusion and hostility among people who share a common ancestry, history, and destiny.

The recurring image of fire serves as both a warning and a metaphor. It symbolizes the spread of fear, hatred, misinformation, and intolerance that threaten the ideals of Pan-African unity. The poem references the lingering shadow of the 1884–1885 Berlin Conference, where colonial powers partitioned Africa without regard for indigenous identities, cultures, and communities. While those borders remain, the poem challenges Africans to reject the psychological and social barriers that continue to separate them.

Throughout this work, nature imagery including rivers, mountains, baobab trees, lions, and eagles is employed to represent Africa's interconnectedness and shared heritage. These symbols remind us that before artificial borders, African communities were linked through culture, trade, kinship, migration, and mutual coexistence. The poem questions the notion of "foreignness" among Africans and calls for a renewed commitment to Ubuntu, solidarity, and collective progress.

As a writer and advocate, my intention is not merely to criticize acts of xenophobia but to encourage reflection on their deeper causes and consequences. The poem seeks to provoke dialogue about identity, belonging, and the future of African unity. It asks readers to consider whether hostility toward fellow Africans serves the interests of the continent or perpetuates historical patterns of division.

Ultimately, "There Is Fire on the Mountain" is both a warning and a call to action. It urges Africans everywhere to recognize their shared humanity, reject narratives of exclusion, and work collectively toward a continent where dignity, freedom, and mutual respect transcend borders. In a time when division threatens to weaken our common aspirations, the poem stands as an appeal for unity, empathy, and the realization of a truly interconnected Africa.

"No African is an alien on African soil."

SHALL WE LET GO? - II (To Xeno, the Son of Phobia)

 (Reloaded Version)

"This business of burning human beings with napalm, of filling our nation's homes with orphans and widows, of injecting poisonous drugs of hate in to the veins of peoples normally humane, of sending men home from dark and bloody battlefields physically handicapped and psychologically deranged, cannot be reconciled with wisdom, justice and love. A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death...We will never have peace in the world until men everywhere recognize that ends are not cut off from means, because the means represent the ideal in the making, and the end in process. Ultimately, you can't reach good ends through evil means, because the means represent the seed and the end represents the tree...The old law of an eye for an eye leaves everybody blind. It is immoral because it seeks to humiliate the opponent rather than win his understanding. It seeks to annihilate rather than to convert. Violence is immoral because it thrives on hatred rather than love. It destroys community and makes brotherhood impossible. It leaves society in monologue rather than dialogue.Violence ends by defeating itself. It creates bitterness in the survivors and brutality in the destroyers...When evil men plot, good men must plan. When evil men burn and bomb, good men must build and bind. When evil men shout ugly words of hatred, good men must commit themselves to the glories of love.Where evil men would seek to perpetuate an unjust status quo, good men must seek to bring into being a real order of justice." ---Martin Luther King, Jr.

"Our limbs now fight to narrowly survive 

these morbid characters of XENO, the son of PHOBIA..."

(Photo Credit: Jon Lynton David Hrusa)

This poem is dedicated to all the victims of xenophobic attacks in South Africa; the injured, the dead, and the fortunate survivors, young and old, including the physically challenged, whose pain must never be reduced to statistics or forgotten in passing headlines.

Mother AFRICA… there is FIRE on the mountain!

Not the sacred FIRE of renewal,

But a ravenous tongue of RAGE 

Licking the bones of her own children.

We are no longer at ease with one another.

The drumbeat of brotherhood has faltered,

Replaced by the hollow clang

Of suspicion and sharpened breath.

Shall we let go?

Fold our arms into silence

And watch the sky cave in on us,

While the centre BLEEDS into dust?

Must we rise at dawn,

Ride the famished wings of time,

To mend what we have broken...

Or remain locked in this suffocating chamber

Where humanity gasps for air?

We stagger...broken but breathing,

Gathering fragments of a destiny we ourselves shattered...

