rise Africa rise

i carved out the barks of the tree of life
made out of it sculptures of bleeding hearts
hoping this art will scream for voices unheard
rise Africa rise

i raced across the Virunga mountains
its volacanoes could not endure this agony
the soil mourned for every parted step
howling beasts reechoed the whisperings of the wild
rise Africa rise

i sailed a skiff through the Nile, Congo and Niger
these bodies of water burble and trickle
they carry with them the cries of distressed generations
rise Africa rise

the spirit drum bangs and throbs
acquatic life dance to the tribal tempos
these enslaved hearts are freed of their misery
their voices heard accross distant skies
rise Africa rise

Image by @rcupidore

The Broken Grid: A Nigerian Fossil fuel love story 2

Part 2

Hardship (noun): A condition that is difficult to endure.

You know what’s hard?
Trying to figure out what brand of cookies to get at the grocery store.
No that’s a first world problem.
I’m talking about having the responsibilities of your country’s government on your shoulders. Right that’s out of proportion.
Having to buy cooking gas with your gas tank because there are no household gas networks in this country, well if you’re lucky enough to afford it.
Having to build a borehole to get water.
Having to provide your own electricity by using a backup generator.
Having to pay your medical bills in full if, again, you’re lucky and rich enough to afford going to the hospital.
I know all these seem illogical.

Having to…
Heck I could list a thousand issues,
but I don’t want to break you,
however, I’m going to double dare you,
cause my pen spews
this rage in me does ooze
and none of these politicians can come to the rescue
cause all they do is misuse, abuse
until they annihilate the funds
what a bunch of cabooses.

Hardships come in different shapes and sizes
and the Nigerian hardship is grandest of all,
Just like our parties and humour, it always enthrals
Federal republic of Shalaye.
We grind, we move, no lele.

So how did we end up like this?
Well I’ll have to take you several decades back but this isn’t a history lecture on some so-called giant of Africa.
Giant my a**, the giant’s got a big fat belly that it can’t look down to see it’s stepping on hot coal, that its feet is burning.
And burn will it, down to ashes until it starts working on that big fat rotten belly.
If it does not want the situation to turn deadly.

Enough with big fat bellies,
let’s talk about electric power because without it, you wouldn’t be reading this blog post.
And this isn’t some engineering lecture
so I won’t be talking about how the generation down to utilisation of electric power works.
If you want more light on it, ask Prof. Google.
We tend to ask her just about anything these days,
including if she has an imagination, can you imagine?

Let’s check the facts
In Nigeria, the supply is 5.3 gigawatts
I know that’s not a lot
Our population, 200 million people and counting
I’m not going to compare us with countries like France, a country that’s much more advanced
cause Bruh, like I said,
I don’t want to break you, not yet
Not yet.

That’s 30 Watts per person.
Global average, 900 Watts per person.
What’s the fuss all about?
Nigeria spends three times as much on backup generator power as compared to the grid.
Similar trends are seen in other African countries and South Asia, although, much lower.

Now you’re asking,
How can we stop this type of whacking?
Why can’t we just spend that amount to fix the broken grid?
Why can’t the government fix our shit?
Because some Ogas with big fat bellies will not be able to sustain their big fat bellies.
They need a continuous flow of the big fat pennies.
And anywhere you go, they’ve got silent cronies.

The backup generator business is simply lucrative.
An industry that’s without a doubt very exploitative.
And the consequences, awfully punitive
I hope you found this highly informative

Cause in part 3, we’ll dive into the consequences.


Image source: Bloomberg

The Broken Grid 1: A Nigerian fossil fuel love story

Part 1

Image Source: Financial times

It’s a chilled Friday night and I’m binging on my favourite TV show which talks about political reforms that are needed in my country ( p.s. the reforms hardly ever happen 🙂 ). All of a sudden, there’s a blackout and the TV and lights go off, my living room turns into an abyss of darkness. I manage to locate my phone and turn the flashlight on. Hurriedly, I step out of the door to the backyard to switch on the generator, luckily, I do not have to pull as the generators nowadays come with a starter which is much easier than using the recoil pull.

This is the reality of millions of Nigerians, including the Ogas at the top that have failed to fix the erratic power supply, but oh they do not have to turn the generator by themselves, they have maigadi’s to do that for them. So here we are today, a so-called sane nation with power outages every now and then, a country where the soothing Beethoven-like sounds of backup generators will make your eardrums pulsate, where beautiful exhaust fumes fill the air creating an artistic masterpiece of soot in the sky.

