Remembering Jude Anuoluwa

MAY he sent me a request, he liked almost all of The Yellow House Library photos that I shared on Facebook, 27/08/2020 I read about his passing, maybe suicide, maybe the burden of being a creative NIGERIAN get to him way too fast but then I paused! Maybe being in this country is a loaded gun, waiting to explode not to kill but to shattered ones life then ones take his own dream away from the nightmares we called a nation.

Jude Anuoluwa


You see, my Hands are still shaking typing this, I called his line the moment I heard about his struggles but no one is responding, I feared the worst and I heard the juggernaut, Jude is gone.

Damn! like everyone else NIGERIA failed him. Jude Anuoluwa, A profound personality- everything about Jude reek of tenderness, care, speciale personification and what else you don’t see in other human. Jude will casually walk to a stranger with a smile that could melt a rock into an ice-cream or born a city out of a dying town, such is the influence of Poet and Editor Jude Anuoluwa.

In one of his Poems Published on Artmosterrific Jude goes haywire without fliching most of his ink, he reek departure as if talking visceral with one’s soul


the flaw i am

 “there is a name i bear/ when wholeness is but a memory— fell raven, for i am a bird/ wriggling upon the sand— waiting for my flesh to decay/ that my bones might be the earth’s souvenir— my woes are razor-toothed/ devouring my soul— creating a crater within my belly 2 i fight a war struggling to win/ the grass is me, plague within a plague— does it bother my chi to sigh/ yet growl when i work to tidy— the broken pieces of my existence? darkness bangs an antiqued bell/ whose sound is a throbbing bong of my past sins— hope is façade, pain is a balm/ soothing my wounds to never heal 3 fire is a purger. death is an herald/ of the designers strangest craft i am a mould which receives flaw/ hardening up to break apart— the universe has resented me to sprout/ bloom in season, wither out of it— my inventions are my undoing/ courage is a poisoned dart, turning my whiteness to crimson— burning me down without remorse 4 the bane of an experience is its fleeting bliss/ thorns do prick my conscience/ i am a lie. ground. fine as dust— which the universe spreads across its dome— there is no home for the wanderer/ whose body is older than his soul 5 my soul is lost like a sand bead/ loses itself to its new lord/the sand— i raise my hands to the designer of rebirth/ to fashion a new me. devoid of weakness— smoke exudes from my lungs/ its savour a mint of bittersweet”

Jude is gone but his goodwill for the The Yellow House Library will never be forgotten. Thank you Jude for sharing your light with us.





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