Ebube's World

Does she excite you—   So much that you lose your cool? Beware, she may be the one. With eyes that burn like flames,   That seem to call you in,   Like silent storms pulling you close,   With whispered promises within. As though planning to trap you,   Dark pools hiding danger’s gleam.   If you blink, you're gone;   If you don't—still trapped within the dream. With a voice alluring, enchanting, captivating,   Her smile makes even the strongest knees bend.   Innocent, gentle, yet confident—   She knows you can’t ignore. She stares right into your eyes and smiles;   Even if you escape her eyes, not the smile.   And if you escape both, then comes the voice—   A voice that hides blades beneath its charm.   It sounds like the voice of angels,   But demons lurk beneath. With confidence, she walks toward you.   Each step, a promise of e...

IB Quake said,   “ This is a testament that God is good .” When the waves rage harder,   He speaks: “Peace, be still.” MOBA is a story —   A story of God coming through   Even when all hope seems lost.   Of trying everything in your strength,   And just when you're at the edge, wondering, “What else can I do?” He shows up. It’s the story of knocking on countless doors,   Hearing nothing,   Then sinking to your knees, head bowed:   “God, I’m tired.” And He answers:   “How are you, child?” Then the door opens—   A long-awaited answer to prayer. A story of His never-ending love,   His endless favour,   His goodness,   His mercy—   A testament to His covenant-keeping nature. Truly, this is proof:   He is always doing good.   MOBA is a story. © Ebube

 Faith Over Fear (2 Timothy 1:7) Before I rise from my bed, She’s standing right beside me. I open my eyes to her stare— She’s Fear. I jolt quickly. She smiles. “What will happen today? What if it doesn’t go as planned? What will you do?”  She asks them all at once. “I don’t know,” I reply weakly. She smiles brightly. “Why trouble Her?” Faith says. She hasn’t even said "good morning" to her Maker. Faith taps Fear. “I’ll take over from here,” Faith tells Fear, Then sits beside me. “Why not say ‘hi’ to the Master And tell Him the report you received from Fear, Seeing you have no answer of your own? For He said, "Worry not about anything, because He cares for you." He’ll take care of it. Let’s go about your day. I’m with you.” — Faith Over Fear ©EBUBE

 I sat to see a movie with Him— a very long movie. “Let's move to the interesting part,” I said. No comment, but it was fast-forwarded. “What happened here?” I asked. “It was explained in a previous scene,” He told me. And we went back and saw: through quiet days, long silences, ordinary mornings with no music. Back to the scenes I called boring— the waiting, the learning, the becoming. And I understood— the sweet scenes don’t stand alone. They are built on hours no one claps for. Most times you want the miracle but skip the process. Yet the parts you rush through are the very ones teaching you how to stand when the spotlight comes. Every scene matters, and the movie only makes sense when you watch it all the way through. ©Ebube

It's scary over there—   There’s pain, trouble, and fear.   Out there,   There’s war and terror Over here, It doesn't feel safe to stay.   So I thought. Then I went to the graveside.   It’s calm out here.   The pain, the trouble, the fear—   They all end here.   The war and the noise cease   The moment you drop dead.   It feels like peace.   But is it better?   Came a reply to my thought. Whatever dream you had   Ends the moment you come here.   Whatever hope,   Whatever aspiration—   All of it dies   The moment you do. The cold wind brushed my skin   As I stood there,   Pondering.   Have you truly thought   What it’s like here?   Do people leave the world above   Happy to arrive?   Are they fulfilled?   Or do they come   With dre...

  In the beauty of lines,   I found solace—   Not deep comfort,   Not overflowing joy,   But just enough   To keep me going. " Poetry is dry ,"   They say.   And yes, I know—   Because many don't understand   The depth from which these lines call to me. How I’m free to offend English ,   Yet still stand justified   In the court of grammar.   Poetic license—   My faithful lawyer,   Defending me   Before an honourable judge   Trying to find fault,   While Literature itself   Stands as my witness. How do I explain   That I once said,   “He’s beautiful,”   Knowing full well   “Beautiful” is for the female folk,   And what I spoke of   Wasn’t human—   Nor animate—   But inanimate ? Or when I pleaded with the sun   To look...