Like potters of ruin,

We cradle cracked vessels

And call them survival.

Our limbs, withered testimonies,

Tremble between memory and mourning.

We breathe, yes!

But not to poison the sacred air

That once carried songs of unity.

Yet we have forgotten how to heal.

From bones bent by greed and governance gone blind,

We have forged weapons of division,

Sharpened by decades of arrogance,

Fed by the rot of misrule.

Their indifference, cold and calculated,

Paved our streets with hunger,

Draped our nights in poverty,

And taught our children the language of HATRED.

And now,

From this wounded womb of neglect,

Is born XENO, the son of PHOBIA,

Baptized in FIRE,

Feasting on flesh that mirrors his own.

Were our hearts always this hardened?

Did we not rise together once,

When healing knocked at our battered doors?

We stood as one

When the shadow of EBOLA darkened our skies...

Our collective will, a shield of defiance.

We shattered the chains of APARTHEID,

Thread by thread,

With the stubborn courage of hope.

We dared to dream beyond the verdicts

Of foreign prophets of doom,

Who scripted our end before our beginning.

But joy,

Ah, joy is a fragile bird!

It sings… then shatters mid-flight.

And now we crawl,

Limbs trembling beneath the weight of BETRAYAL,

As we flee from the very hands

That should have held us.

Oh Mother AFRICA...there is FIRE on the mountain!

Not from strangers,

But from the FURY of her own BLOOD.

We are no longer at ease with one another,

The mirror has become our ENEMY.

Shall we remain still...

Silent witnesses to our own undoing?

Or will we rise,

Before the ashes forget our names?

Must we awaken at dawn,

Ride time like a storm,

To rewrite this broken story...?

Or forever dwell in this room called HELL,

Where brother HUNTS brother,

And home becomes EXILE?

--- Prince Adeola Goloba

First writen: Tuesday April 28, 2015 - 3:11am,

Reloaded: Tuesday May 12, 2026 - 8:53am,

Ejigbo, Lagos Nigeria. 

Author’s Reflection:

“Shall We Let Go?” is a searing reflection on xenophobia as a tragic manifestation of internalized division, where Africans, shaped by the lingering shadows of colonialism and neocolonial manipulation, turn inherited wounds against one another in cycles of fear, blame, and violence. It exposes the painful irony of a continent that once stood united against oppression now fracturing from within, weakened by systemic failures, economic hardship, and distorted identities. In the spirit of Africa Day, this piece stands as both a mirror and a mandate: a mirror reflecting how far we have drifted from the ideals of unity, dignity, and the shared pains, sufferings, sacrifices, perseverance, resilience, and collective destiny exemplified by the legacies of our forebears; and a mandate calling us back to that higher consciousness. It reminds us that while our borders were imposed, the blood shed within them is ours to answer for, and that true liberation must move beyond political independence toward a deliberate reclamation of solidarity, humanity, and common purpose.

I wrote this poem from a place of deep anguish and urgency, troubled not only by the recurring violence against African migrants, but by the deafening silence that enables it. And that is the quiet complicity of our leadership, the indifference of our institutions, and the normalization of division among a people bound by history and struggle. Yet, beneath this grief lies an unshaken belief in Africa’s enduring strength and capacity for renewal. This is my offering to our collective conscience: a plea for remembrance, a call to unity, and a firm reminder that Africa cannot rise if she continues to war against herself, but can still heal, rebuild, and thrive if she rediscovers the power of brotherhood and shared destiny that bounded us together from the very beginning.

@Prince Adeola Goloba2026

Bello the Wire Wire

 "We must uproot all forms of corruption in our communities before our collective memories are completely erased "   - Prince Adeola Goloba 

Advanced Fees Fraud (AFF) Star 

In Ejigbo’s square the elders beat the talking drum,

Where old proverbs walk and restless rumours come,

A chief once rose, his promises climbing higher,

And the market named him Bello the wire wire.

