After a semi-restful week off work, I’ve finally managed to get some space to do some writing. It’s taken until today to get even the remotest sliver of headspace, but I’ve made some progress on some odd scraps, filled in some lines and sketched out some more.
I read a really interesting article today about telegraphers codes, that I think will find it’s way into something, somewhere, in about 400 years.
Anyway, I thought I would share something that has been hanging around for a while now, instead of more Instagram updates. It’s in the sort of finished pile, of which there are 18. It could move back to the not sort of finished pile, of which there are 45. It was 60 or so, but I did some very brutal pruning. Arguably I should keep going.
I am the first Nigerian astronaut in space,
air-locked and stranded for 20 odd years.
My story is one in a million,
I am worth more than this sphere.
I am Major Abacha Tunde,
I have lived a life free of weight.
Stranded and abandoned,
the sole life form on the Salyut 8T.
I am asking for your help.
The Russians can bring me back home.
I can be Lagos bound
in no time, if you will offer me a loan.
I offer me alone as incentive,
alongside a percentage of my space pay.
Transfer me my balance.
Your fears I will allay.
How could I hurt you from up here?
All I can do is look down
and hope to return to safety;
I wish to be earth bound.
I call on you to move earth
while I am in heaven, alone.
Access my accounts, transfer the sums.
I trust you with all I own.
Needless to say the trust reposed on you
at this juncture is enormous.
Help me, bring me down.
Put an end to this performance.