On some nights where you decide not to turn it on because you are low on dirty petrol/diesel or you are just plain broke, you’ll have to decide sacrificing your body to mosquitoes, because I assure you they will have a good barbecue that night. Bon appétit to Mr. Mosquito because Kentucky Fried Human-Blood (KFH) never tasted better. On other nights, the heat due to the weather will make you think of life deeply, I’m sure you can relate and if you can’t, the electricity supply in your country is stable.

This is just the beginning of a love story

It’ll be in free verse form

Sometimes, it’ll rhyme.

It is meant to inform

To help you understand the source of the grime

A story about humans, electricity, fuel emissions, health and our environment.

A story of hardahip, pain, love and greed and of a country that needs development.

By Salim Ubale

be bold

be bold
uphold your values

be one
hymn to the slogans of liberation

be fearless
let the earth tremble
let the blood of the dead attest to your unheard cries
let this change be an epoch that’ll be etched on minds of those to come
let it ting, let it jar
let your selfless anthems make it to pages of history
let them know complaisance is not a word we ever agreed with
let your demands be chanted
let this bondage cease to end
let your hands veer minds into doing what is right

be invincible
be a moutain of hope to those treading the path of disarry
let your guidance blaze their trails
let belief be restored to the hearts of the defiant

be a wave
recite the bitter verses of this modern reality
let it reecho to the graves of souls departed
let it be known their fight was never in vain
their pain is rooted in our veins
and that we will not be veered off this lane

be just
at all times
let justice not be only a word seen on paper
“for true peace is not merely the absence of tension: it is the presence of justice”
let it resonate in our acts
let it be embodied in us, by us and for us

be loved
and love
let your heart overshine the sun’s radiance
let it be soft and embrace each other’s diversity
let it be as it is
for love conquers all

be bold
uphold your values

be one
and proclaim this struggle

—Salim Ubale

Image by Dreamstime Stock, Pinterest


i’m hyperventilating, not because i ran on a 50 mile track, it’s an entirely different reason today. the stifling air in my lung’s thick with a smoke-like rage sweeping me into a vortex of my emotions.

pain (n)
how peculiar pain is, it comes from distinctive sources and makes its way to your heart causing arrhythmia.
death, heartbreak, divorce, a blow in the face, failure, all these connote pain.
it seeps through your bones, through every fibre of your soul setting it afire.

rage (n)
pain morphs into rage and thrums it’s way through you, it is fuelled by anger, anger at things we can’t change as much as we try, anger at those we care for who seem not to look into the subtleties, outrage over the state of the world’s affairs, these build a pressure in our souls, in our hearts, waiting for the right time to explode, waiting for purgation to occur.

release (n)
a cleansing phase we undergo, it vents through our tongues, though our fists, though our legs, or our fingers as we write about our ordeals, it gives us satisfaction, a feeling of contentment or regret for what we’ve experienced. the fury abates at this stage and we wear an unbridled smile or a cloud of sadness. a maelstrom of gratitude rises high and takes over our minds
an appreciation for what we’ve been through.
a catharsis.

image by me


i pledge allegiance to…

oh did you think i would say flag?

or did you think i’d pledge my trust to leaders with deflated egos?


i pledge allegiance to pure justice

to the struggles of our ancestors

to the battles of the mind, body and soul that made real impact

i pledge allegiance to the truth

to the likes of Jamal Khashoggi who perished for questioning a biased status quo

to the mind liberators of our generation

to political correctness in the face of aggression

i pledge allegiance to bravery

to the likes of Gambo Sawaba who fought for the rights of her kins

to those being persecuted for voicing out against our oppressors

to artists who subtly enlighten us with persuasive paintings to address despotism

i pledge allegiance to those who remain not silent in the face of adversity

to the likes of Fela Kuti, who stirred revolutions and fought for something bigger than themselves

to those who ignite sparks of emancipation in us

to the ones who rip the ulcer that eats and decays our society

i pledge allegiance to our fallen heroes

to the likes of Lt Col Abu Ali the vanguards in the quest for our salvation

to the oath keepers who selflessly serve for no other reason than honour

to the chain breakers who fight to restore our peace and to enjoy the glories of freedom

O my people think!

you look blindly and swear fealty to dishonourable leaders

you support the occupation of a people and reprieve yourselves when called to answer for your crimes

you listen to the truth and call it treason because you benefit from falsehood

you walk down paths of wretchedness and call it the path to salvation

O what hypocrisy!