He paved the air with roads that touched the sky,

While praise singers cheered as seasons passed by,

But when the rains returned and the gutters cried,

The earth asked quietly what the speeches supplied.

The palm tree knows the storm before branches shake,

The village hears footsteps before sleepers wake,

Soon whispers drifted softly through the shire,

Around the shadow of Bello the Wire Wire.

Some hunters chase lost coins where secrets hide,

Across silent banks where hidden fortunes slide,

Others guard the palace where powers conspire,

Watching the calabash pass from sire to sire.

Two sandals walk the land with justice in their fire,

One hunts the money the other questions the squire,

When drums of inquiry echoed through the shire,

They paused by the gate of Bello the Wire Wire.

“Bi a bá fi owo osi juwe ile baba eni,” elders say,

“The left hand that points home meets truth one day,

The tortoise may soar on feathers borrowed higher,

But rain knows the shell beneath borrowed attire.

The gutters stayed silent but the roads could speak,

Of budgets in agbada and foundations weak,

The talking drum murmured beside the fire,

About the fading echoes of Bello the Wire Wire.

A town forgets speeches carried by the wind,

But dust remembers footprints left behind,

The moon above Ejigbo listens from its spire,

To the lingering tale of Bello the Wire Wire.

Curse not the drummer who beats what roads require,

He only echoes the rhythm truth inspire,

When footprints fade too quickly on the wire,

The town will ask again for Bello the Wire Wire.

Let the talking drum awaken every ear,

A town that guards tomorrow must guard it clear,

When footprints vanish from the people’s fire,

The village will rise asking of Bello the Wire Wire.

- PrinceAdeolaGoloba,

Friday 6th March 2026,

Ejigbo, Lagos Nigeria, 

3:19:46am.

@Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

TRUTH BEFORE THRONE (Ode to My Beloved Kindred Spirits)

 

Disclaimer: I do not have the copyright to the photo. It is only used for illustrative purposes. No infringement is intended. 

I was born where ancient titles breathe,

Where dust remembers every name it weaves,

Two royal rivers meet within my frame,

Ejigbo, Isolo, blood and flame.

Yet, lineage alone cannot command,

The right to speak or shape the hour,

It is the vow to truth that steadies hand,

And grants the voice its moral power.

I watched this struggle from a patient height,

Where silence learns the measure of its weight,

Not from the drums of hurried claim or cheer,

Nor camps where factions sharpen hope and fear.

I seek no crown, I beat no partisan drum,

No banner stitched with borrowed grace,

I come as one who knows what must be done,

To heal the land before the face.

They call restraint a fearful pause,

Mistake stillness for retreat or loss,

But silence held with conscious care,

Is fire maturing in the air.

My loyalty is not to names that rise,

And fall with tides of sudden praise,

But to the sense that time itself refines,

And futures shaped beyond our days.

This conflict stretches past the will,

Of any single heart or claim,

It tests how memory learns to walk,

With present need and future aim.

Tradition is not costume worn,

Nor ritual emptied into show,

It is the breath of those long gone,

Still shaping how the living grow.

Yet, memory sealed against the now,

Will fracture under its own weight,

A past that will not speak with time,

Converts inheritance to fate.

The law stands firm as ordered frame,

To guard the fragile common good,

But law detached from daily life,

Becomes a truth half-understood.

In kingship all these tensions meet,

The court, the state, ancestral right,

Yet, people wake each morning still,

To live the outcome, not the fight.

Stability, once rooted deep,

Becomes a good the state protect,

For peace, though silent in its speech,

Is shattered by unmeasured acts.

Acceptance does not crown the law,

Yet holds the fragile ground in place,

And history reminds us still,

That crowns once lived resist erasure.

This is not counsel to ignore,

The wounds injustice leaves behind,

Let errors stand in honest light,

So clearer paths may yet be found.

But justice is not always served,

By pulling settled roots apart,

Sometimes restraint preserves the whole,

Where haste would tear the communal heart.

