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Editor 1: “This work is not for the faint-hearted.”

Editor 2: “I have found a man ahead of his generation – a very rare talent.”

Editor 3: “I can not mar this work; I have nothing to add or subtract from this work because it is unique.”

Editor 4: “Has Soyinka met this guy?”

Editor 5: “This is deep.”

Editor 6: “Tupac did not die.”


Editor 7: “I just do not get it I cannot comprehend this write up. I do not think it is for me.”


These were the comments from Team LR Editors who were each sent the manuscript from the first of our guest feature for this month. Since everyone gives his or her initial impression of a feature article ‘blindly’ which means without the knowledge or input of the others in the team, it is clear that this man from Sokoto State, the seat of the Caliphate in Nigeria does have something to offer.


At a time when the search-light is beamed on the Muslims and Northerners in Nigeria for issues such as ‘Boko Haram’ and ‘Herdsmen’ kidnappings as well as killings, this young man is “doing positive damage to the stereotype” with the least expected tool. His tool is creative writing and a mastery of spoken word. His works are borderless, transcending geographical, religious, gender, socio-cultural, ethnic or racial divides. He is determined to generate discuss, initiate deep reflection and shift the status quo. This wordsmith is taking the narrative in his own unique style into his hands and mouth. Do you want to hear his unique freestyle work? It is one click below!



Now you have heard from him in the short clip above, get ready to read from Ahmad Khail Tafida. An author and free style poet, he completed his BSc Business and Management with Computer Science at the University Of Sunderland and then went ahead to bag his MA Marketing from the same institution in the United Kingdom. Remember, one out of our seven esteemed editors just did not get this work… we wish you good luck!







“A dab or a stab to state the introduction, a careless thought to sieve for the first reaction.

A walking progress of my skin tone interest, I have been a merchant of faith let loose with doubts, prayed for answers, waiting for those angelic sounds, was always fearful about the angel of death making rounds, like a wild ant lifting emotions by the ounce.

Unleash my thoughts through my note pad, It’s the fastest route to the sight that makes me glad, it can be personal but the computer seems too heavy, but my rhyme book serves as the detail to my levy.

So I seek for the fasted medium to my thought process, And my phone decrees the nearest effort to my prowess….

Am from the west side of the motherland, So Nigeria has my heart tide down as my fatherland, From the seat of the caliphate I hope you relate,

That’s where I was raised so that’s where I call my home, I hope you understand my roots before our culture got cremated, say hi to the new generation, this side of Africa I call my own, where the side of my future was sawn”



A pose for a feature, juggling words for leisure, putting minds in a seizure, am I a wild creature? I started off in an empty classroom with tears in my eyes, was deeply wounded but no one could hear my cries, so I got an advice from one of my teachers, to always put my pain down on a paper, writing down my pain with nothing drying my eyes but my innocence, couldn’t even relate much with my conscience, for I was in a world full of pretence, what better fit to my past tense.

So I created a personality to address the ridicule, for most of the kids didn’t think I was cool, I was very feisty, the only way I could channel the anger inside, so Khail came out with a word that unlocks the box of fantasies, that shadows my reality and with him it’s always a wild switch of sanity. He comes with visions from the other side, a fraction between confusion and creative ideas in my subconscious mind it resides.

It all started on December 21st, Birth from my momma to be the first, pushed into this world and it began with pain, on that fateful night I heard there was no rain, with the chance given I withheld the anger that came with the territory, My childhood days is a story that hurts my history, A dent in my innocence was captivated in a broken home, I won a lot of childish pride but I pride in losing some, Protected by my fantasies to fore sake my reality, Was about 8 years old when I had that first moment of clarity, Sometimes it’s a much better fit to release the silence, For lust is only seen through the windows of science, Always thought grown-ups knew it all, Till I found out most of them knew nothing at all. So I buried my face in comic books searching for heroes, masked by their passion and I idolized their free throws. Picking on reactions to label my faulty maturity, Commotions in my head so I lease out my vision to charity, woke up this morning forgetting to die last night. Maybe I needed more fuel for the fight, I saw the poorer folks and decided to fight for their rights.



I was 6 years old when I was introduced to rap, Tupac and Eminem became my new role models, with their anger and hate I was moulded then I started smashing bottles, put my foot down on fame on a full throttle and with Michael Jackson’s passion which was too easy to relate. That’s how it all started, learning how to freestyle at the age of 8 with no one to hate, my Uncle would play me a tape and ask me to memorise a verse and when he returns I spit it back at him to converse and he would take me out and my painful days switched to a reverse, showing me off to his friends I knew I had the talent and he told me men don’t cry they only attack the challenge, men always break through the damage, I no longer felt the rage and started seeing others as deranged.

