Every high school student as an African was taught Agriculture and was taken to the garden or farm at one point or the other it really helps with the level or way we see agriculture and every process that’s involved 

It takes a good and healthy river to produce good dishes and healthy fishes…

I lie sleepless in the night,
In the dark without a light.
At the darkness, my eyes stare,
My body is still but my minds aware.
It is all quiet no outside noise,
But in my mind, I hear a voice.

CALM YOUR MIND IF YOU WANT TO SEE,
LET GO OF THE WORLD AND COME WITH ME.

Now am scared don’t know what to think,
Can’t close my eyes afraid I will sink.
I take deep breaths to clear my head,
And find myself no longer in bed.
Without a body, I float around,
It speaks again I hear that sound.

COME TO ME I WILL LIGHT THE WAY,
FOLLOW THE PATH AND DON’T GO A STRAY.

So I walk the path with an open mind,
Unaware of what truth I will find.
It took so long but I reached the peak,
A man appears and begins to speak.

WHY DO YOU STOP WHEN YOU MUST BEGIN,
TOO FIND THE TRUTH YOU MUST LOOK WITHIN.

I get closer to see her face,
But she disappears without a trace.
Confused by this I sit and rest,
Wondering if all of this was just a test.
But I have come too close to hesitate,
So I close my eyes and meditate.
And as I begin to drift away,
I hear the voice begin to say.

LOOK AT MY FACE FOR I AM YOU,
AND IN YOUR HEART YOU KNOW ITS TRUE.

All of a sudden I feel the water splash against my head
And I wake up back in my bed.

Water is a source of Life and without good and clean water so many daily activities won’t go smoothly…I believe everyone should have access to good and clean water source.

Currently our climate has been polluted and our waters are all bad, reason why more awareness should be brought and formed because these pollutions results to illness and all sorts of diseases and infections…Climate Change should be discussed more often 

I Just realized that with the help of AI I could learn the Keyboard and how to play it step by steps…Passion is Built when Talent is discovered and I believe the parents or guidian of this kid discovered his on time…

I Just realized that with the help of AI I could learn the Keyboard and how to play it step by steps…

Duncan Mighty has a lot of Hit songs to his name and has inspired a lot of young Artist in this current generation today with his melodious and amazing voice texture and style of music 

When someone comes and tells you, “I can’t sleep without you, I love you the way you are and I can put up with your good and bad attitude” before you commit your heart to such a person, please, “GIVE IT TIME”

When You just met someone today and feel like marrying him/her tomorrow, before you do, remember you need to “GIVE IT TIME”

When you visit your uncle during a vacation for 2 months, don’t be carried away that they serve you your preferred food and give you hot water to bath during your first two days don’t start making arrangements to relocate to their house, “GIVE IT TIME”

When a brother/sister visits you and wakes you up by his/her shouting of prayer, please don’t shut him down, first “GIVE IT TIME”

When someone joins your fellowship in the first year and he/she is in every group/dept, please don’t rush and make him/her a leader, rather “GIVE IT TIME”

When you enter a new environment and everybody worships you and eat your mess don’t be carried away just “GIVE IT TIME”

When someone comes with a new business with unbelievable promises, please before you involve your money, first “GIVE IT TIME”

Finally, when you are in a crossroad of decisions, you don’t know what to do, ask the people or person involved to please “GIVE YOU TIME”

You can be good at giving people tests and trying out who they are. Some people know how to pass them all but the test of time they will fail.

Time tests love and prove it.
Time tests businesses and authenticates it.
Time tests spirituality and reveals it.
Time tests friendship and uncovers true friends
Time, a good tester.

Don’t say that the utilities in your area are now the best until you have “GIVEN IT TIME”

Your Family or Friends told You that you are useless and worthless and can’t amount to anything, just laugh it away and ask them to “GIVE YOU TIME”

Consistency with time is the true test of Efficiency.
“Time is a TESTER”
“Time is an AUTHENTICATOR”
“Time is a REVEALER”
“TIME IS STILL A MATTER”

Thanks for giving this long post TIME…

When you share it around and no one comments, don’t assume it was ignored, “GIVE IT TIME”

WHEELS…
The city does not wait for anyone. Its pulse is constant, throbbing with engines, horns, and hurried footsteps. For most people, the city is an obstacle, something to endure on the way to work or school. For me, the city is a map of endless roads, lanes, and shortcuts. It is a stage. And my bicycle, my two-wheeled companion, is both the script and the instrument.

When I grip the handlebars, the world shrinks to a balance between rhythm and breath. My cycle is not just steel, rubber, and chain – it is freedom sculpted into form. It asks for my legs, my lungs, my sweat. In return, it gives me wings.

I remember my first long ride vividly, years ago. The road stretched from the city gate to the edges of Feni, a ribbon of asphalt unrolling under the sun. My legs burned, my throat dried, but my heart refused to slow. Each push of the pedal was an argument against stopping. I realized then that cycling was not only transport. It was a conversation with endurance, a dialogue between human and machine.

