All posts by george agak

I am the last words of a slain Poet. I write to trace my thoughts not to show how good I am with words, if you are looking for word genius you are in the wrong place but if you are in love with stories and poetry that revolves around our daily lives then get in and close the door behind you!

These Muhfaks Nearly Killed Me Before Covid 19!

I’ve had a near-death experience this evening. Damn! that was a ball-melting chase. The gov’t boys have given me a chase of my life.
I was coming from Jagero’s hacienda, after a ball-crashing FiFa finale that he lost when I moved right into their net. Bloody muhfaks were in four groups; one to usher you in and the rest to beat your ass senseless.

I saw these muhfakas before I entered the main road, but I thought they were drunkards having a good time. The next thing I saw they were seriously harassing these villagers, at which I made three steps back to read the situation.
Then the car that had been parked at the road began moving, and even let another car pass. Mi thought that was just a normal night with normal drunks. The trouble is, mi cyaant see far. All this time, a tray of people was getting the wrath of the police at a dark corner.

After I’d passed their car, I see this guy beckoning me.
‘Ras, can you run please’, he asked, rather politely.
‘Where to?’
Just like that I was a few steps past the car. So when the door opened, and he leaped forth, he was already late by four steps.😂

That was the first victory, but he kept running and shouting to the boys who were hitting the villagers to catch me. They sprang forth, but the weed in my head had seen the road through them.

Kwach with a laptop on his backpack, fucked-up vision, and weed in his head beat those muhfakas, literally slipped through their fingers.

After beating this group real good, I ran into a waiting car that sped beside me as we went toe to wheels. Vans to Yana. At that point I was almost gimoro 50 mitres kamae to branch.

Damn! we can all be Kipchoges if we’re exposed to these boys at the same epidemic temperatures as now. Those muhfakas blundered big time when they thought my speed would be slow enough for them to keep chase, but still open their doors and grab me.
Big mistake.
I knew they knew I knew they didn’t know where I was going. They also didn’t know when I was gonna slow down, nor when I was going to branch. And in their attempt to block the main road, they left the road home open!
It coulda been serious. I had my laptop in a backpack. I had my weed and lighter in my right pocket and a sanitizer in the left.
These balls are trouble, but they always survive me.

It is time to arrest rising police brutality
Source: People Daily

Why I Write ABout my balls

I overheard my neighbour asking Jesus to come now. People are here trying to kill the son of God twice.

I don’t talk about ’em balls to get girls, neither do I talk about them to entice women. I talk about balls because I own them.


I’ve held them in my palms, quizzed them, and gauged their pulse rate. We’ve held in-depth convos, disagreed, and made a truce.

I love them because they’re selfless. They never ask me why they never go in when the girls they seduced without intent show up. They are okay about staying outside. Even when they serve ’em proteins, they don’t ask to show a face.


They’re not like your MP who prints her face on Sanitary towels. Trust me, they don’t need cheap publicity.
They’re not like your woman who spreads her legs for you but severe your reputation in post-coital evaluation.


They’re not like your best friend who’ll spread your name after bailing you out.
And they’re not like your BFF who never shows up when you need them to.


Balls are philanthropists in small sacs. They give and give but never ask for much.
You talk about your Mercedes, or V8, or Subaru, or your wife. Let me talk about the marbles.
They have survived me.

Men; its hygienic to oil your balls and this is why - Capital ...

War zone

war zone

I’m still stuck between yesterday’s tragedies and tomorrow’s promises
Embers of life dying with every passing day
Love life. Live life. Easy isn’t it?
Living in a war zone.
After the battles,
Some clean
Some don’t
So heaving chests breathe brutal bruises
A grenade exploded here
Bullet husks carpet my belly
Been sweeping too long
But years wage more wars against my sanity
God, make me numb, I’m paying the price.