NEVER AGAIN...

Let me tell you a story —

Not of a king.

Of a little boy called G.O.A.

 

His dreams were bigger than his pocket,

yet life was serving him gari and groundnut "like say na 5-star dining"

Uniform torn.

Socks missing.

But every morning he still ran after school

like tomorrow had saved him a seat.

 

Then came the knock.

Loud.

The kind that shakes hope off the wall.

 

Landlady’s son came for rent.

His father came home tired —

Lagos buses, heavy loads, weight no child should know.

 

One word led to another.

Anger entered.

A screwdriver spoke.

And blood fell where dignity used to stand.

 

Then a whisper:

“How much is left?”

The room broke:

“Two naira.”

 

Two naira

A father’s blood for something that couldn’t even buy gala and Coke.

 

In that silence, childhood packed its bag and left.

Responsibility walked in without knocking.

 

And that little boy made a vow:

“Never again.”

Never again would poverty write his family’s story.

Never again would lack disgrace their name.

 

So he worked when others complained.

He learned when others settled.

He endured when quitting looked sweet.

 

Hard work wasn’t enough

so he chose wisdom over excuses,

purpose over pity,

vision over circumstance.

 

Step by step.

Prayer by prayer.

Scar by scar.

His future started answering the promise he made that day.

 

Today,

the boy who watched his father bleed

now places house keys and car keys

into those same hands that once carried the burden.

 

The parents who once counted two naira

now count blessings.

And every memory has turned to testimony.

 

So when you see G.O.A.,

don’t just clap for the applause.

First, honor the pain that produced it.

 

Because the deepest wounds birth the greatest strength,

and the darkest nights give birth to the brightest mornings.

 

So remember this, when life says your beginning is too small:

Pain may introduce you.

but purpose will announce you.

 

And if you remember nothing else:

We don’t look like what we’ve been through.

About the poet:

Gideon Adeyeye is a performing poet and spoken word artist with nearly a decade of experience exploring the depths of human vulnerability, mental resilience, and emotional healing.

FROM THE HANDS THAT TRIED TO STEAL IT...

 One silent night, when the traffic stood still,

my father answered a question time could never kill.

“The happiest day of my life,” he said, soft and clear,

“was the day my first child was born.”

 

I was meant to be asleep in the back seat, small and unaware,

too young to know those words would follow me everywhere.

Years later I learned — it wasn’t just love in his tone,

it was ink on a page I didn’t know I’d own.

The first chapter of an assignment written over my name:

 

Then came an afternoon, my brother home bleeding,

and I ran to my father expecting a hero to come leading.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t shout.

He just looked in my eyes and asked,

“What are you going to do about it?”

 

I wanted rescue.

He wanted to raise one.

That question broke me out of fear,

out of excuses, out of childhood.

 

So I stood.

For my brother.

I found my voice.

I took back his power from the hands that tried to steal it.

And that day, I stopped being just a brother.

I became a protector.

 

When I came back, my father didn’t clap.

He didn’t make a speech.

He just smiled and said,

“You’ve done a good job.”

 

And those five words became my inheritance.

Heavier than gold.

Louder than any crowd.

 

Because being firstborn isn’t a privilege.

It’s a calling.

To carry the weight before anyone feels it.

To walk first so others learn the path.

To be strong until they are strong enough to stand alone.

 

 

That is the legacy my father never just told me

He lived it.

And taught me to live it too.

About the poet:

Gideon Adeyeye is a performing poet and spoken word artist with nearly a decade of experience exploring the depths of human vulnerability, mental resilience, and emotional healing.