Over the years, my wheels became witnesses to everything: dawn’s pale light brushing over empty streets, the sharp sting of monsoon rain against my cheeks, the loneliness of midnight rides where even the dogs seemed to sleep. I learned the physics of motion by feel – the way a bike climbs when you lean forward, the way it surrenders to gravity downhill, the way it slices through wind when you find your cadence.

But wheels also taught me humility. They reminded me that speed is not always under my control. A sudden puncture, a careless driver, a crack in the road – all could bring me to a halt. Yet in those halts, I found patience. Fixing a puncture by the roadside with grease-stained fingers under the curious gaze of children taught me to accept slowness. Life, too, has its punctures.

And still, I return to the saddle each day, because nothing feels as honest as the hum of a chain pulling me forward.

Some people chase wealth. Others chase fame. I chase kilometers. I log them on Strava not to boast, but to measure the dialogue I’ve had with the road. A day without pedalling feels incomplete, as though silence has settled where music should be.

For me, wheels are not just circles of rubber and metal. They are circles of life, turning endlessly, reminding me that motion is existence.

WORDS…
If wheels carry my body, words carry my soul.

I am not a writer who sits in a quiet room with a cup of tea, waiting for inspiration. My poems are born on the road, in the friction of tires against asphalt, in the brief pauses at red lights, in the sigh of wind brushing past my ears.

There is something about cycling that sharpens the senses. Colours seem brighter when you are not separated from the world by glass windows. Sounds cut deeper when your only engine is breath. And in that heightened awareness, words arrive uninvited.

On a morning ride, the city is a poem of contrasts: the street vendor lighting his stove while office workers rush past, the sleepy rickshaw puller yawning as buses honk impatiently, the stray dog stretching lazily beside an overflowing drain. I do not just see these things; I translate them. The rickshaw puller becomes a metaphor for resilience, the dog a symbol of quiet defiance.

I once scribbled a verse on the back of a delivery receipt after a customer signed for his parcel. He noticed, raised an eyebrow, and asked, “Do you always write?”
“Only when the road speaks,” I said.

Another time, while delivering coffee to a young doctor, I found myself captivated by her curiosity. She asked about my cycling, about why I chose this life. That night, I wrote her a poem about healing – not with stethoscopes, but with words. I never gave it to her, but writing it healed me in ways I didn’t expect.

Words are also survival. When exhaustion gnaws at my legs and the city seems endless, I recite lines in my head. They become mantras, small fires that push me forward. Sometimes I whisper them under my breath, and people think I’m talking to myself. In truth, I’m talking to the road, keeping myself alive.

Poetry is my hidden delivery, tucked in between parcels of food and medicine. Customers never see it, but it travels with me, sealed inside my heart.

DELIVERIES…
Most people see deliveries as transactions: order placed, order received. For me, deliveries are stories.

Take the old man in Agrabad who orders the same box of medicine every month. He greets me with a smile that cracks through his wrinkles, thanks me as though I carried more than just pills. For him, I am not a courier—I am a lifeline.

Or the student in a dorm room, bleary-eyed after an all-night study session, waiting for fast food like it’s salvation. When I hand him his meal, I hand him energy, comfort, relief.

Then there are the families waiting for Iftar boxes during Ramadan. Riding against time, weaving through traffic with dozens of parcels strapped to my bag, I feel the pressure not just of hunger, but of expectation. They are counting minutes, waiting for that knock on the door before Maghrib. Delivering those meals feels like delivering hope itself.

Deliveries also carry rain, sweat, and fatigue. I remember one monsoon evening when water rose knee-deep in the streets. Cars stalled, rickshaws floated like helpless boats. I pedaled through the flood, shoes soaked, bag clutched above water. When I finally reached the customer, she gasped at my drenched state. But when she saw the food dry inside, she smiled and said, “You saved my evening.” That smile was worth more than any tip.

Each delivery binds me to lives I will never fully know. Hundreds of doors, hundreds of faces, hundreds of moments. They forget me after minutes. I remember them for days.

My bike carries parcels, but my heart carries their weight.

Wheels… Words,,. Deliveries…
At first glance, they seem separate. Wheels belong to motion. Words belong to imagination. Deliveries belong to duty. Yet in my life, they form a single braid.

The wheels teach me discipline, the words give me meaning, the deliveries connect me to others. Without wheels, I would not reach the city’s corners. Without words, I would not survive the silence of fatigue. Without deliveries, I would not belong to the city at all.

Some people call me just a courier. Others call me a cyclist. A few know me as a poet. I am all three, at once. My life is not divided; it is woven.

When I ride, I am not only moving a parcel. I am writing invisible poems on the road. I am delivering fragments of myself with every kilometre.

One day, perhaps, I will ride beyond the city, beyond even Tetulia to Teknaf, carrying nothing but my own words as cargo. But until then, I remain here, in these streets, living in the intersection of wheels, words, and deliveries.

Because in the end, life itself is a delivery. We carry it carefully, through storms and sunshine, from door to door, until we arrive at our final destination.