Secondary school days started off really well, met my best friend on the first night because his bed was next to mine and had a lot of stories to tell, asked his name and it was never the same, he was a fan of Eminem and he understood the game better through Manchester United so I no longer felt the loneliness of shame. Started showcasing my talent first day in class, few weeks letter I was helping my friends write love letters for a few bucks, romance or fantasies I still got my money’s worth, in the class of the cool I was finally fit for the cut.


I was an angry kid, with a temper too delicate to match my boyish looks, lost the value of trust and hope to a distasteful rust. I started with the dreams of being famous, only to swallow the pride because I realised it was too dangerous, from my mind in sync with my body managed by my soul, I reached out for the goal.



Malaysia was the destination for my next chapter, went for my A-levels filled with malice’s laughter, was out of touch but I still stayed in character. Learned a lot about myself while I was there, dating an Indian girl for I had no fear, even though I got threatened daily to leave my dear, her peers didn’t think she deserved my kind. My skin tone became an issue and the sleeping ego was rudely awoken. For my temper was still in an oven and my heart in a freezer, so their machetes became nothing to me but a teaser for a third personality was actualised through my humanity being weaker. So I broke her heart to save my body, but the tears in her eyes still rapes my sanity, but the third personality didn’t feel no guilt and he was never sorry, for his mind was always in a hurry. I fell sick a few weeks later, developed an ulcer and the doctors became the next seeker, was admitted for two weeks and the day I got discharged everything changed.



Three of my friends came to pick me up and on our way to my apartment we got into a bad car accident and I was the only one that really got affected. I broke my arm, fractured my skull and was unconscious for an hour. When I woke up my friends were crying because they thought they lost me, was laying on the ground losing so much blood and I had to pray to God to trust me, to give me another chance and I won’t fail Him and I was rushed back to the hospital only for the doctor to realise I was out for only 3 hours. A surgery later had a metal plate in my arm, lost my left elbow and I thought my brain would blow, the headaches and pain-killers channeled through my spirit birth the fourth personality.

Consumed in fumes, alone with his thoughts and help he refused, started labeling fools and used the pain as a tool and the story one day will be told, maybe when he grows old and right then he decided to be cold.




Decided to leave Malaysia after that time and the next destination was the UK, where I picked up the mic to tell my story. I got signed to a label in Liverpool called TopBoi, but jealousy got in the way and I had to break out to make my own way, for they realised we were nothing like the same and I had better skills fit for the game. Went back to Sunderland and made it my wonderland where I met my wonder woman and I lost my morality. Standing on stages was my new reality and the screams and chants from the crowd fuelled my ego and the second personality reaped the ecstasy. Signed a deal with the devil and my name was synonymous to the fable of the upcoming but my inner voice was getting louder, hearing my voice on radio stations was an orgasm to my dreams and I let loose with my team and couldn’t stop the feel but once more Khail had to put a stop to the speed. It was on graduation day that most realised I was even Nigerian because my father wore our native clothes and with that I made a conscious effort to take my mind back home and a few weeks later, my body was back in Nigeria.



I started a new life, made faith my new wife and my ancestry became my double edge knife, with a newfound purpose, I juggle up words and my mind became a circus. I became a poet to have a better fit for better respect in my society and decided to take on other’s pain and give them a chance to self-realization and channel those emotions for a better cause for helping others is never a loss and in my vision that is a plus.



Now you have read him, to which camp of editors do you belong? To the six or to the one? Are you able to identify all four characters in this man and appreciate the precipitating factors for the emergence of all four? There are many of us, who for one reason or the other, are trapped within our selves. How many of us are there? Wired in multiple layers like an onion? Why are we trapped? Are we trapped for ‘good’ or for ‘bad’? Do we want to come out? Should we even come out? Are we trapped because of what our Pastors or Imans would think? What would people say? Is our social class our prison? Are we too posh to flow? Is our valley too deep to rise from? Or our mountain too high to climb down from?


We need to summon the courage to break free. Decide which of your many ‘persona’ is best to project. Seek motivation from within and from those few who understand how to cultivate ‘the you’ that would best serve humanity. Ahmad Khail Tafida has written a book  ‘Tripple Decades – Whispers From The Shadows” you may want to peek into. If you wish to question him about any of the ‘four versions of him’, then TWITTER: @WackoKhail INSTAGRAM: @khail_tafida or FACEBOOK: Jay Tafeeda is your best bet.


Let us know if you get this whole thing or if you do not in the comments section – did you notice the clear-cut deviation from the rules of conventional grammar? Pardon us and enjoy it while you can for it is called ‘Poetic License’.



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