A people cannot truly thrive,

In endless trial of claim and name,

No future grows where conflict lives,

As permanent and daily flame.

I pass no sentence, I wield no sword,

I claim no wisdom set in stone,

But to offer thought as careful guide,

For service, not for rule alone.

The throne may gleam with ancient grace,

Yet, conscience outlives carved estate,

No crown alone secures a land,

It is the truth that seals its fate.

Isolo’s future will not turn

On who ascends or who must fall,

But how equity is lived in deed,

And justice answers freedom’s call.

In moments thick with dispute and pride,

The noblest path is rarely loud,

It walks with care, with measured stride,

And bows to wisdom, not the crowd.

May Isolo rise, reflective, whole,

May truth lead first, yet temper role,

May peace and justice share one soul,

Before the throne, let conscience rule.

ASEEEEEE...!!!

My Reflection:

Truth Before Throne (Ode to My Beloved Kindred Spirits)

Truth Before Throne was written as an ode not to power but to conscience, not to office but to the shared spirit of a people. It is addressed to my beloved kindred spirits, those who carry history not as burden but as responsibility, and who understand that truth must always arrive before authority if a community is to endure.

Though shaped by lineage, this poem is guided by restraint. It does not rise from rivalry or ambition but from the quiet obligation to think carefully in a moment of contention. I write neither as a claimant nor as a partisan but as one who believes that silence, when chosen deliberately, can be an act of care. In times when voices compete for dominance, reflection becomes a form of service.

This work stands at the crossroads of memory and time. It honours tradition as living inheritance while acknowledging that memory must speak with the present to remain whole. It respects law as the structure of order yet recognises that communities must live inside its outcomes long after judgments fade. Stability, though often unnoticed, is sacred ground, the soil upon which future generations stand.

Ultimately, this ode is not a verdict but an offering. It is a call to those bound by blood, history, and shared fate to remember that leadership is sustained by conscience, not conquest. Truth must always come before the throne, but truth, to remain worthy, must walk hand in hand with humility, restraint, unity, and the common good.

Prince Adeola Goloba

Lagos, Nigeria

Friday, 6 February 2026

3:26 a.m.

@Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Ink, Image, and Inheritance: Art as Memory, Witness, and the Making of Self

 

The Author as a Body of Art

This incredible creative caricature does not merely resemble me, it actually reads me. It reads my silences with the same attentiveness as my declarations. It stages a quiet but insistent argument about what it means to live as a thinking African in a world that often prefers spectacle to substance, noise to memory, and speed to meaning. At the centre stands a man formed by words long before he was shaped by institutions, a writer who began at fourteen not as an experimenter but as someone already aware that language could wound as much as it could liberate. The pen and the camera are not ornamental here; they are witnesses, bearing testimony to a life spent documenting what power attempts to erase and illuminating voices history habitually relegates to footnotes.

What radiates from the image is a tension deliberately embraced, royalty without arrogance and radicalism without chaos. Rooted in Ejigbo Awori soil and refined through the discipline of linguistics and literature, the figure stands at a crossroads where ancestry meets inquiry and heritage confronts injustice. The Awori dialect, the palace motifs, and the ancestral calm embedded in the image are not nostalgic gestures. They are intellectual positions. They insist that indigeneity is not intellectual poverty and that tradition, when interrogated rather than idolised, can serve as an instrument of justice rather than a refuge for silence.

From this grounding in identity and place emerges the body of work that surrounds the figure. The books stacked beneath him do more than announce authorship; they map a moral geography shaped by lived experience. ISA N WO RUU – The Boiling Cauldron is not a metaphor fashioned for effect but a condition lived daily. The boiling is social, political, emotional, and psychological, reflecting the unrest of women denied safety, children denied futures, elders denied dignity, and persons with disabilities denied visibility. In this visual narrative, poetry does not escape reality; it confronts it directly. Literature becomes civic labour, journalism evolves into cultural defence, and advocacy emerges as art sharpened by ethical responsibility.

