I live to write; I write for a living. Because I breath words in and out, everything I pen down must be epic!
What’s the last movie that made you cry?
A Christian movie starring Stan Eze. I watched the power of forgiveness and the need to let go of any offences early…because keeping it stuck in our heart is dangerous.
A must watch. A strong warning though…you will shed tears, a lot of it
It was my reluctance that first attracted their glance
One eye.
Two eyes.
Then twenty.
Questions travelled round the village square
without needing an ambulance.
“Will she not dance?”
I heard them.
I pretended not to.
I studied the ground
with unnecessary importance,
as though somewhere between my left foot
and the red earth
lay the secret route of avoidance.
I did not want to dance.
No.
My body and dancing
had maintained a respectable distance.
We had an understanding.
A peaceful alliance.
I would not disturb dance,
and dance would not disturb my existence.
But that day,
the drums had other plans.
Gangan spoke.
Dundun answered.
The shekere shook itself
with disturbing exuberance.
And every beat seemed to call my name
with increasing resonance.
Still,
I sat.
With defiance.
With resistance.
With the stubborn countenance
of a woman whose chair
had suddenly become an inheritance.
I prayed for glue.
Not ordinary glue.
Industrial glue.
Divine glue.
Anything with enough substance
to keep my backside
in permanent adherence.
But my chair betrayed our alliance.
Someone shouted,
“Dance!”
Another shouted,
“Dance!”
And suddenly the whole square
was chanting with one accordance.
I looked left.
No clearance.
I looked right.
No clearance.
Behind me,
children.
Before me,
elders.
Around me,
spectators arranged in frightening abundance.
There was no escape.
No disappearance.
No deliverance.
So I stood.
Well…
I attempted a stance.
My knees immediately filed a grievance.
My ankles requested assistance.
My waist declared its noncompliance.
And my two feet,
after years of peaceful coexistence,
suddenly developed a serious imbalance.
The earth, bear me witness.
My right foot moved forward.
My left foot questioned the relevance.
I pulled it along.
It came with reluctance.
One step.
Pause.
Another step.
Pause.
At that point,
I was not dancing.
I was approaching dance
from a very safe distance.
Then the drummer saw me.
Ah!
He changed the rhythm.
Gbam!
My shoulder jumped.
Gbedu!
The other shoulder answered.
I told both of them
to maintain compliance.
They refused.
My neck joined
without prior clearance.
My head tilted left.
Tilted right.
My wrapper swayed
with suspicious elegance.
And somewhere between
embarrassment
and endurance,
my waist moved.
Just once.
I froze.
The crowd screamed.
I looked behind me
to confirm the cause
of their sudden exuberance.
Nobody.
They were screaming for me.
Me?
I tried the waist again.
Left.
Right.
Left.
A tiny bend.
A careful rise.
My feet began to discover
something that looked suspiciously like balance.
Heel.
Toe.
Step.
Return.
Heel.
Toe.
Step.
Advance.
My hands,
which had been hanging beside me
like innocent witnesses,
suddenly entered the performance.
One rose.
The other followed.
My fingers opened.
My wrists rolled.
My elbows bent
with unexpected elegance.
And then…
I forgot my reluctance.
The drum entered my feet.
The rhythm entered my waist.
The song entered my shoulders.
And my body,
that same body that had threatened rebellion,
formed an unexpected alliance.
I bent low.
Rose slowly.
Stamped once.
Twice.
Turned.
Stopped.
Then turned again
with considerably more confidence.
My wrapper followed me in a circle.
My beads bounced against my neck.
Dust rose beneath my feet
like the earth itself
had joined the performance.
The women screamed.
The children clapped.
The elders nodded
with approving countenance.
And my heart?
That traitor.
That same heart
that had been pounding from fear
was now racing with exuberance.
I could hear my tissues celebrating.
My ligaments shouting,
“AT LAST!”
My bones had abandoned resistance.
My knees had withdrawn their grievance.
My ankles no longer needed assistance.
Even my waist,
once committed to strict governance,
was moving with reckless flamboyance.
So I danced.
Not beautifully.
Let us not exaggerate my brilliance.
But I danced.
I danced past the staring.
Past the laughter.
Past my fear of appearance.
Past my carefully rehearsed avoidance.
I danced until embarrassment
lost its importance.
Until fear surrendered its dominance.
Until the woman who had begged for glue
was now refusing to return to her chair.
And perhaps
that was the lesson hidden
in the village square that evening:
Sometimes,
between reluctance
and acceptance,
between resistance
and radiance,
between “I cannot”
and one trembling stance,
life gives you
one ridiculous, terrifying, beautiful
chance.
And all it asks…
is that you
dance.
© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi (2026)
Speed, why are you always in a hurry?
Who are you chasing
or is it me you’re running from?
You brush past me in the morning,
tap your foot when I slow down,
pull at my hands like
“Come on, you’re late… you’re always late.”
I hear you in my heartbeat sometimes
fast, impatient, loud.
Like you’re trying to prove a point
I didn’t ask you to make.