O my people think!


for i pledge allegiance to you

to humanity, to my people

-Salim Ubale

this poem was published in a newspaper. you can find the link at https://www.dailytrust.com.ng/poet-of-the-week-salim-ubale.html

image by Creative Market


sometimes you’d wish a thing you did or failed to do or stop never happened, it’s called regret

regret is more than a feeling of guilt due to inaction, it’s a darkness that seeps through you when you close your eyes in search for peace, it hunts your soul and consumes you till you give into it, it lies awake staring down at you hoping for a counteraction, hoping for change

regret has nothing to do with honour nor pleasantries nor viciousness, it is unbiased and eats up the hard-worker and the lazy and the candid and the devious in similar ways for different reasons. it swallows Kings for not defending kins and destroys killers for slaying victims

regret has no rhythm, it has no crests nor troughs, it’s neither sinusoidal nor collinear. it makes its way through whether there be barricades or not, it cares not about time for it’s relative to ordinary actions and peculiar inactions.

regret every so often says “slowly but surely” although it has no sense of spans and will consume you in a way a blackhole consumes a star, so all i can say for now is regret is the deadliest asphyxiant



music is life

it’s the cry of a newborn as it comes into the world, a cry of a new soul, a melodious cry of life

it’s the pitter-patter of a 2 year old baby crawling it’s way across my carpeted floor

it’s the motion in the last two seconds before the sprinter crosses the finish line

it’s the tweet of bird at dawn and the hoot of an owl at dusk

it’s the pip of a chick as it hatches its way through its shell

it’s the crunch of my Grandma’s wheelchair as she moves across our gravelled pavement

music is pain

it’s the voice in your head telling you not to give up when all you see is a tiny thread of hope

it’s the joyous remark your opponent makes after he beats you at your game

it’s the pop Mr Jay’s knee makes after walking 5 miles to put food on the table

it’s the laughter of Dr Q’s three year old that passed away last month resonating across my ears

music is death

it’s the palpitation of a loved one on a hospital bed

it’s the crashing sound of two automobiles from across fifth street

it’s the swooshing of the charming brown autumn leaves

it’s the silence of the graveyard i visited last Friday

it’s the rattle a dying soul makes when his last seconds catch up on him

music is love

it’s the cackle of the two lovebirds across me in the café

it’s the cry and wiggle of my dog anytime i step my feet in my home

it’s my mom asking me every now and then “have you eaten”?

it’s the sound of a handshake, a sign of trust

it’s the squish of fabrics rubbing off against each other as two people hug

it’s the sonance of a peck, of a kiss, a validation of love

music is so many things

it is art. creativity. feelings. sensations.

music is very little things too

music is what you define it to be

Do You Not See?

Do you not see?

Are your hearts undergoing petrifaction? Cause this silence is uncanny.

You read the news about bombs and scroll like it wasn’t just your brothers and sisters from the far north that got shelled.

You look at pictures of bodies in white sheets and all you think about is, “these bloodlines do not thread through me, I’m safe here, the bullets won’t reach me here”.

Do you not see?

I wish you had shame for that at least,

I wish you had a muster seed of empathy for this,

I picture carrions on bamboo mats with crimson coloured fluid dripping on the shoulders carrying them

I see a 2 year old with no heartbeat, wrapped up in a garment, it’s her Mama’s wrapper. the one Grandma gave her when she gave birth to a free spirited baby.

Hajia Ladi who sells cow milk down the street lost all her cattle. How? I asked.

The cattle rustlers, they raided again.

Papa went out with the other elders in the village holding machetes, screaming “we must fight back, you cannot break us”.

Papa never came back, we couldn’t even find Papa’s body.

Do you still not see?

Bloodbaths are becoming norms.

Communities’ riches are being drained.

Perpetrators’ pockets are being filled.

Oh God please break this filthy cycle of violence.

I hope you see now.

I hope you can see the chaos Zamfara is going through.

Salim Ubale


Image by Nathan Dumlao, Unsplash

We Watched

we watched as they starved

unheeded to their wails

we watched as bodies quaked

from the batons struck on their flesh

we watched as the bombs landed

silencing the cries of newborns

we watched as limbs got severed

for crying out loud for freedom

we watched as the slender kid died

his last words, oh what injustice

we watched as the politicians

decided the fate of our nation

by a scribble on the sheet of paper

we watched as they violated our rights

and sealed our lips with fear


we watched and we bled and we fell

but we rose

for our tongues can never be silenced

we are the voices of the voiceless

the faces of the faceless

we give identity to the nameless

your attacks are of no weight

it only increases us in faith

oh damn you and your corrupts courts

judging without jurisprudence

we will speak against injustice

we will fight for freedom

till the flames of retribution engulfs our oppressors

Happy #HumanRightsDay

Image source: Unsplash