It is this merging of identity, work, and purpose that gives the caricature its deepest resonance. The image refuses to compartmentalise the self. The artist does not retreat to make room for the activist, and the professional does not silence the poet. Instead, they coexist in productive and sometimes uncomfortable dialogue. This convergence mirrors my work with Voice of Awori and Unchained Vibes Africa, my long commitment to the local and international creative cum human rights communities that have shaped my journey the years, and my insistence through reportage, blogging, performance, and poetry that African narratives must be authored by Africans accountable first to their communities, not to applause or institutional convenience.

Seen this way, the caricature becomes more than representation; it becomes a point of reference. For critics, it offers cultural advocacy as practice rather than posture, and art as an ethical stance rather than ornament. For readers, it extends an invitation to read deeper, question harder, and listen more carefully to indigenous voices speaking in their own tongues and on their own terms. For me, it stands as a reminder that the work remains unfinished. The pen is still warm, the camera still searching, the cauldron still boiling, and the responsibility to memory, justice, truth, and the making of self remains urgent and non negotiable.

@Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Vow of the Unbroken Self

If my soul spoke in one paragraph, it would say: "I seek meaning, not performance. I value truth, dignity, and depth. I honour where I come from and where I am going. I love with intention, speak with care, and walk away without bitterness when alignment is absent." - Adeola

I swear by the ground that taught me my name,

and the breath that reminds me I’m still becoming flame.

I will not kneel where carelessness mangles my sound,

nor pour my whole spirit in cups not built to hold ground.

I walk with a compass hammered from truth,

I do not bow to noise or the hunger of youth.

Where clarity trembles and honesty’s shunned,

I pass like a river already well-run.

My word will be bone, not vapour or air,

my actions, drumbeats carefully announced everywhere.

I will not perfume a lie with my grace,

nor shrink my own standards to earn a place.

I choose depth like roots choose the dark of the soil,

not for ease or escape, but the strength born of toil.

What holds me is deeper than surface or gleam, 

because I was not designed for the shallow or thin.

I will wrestle injustice with clean, open hands,

light fires for warmth, not to scorch who I am.

Even in battle, my tenderness stays,

a heart turned to stone is a conquered place.

I love like a gate, not a net cast awide,

what enters must come with purpose and pride.

What leaves, I release without venom or chase,

true alignment has never required a race.

When loneliness knocks, I answer with calm,

not surrender disguised as the need to be held.

And when love arrives, it must stand aware,

knowing clearly the ground it steps on is rare.

I stand with my ancestors steady behind,

and my future awake in the edge of my sight.

I move without panic, without delay,

neither rushed by fear nor stalled by dismay.

This is my oath! Let the record be whole,

to remain unbroken where fragments are sold,

to walk fully formed, to love wide awake,

and leave every season with dignity safe.

@Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Thursday, January 1st, 2026

Ejigbo, Lagos

3:07:57 AM

                                  Statement & Reflections

"Vow of the Unbroken Self" is both a poem and a declaration! A conscious commitment to live with integrity, intentionality, and dignity. It reflects my journey as an Awori Yoruba writer and cultural advocate, rooted in ancestral wisdom and a desire to remain whole in a world that often values fragments over substance. Every image, from the earth beneath our feet to the flowing river and steadfast gate, symbolizes grounding, clarity, and the courage to stand aligned with one’s truth.

Writing this poem was an act of reflection and assertion. It emerged from examining the compromises we make in love, work, and life, and recognizing the quiet power of boundaries, discernment, and intentional action. I wrote it as a mirror, not only for myself, but for anyone seeking alignment between their inner values and the life they lead. It reminds me that real strength is calm, deliberate, and principled.