You live in moving things, don’t you?
In wheels that won’t stay still,
in wings that refuse the ground,
in dreams that won’t let me sleep.
But tell me, Speed…
do you ever get tired?
Do you ever sit quietly
and let the world catch up to you?
Or are you afraid that if you stop,
you might feel something real?
Because I’ve seen you stumble.
Yes – you.
In missed moments,
in rushed words we can’t take back,
in breaths we forgot to breathe
because you were pushing too hard.
You act strong,
but I know you need rest too.
Even hearts
the ones you race the most
they pause between beats
just to stay alive.
So maybe… just maybe…
you don’t always have to win.
Stay a while.
Walk with me instead.
Who is the most confident person you know?
Questionably ME!
You think you’re impervious.
You think you’re too strong to be changed.
But even the brightest lemon turns green in a moldy jar.
It’s slow. It’s quiet. It’s “just one conversation.”
Until one day, the decay is all you have left.
Stop testing your strength against toxic environments. Just leave the room.
Happy Monday. Protect your light.
🤔 When was the last time you gave something up not because you had to, but because you wanted to?
🤔 What piece of pride have you gently laid down for something greater than yourself?
🤔 Where is life inviting you to choose “us” over “me”?
🤔 If love kept no score, how differently would you show up?
Sometimes love is not about grand gestures, but quiet surrender, the soft strength of choosing connection over ego, devotion over defense, and togetherness over tally.
When the butterflies are gone,
and love no longer trembles in your ribs
like a secret trying to be born,
do not panic.
Love was never meant
to live only in the flutter.
The butterflies were the introduction
soft wings brushing against uncertainty,
color against fear,
hope learning how to pronounce a new name.
But wings tire.
And what replaces them
is quieter.
Heavier.
Real.
When the butterflies are gone,
what remains is choice.
Choice to stay when moods are not musical.
Choice to speak when silence would be easier.
Choice to build when feelings refuse to bloom on command.
The world taught you
that love must always feel like fireworks
but fireworks die in smoke.
Real love
becomes sunrise instead.
It rises whether you clap or not.
It shows up on ordinary mornings
with sleepy eyes and steady hands.
When the butterflies are gone,
you begin to see clearly.
Not the fantasy
but the flaws.
Not the poetry
but the patterns.
And here is the sacred question:
When the flutter fades,
is there still respect?
Is there still peace?
Is there still kindness in the room?
Because butterflies are feelings.
But foundation is character.
If the butterflies are gone
and bitterness takes their place,
listen.
If the butterflies are gone
and calm remains
stay curious.
There is a deeper love
that does not shake you,
but steadies you.
It does not rush your pulse,
but regulates your soul.
And sometimes,
when the butterflies are gone,
what is left
is not emptiness
but maturity.
Love growing up.
Quotefied (Quotefiedhq)
http://www.ifedolapoogunniyi.com
(For Mothers with ❤️)
A load I carried for nine long months,
Heavy beneath my ribs, heavy beneath my pulse.
A secret swelling inside my bones,
Alive, restless, yet unknown.
It pressed against my fragile sleep,
Turned in the dark where silence weeps.
I felt its hunger, felt its cry,
Felt it stretch where fears would lie.
It fed on my blood, drank from my veins,
Wrote its story through my pains.
My back bent low, my ankles swelled,
My breath grew thin where hope once dwelled.
People smiled and touched my skin,
Asking what treasure grew within.
Was it joy wrapped soft and small
Or a storm waiting to fall.
I loved what I had never seen.
I feared what I had never seen.
I sang to a shadow.
I prayed to a mystery.
Nine months of carrying a question.
Nine months of loving a secret.
Nine months of surrendering control
To something that would not reveal its face.
I bore the weight with trembling grace,
Kissed the curve of my own unknown fate.
So close to my heartbeat it lived,
Yet not once was I given the mercy
To know what I held inside.
A load I carried.
A life I nurtured.
A truth I was denied.
And still I carried it.
© Quotefied
The pages were patient…
white as untouched dawn,
holding their breath
for a voice brave enough to arrive.
Then the ink came
not gently,
but like rain that had waited too long,
spilling its secrets
from the marrow of memory.
Dust stirred.
Silence cracked open.
Old whispers rose from forgotten corners
and stitched themselves into sentences.
Each word burned softly at first
then brighter.
A quiet rebellion of letters
refusing to be erased.
Names once fading
found their pulse again.
Moments once buried
stood upright and breathing.
Time tried to close the book
but the story would not bow.
It stretched beyond margins,
climbed past endings,
and wrote itself into forever.
The pages were patient…
but truth was restless.
And now that it has spoken,
even if years gather like shadows,
even if hands tremble and seasons shift
This story will remain.
Not as ink.
But as imprint.
Not as sound.
But as echo.
Unfading.
Unforgotten.
Undone by nothing.
What do you complain about the most?
People
Noise
Being caged
I just want to be alone, no unnecessary noise or triggers, nobody tossing me around like I am a toddler. I love my own company…A LOT!
Ifedolapo Ogunniyi 