And if I can leave behind a few words, whispered through the turning of my wheels, then my deliveries will have been complete.

Wheels. Words. Deliveries.

Wheels turn,
Silent circles carving the city’s breath,
Each spoke catching the first light of dawn,
Each revolution a vow
Forward, forward,
Never retreating,
Only carrying weight,
Only carrying stories.

The road is not smooth;
It ripples with cracks,
It hums with engines impatient behind me,
It shouts in horns,
Yet the wheels answer softly,
With rhythm,
With persistence,
With a music no one else hears.

On these wheels,
I am more than a courier.
I am a pilgrim of streets,
A messenger without a shrine,
A body propelled by hunger and hope,
Measuring my life in kilometers,
Marking my hours in chain grease
And the ache of thighs that refuse surrender.

And while the city swallows me whole,
Words rise,
Like small flames between teeth.
They arrive uninvited
At red lights,
On bridges,
Beside drains swollen with rain.
They perch on handlebars,
Flutter in my hair,
Etch themselves against the sweat
Running down my temples.

Words are my hidden cargo,
Tucked beneath food boxes,
Folded between receipts.
Customers never see them,
But I deliver poems to myself,
Each stanza a breath,
Each line a bandage
For wounds no doctor names.

Sometimes a smile at the door
Becomes a metaphor.
Sometimes a thank-you whispered shyly
Becomes a verse I recite for days.
Even the frown of someone impatient
Becomes ink in my veins.
This city feeds me its dictionary
In scraps of human exchange,
And I carry it
Quietly, constantly,
As though words were parcels too.

Deliveries
The heart of my orbit,
The axis on which the wheels spin.
Medicine to an old man
Who greets me like kin,
Food to a student drowning in books,
Iftar boxes balanced against the clock
While the sky bruises into sunset.

Every parcel is more than paper,
More than plastic bags,
More than cardboard.
It is a hand stretched unseen,
A need answered by motion,
A thread that ties me to strangers.

And though they forget my face
After the door closes,
I remember.
I carry their hunger,
Their relief,
Their small sighs of gratitude.
The city does not know it,
But I ride through its veins
Like blood.

Wheels.
Words.
Deliveries.

Not three things,
But one braid.
The wheels keep me alive,
The words keep me human,
The deliveries keep me connected.

Each day I mount the saddle,
I write another invisible poem
On the roads of my city.
Every mile a stanza,
Every stop a line break,
Every delivery
A full stop
That prepares me to begin again.

I was a hero,
A hero who never spilled blood,
A hero who showed love,

I was a hero.
A hero who didn’t fight back
A hero who stepped back,
A hero that was never on billboards,
On news bulleting, or never trended.

I was a hero never known,
A hero who fought battles inside,
All alone, dying inside
And smiling outside,

I was a hero through many
Saw me as a loser,
A hero fit to be a fool!

I was a hero
Who battled with my own thoughts,
With my own feelings,
Do you know how it feels?
Do you have a slight idea?
Of how it feels to handle the pain?
No one ever saw that but I was a hero!

I accompanied the night
To the day,
How could I sleep when war faced me?
Or rather when I faced war?
They uttered so many words around me,
Telling me that I allowed it
Who could warmly invite pain?

They never understood
That is me there is a fighter
A warrior fighting,
Fighting depression and loss,
Fighting failure and heartbreak,
Fighting for my big break
That’s what heroes do right?

Have you ever met
The one who boil your heart
And melt your lungs?
Then you lose that person,
A person who meant more than family,
Someone who understood you,
I fought all that pain
I was a hero!

I didn’t jump on buildings
To save people like spiderman,
I didn’t mend broken ships
To save lives like superman
But I did pick myself up after great tragedies,
I did smile after losses,
I still had self-love and loved others,
I was a hero to myself.

I speak a lot,
Yet leave many things unsaid,
Hoping you will understand.

Yes, I am expressive—
But more so in my own company,
With walls around me,
Playing along in silence.

Maybe,
I lie somewhere between an introvert and an extrovert.

I love going out with friends,
But find it soothing to be alone,
Walking through crowds,
Vibing in my own rhythm.

Yes, I am friendly—
But when it comes to opening up,
Or spending time with someone,
I always return to those three old friends
From school.

Maybe,
I lie somewhere between an introvert and an extrovert.

I stay quiet at times,
Because I enjoy listening more—
When voices flow in,
And the heart echoes back.

Did you ask me out?
Yes, I said no.
Not because your idea was bad,
But because I might not be myself there.

I may seem calm outside,
But chaos brews within—
A whole different world
Built inside my tired head.

Maybe,
I lie somewhere between an introvert and an extrovert.

Not fully hidden,
Not always in the spotlight—
I shift with the tides of time,
Choosing silence when I need to breathe,
And laughter when my soul wants to sing.

I am not one or the other,
I am both,
And neither.
I am an ambivert—
A bridge between two worlds,
Living in balance,
Carrying the quiet and the chaos together.