Ultimately, the poem is a bridge to my ancestors and a guide for my future. It honors the continuity of lineage, the responsibility of becoming, and the choice to remain unbroken. Through these lines, I affirm that dignity, clarity, and intentional love are not optional but essential. This work is my vow, my compass, and my invitation to others to walk awake, anew and whole. Again, this is my New Year Gift to the World, and it comes...straight from the heart❣️.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Sunset on the Sea

Sunset on the Sea - Oil on Canvas. Painting by: ©Prince Adeola Goloba (PG) 2025 

When the sun sinks crimson upon the sea, 
My heart remembers your fire in me.
I am a dreamer, yet never in vain,
I dream of the spark that still burns in my veins.

You lit up my soul with a radiant flame,
A light everlasting, beyond time’s name.
Before you vanish with your final kiss,

I wait by the tide, in sorrowful bliss.

The ocean keeps whispering echoes of you,
Its waves are the tears I no longer subdue.
Your shadow ascends where the skylarks fly,
Your song a lament that haunts the sky.

The dirge of your absence cuts deep, cuts wide,
It floods my spirit like an unbroken tide.
I grieve for the nights, for the moments we lost,
For love is a treasure, too precious the cost.

But solitude lingers a season, not all,
For love is immortal, it answers no fall.
Someday beyond where the starlight streams,
I’ll see you again in the land of dreams.

Our souls will be bound where forever resides,
Where memory lives and eternity hides.
No shadow, no silence, nor sorrow shall be,
Just endless love, like sunset on the sea.

My Reflection on "Sunset on the Sea" 

Sunset on the Sea was inspired by Céline Dion’s timeless ballad “My Heart Will Go On,” during a soul-stirring Sip & Paint with Vibes & Thrills session organized by my wonderful creative colleagues at Unchained Vibes Africa on Thursday September 25, 2025, in Magodo Estate GRA Phase 2. In that creative moment, the song awakened within me a rush of nostalgia, echoes of decades of heartbreak, the ache of love lost, and the tender beauty of memories that never fade.

The poem is not simply about grief, but about the endurance of love that is beyond separation. For me, the imagery of the sea and sunset reflects both the sorrow of farewell and the promise of eternal return. Like the sun that sets only to rise again, true love, once kindled, can never be extinguished by time, distance, or even death.

Every stanza carries the weight of longing. It is the fire that still burns, the tide that whispers memories, and the sky where the beloved soars. Yet, beneath the lamentation is also hope i. e a belief that love is immortal, and that one day, reunion awaits in the realm of dreams or eternity.

Sunset on the Sea is both elegy and celebration. It is a strong solemn lamentation for what was lost, and a sparkling hymn to what endures. This is my way of saying that though heartbreak may span decades, the memory of love, once felt deeply, becomes eternal light, like a sunset upon the sea, fading from view yet never truly gone.

©Prince Adeola Goloba 2025

When a Lantern Refuses to Dim: The Shonde Legacy of Service in Ejigbo Awori Lagos.

 Hon. Prince Tajudeen Adebola Shonde

 (Former Councillor representing Fadu Ward in the just concluded legislative council Ejigbo LCDA) 

 "Let your power be a lantern, not a chain; so when your season ends, the light remains in the lives you touched, not in the titles you wore.” — Prince Adeola Goloba

A kì í mọ̀kànjúwá kí ìlú máa bàjẹ́, ẹni tó bá mọ̀kànjúwá kò ní í jù ú lọ́wọ́ ilé ayé (He who serves self before the people will see his kingdom crumble; but the selfless leader leaves a name that outlives time). 

I speak today as a proud son of the soil, a voice from the lineage of Fadu Onimewon the Elejigbo Awori Family, custodians of Ejigbo’s heritage. I have watched this land grow, danced with its hopes, and wrestled with its pains. And in all my years of keen observation, few men have worn the garment of leadership with as much dignity as Hon. Prince Tajudeen Shonde after the successful and impactful tenure of Hon. Kehinde Bamigbetan (the former Executive Chairman, Ejigbo LCDA) who has left a remarkable legacy and impact on the lives of the people of Ejigbo Awori Lagos.

When power entered his hands, Shonde, just like Hon. Kehinde Bamigbetan did not chain us with oppression like the wild elephant that tramples its own forest. He became a lantern that illuminated our paths. Àgbà kì í wọ̀lú kó ṣ’ẹ́kùn lọ́wọ́, ẹni tí ó bá jẹ́ kó rí jẹ́kí òkè ó, kò ní gbàgbé nígbà tí ìsàlẹ̀ yóò bà jé (A true elder enters a land to stop its tears; a just leader lifts the lowly, never forgetting their struggles). 

The Birth of a Vision

Recently, as I strolled past Ejigbo High School, my feet carried me to a sight that stirred my soul: a towering structure, bold, unbowed and a dream cast in concrete. It was meant to be a digital library, a citadel of knowledge for our children. A place where books would whisper wisdom and screens would open doors to the world. But then, as with many noble dreams, the river of funding ran dry. Most men would have walked away, leaving it to the weeds and whispers of decay. But not Shonde.

Òmùgọ̀ ń fi ọwọ́ rẹ̀ wẹ́ inú ògùrò, ògìdìgbó ni kì í fọ́gbọ́n s’ójà (The fool washes his hands in the dregs, but the wise man turns hardship into harvest). 

Shonde refused to let the sun set on that dream. He took the bones of that abandoned vision and breathed life into them. He turned the empty hall into a Free Coaching Centre, a cradle of hope for indigent students. And like a farmer who shares his seed, he went further:

Free JAMB and GCE forms for those whose pockets were empty but whose minds were full of light. A sanctuary for learning where the poor could dream without shame.

Storm on the Horizon

But as every shining moon attracts the gaze of owls, shadows began to stir. It is rather unfortunate development to learn that the CDC Chairman, Mr. Jelili Atiku, out of desperation appeared at the gates, claiming ancestral land, issuing threats and stretching his hands toward what was never his sweat. In spite of all, Shonde stood firm anyways, ignoring Jelili's strange drama.

Bí o bá jẹ́ wípé lóòtọ́ ló jẹ́ ti bàbá ẹ, níbo ni alákòrí rẹ̀ wà nígbà tá a ń tiraka? Àgùntàn tó bá s’ẹ́yìn agbo, ìkà kì í pa á; ẹ̀dá kì í gba ohun tí òun kò fi ọwọ́ ṣẹ́ (If it were his father’s, where was he when we labored? The stray sheep does not lead the flock; no man should seize what he never built.)

This was no personal empire; it was a state-backed gift for the children of Ejigbo. And Shonde vowed to hand it over to a credible committee, ensuring that no greedy fingers would soil its purpose.

His Footprints in Our Dust

But the Coaching Centre is only a chapter in his book of service. His pen wrote other stories:

1. Skills acquisition programs, arming our youths with tools of trade.

2. Boreholes, pouring life into thirsty streets.

3. Solar street lights, scattering darkness on Fatusi and Edagbeja like the morning sun chasing the night.

And through it all, Shonde remained what politicians rarely are: accessible. His door was never shut, his ears never deaf to the voice of the people.

When the Drums Go Silent

Now, his tenure has ended. The title is gone. But the light? The light still burns. Orúkọ rere sàn ju wúrà àti fàdákà lọ (A good name is better than gold and silver). 

While others leave office trailing the stench of greed, Shonde leaves the fragrance of service. His legacy is not etched in granite monuments but in the smiles of students, the gratitude of mothers, and the peace of streets he lit up. If leadership were a dance, many would dance for themselves. But Shonde danced for us all. And for that, Ejigbo will never ever forget.

Ìwà l’ẹ̀ṣin; ìwà rere ni òye àtàtà (Character is religion; good character is wisdom everlasting). 

Here is my parting shot and a poignant call to action. Let those who seek power learn from this: Be a lantern, not a chain. Let your season light lives, not lock them in bondage. For when the drums go silent, it is the echo of your deeds that the world will dance to. Ire o! 

©Prince Adeola Goloba 2025