CREATIVITY AND PROCREATION

That sensation!

That feeling!

That urge you get! That prompts you to masturbate or watch a sex video is simply draining you your creativity energy.

Procreation and Creativity are synonymous; the only difference is the energy given to the individual terms.

we were made to understand that nothing is new in this world, so you are definitely recreating the past, just like when they term reincarnation to be a something of value but do you get to ask yourself why you do not get to remember your old self but live with the reassumption that you have been in this world before, the world we live in is what you term it to be, enough of digression.

I term creativity to be a thing of creating something new, while procreation happens to be a term used for birthing new lives.

Beautiful distractions get along the line making the new life, idea, being, business, opportunity to take an unexpected shape and form causing it not to reach its full potential, when we let it all flow out without distraction or digression it blooms in a magical way.

Full responsibilities and some unequivocal terminologies tend to strengthen the creativity that is forcing itself out of our brain. when financial crippling attacks do not have any dominion over our creativity, we are the champion we envisage in our mind, and brain.

Ugly Distractions on the other hand tend to birth some not so called beautiful sensations, ugly distractions are ugly from head to toe. we live in a world where ugly distractions dominate a whole lots of procreations and creactivity. life itself knows how to serve ugly distractions back to back.

It is all in your heads and Hands NO!

some are while majority flows

some are in the cave while majority are giants you have to shadow box 

some are in the unknown fearful ocean where no one dares to dive in.

life and it rippling demons knows how best to stop beautiful Creation beit in procreation or creativity.

written by Wandehigflyer.

the almost extinct YEWANDE BABALOLA.😁

DAYS BEFORE TECH

                        INTRODUCTION

There was a time when life moved at a gentler pace. Days were measured

not by screen time but by sunlight, by footsteps to a neighbor’s house, or

by the ringing of a landline that everyone in the household shared. News

came through the radio, the evening paper, or the careful words of a

town crier. Children played in open fields, friendships were built on long

conversations, and communities were bound together by trust,

storytelling, and presence.

Those were the days before tech.

This book is not a call to abandon technology, nor is it a nostalgic

attempt to glorify the past. Instead, it is an invitation to reflect—to look

back at how life was lived before smartphones, the internet, and social

media redefined our routines, our relationships, and even our sense of

identity.

As you read, you may find echoes of your own memories, or perhaps

stories you’ve only heard from parents and grandparents. Either way,

the purpose of this book is simple: to remind us that while technology

has changed how we live, the essence of human connection—

compassion, presence, and community—remains timeless

                 CHAPTER ONE

                    The Rhythm of Life

Morning had its own orchestra long before screens did. Roosters

offered the opening note, hawkers rolled their refrains down the

lanes . Local Evangelist shouting -

“GBA Jesu Saye E, ijoba Orun

tide tan” (Accept Jesus in your life, the kingdom of God is here)

Broom sweeps kept time on compound floors. Children

answered the call with boots scuffed and uniforms hurried on,

slinging satchels that thumped like small drums. School began

with a bell or a shouted roll call; lessons were chalk on slate,

questions asked into a teacher’s steady voice, answers earned by

voice and effort, not by the glow of a search box.

Markets opened like living mosaics. Women arranged tomatoes

and peppers into glossy pyramids, traders called prices the way

drummers call dancers, and bargaining was a small theatre—

loud, witty, immediate. In offices the typewriter’s clack stitched

the day together; in villages, hoes and machetes marked the

steps of farmers who read the weather in their bones. Work was

visible, reputations obvious, promises kept face to face.

Back then, the compound tilted towards the shining full moon.

Children spilled into the yard, their laughter rising above the

hum of crickets. Ten-ten filled the night with claps and quick

steps; ayo seeds clicked against wooden boards like miniature

drums; suwe sent shadows darting between trees as bare feet

slapped the earth. Football matches stretched across sandy

grounds with stones for goalposts, while skipping ropes slapped

rhythm into the air. The moon was lamp, referee, and

companion, bathing the games in silver light until tired legs gave

way to stories.

When the circle stilled, elders cleared their throats, and the night

took on a new hush. Folktales began. The tortoise was a frequent

visitor, cunning and greedy, always teaching by failure. Children

leaned in as the tale of the sky feast was told—how Tortoise

borrowed feathers from the birds, renamed himself “All-of-

you,

” and tricked his way to a banquet. But pride betrayed him.

The birds reclaimed their feathers, and Tortoise fell to the earth,

his shell forever cracked as a reminder of greed. The children

gasped, laughed, and argued, their voices weaving into the night.

Other nights brought Anansi the spider, the hare, or the wise old

woman whose riddles outwitted kings. These stories were not

just entertainment—they were instruction, moral law wrapped

in laughter and suspense.The Rhythm of Life

When the games tired and the children lay on their backs tracing

constellations with their fingers, elders leaned forward and the air

changed — the night sharpened into an appetite for tale. Folktales did

something practical and sacred: they encoded cultural law into

laughter and surprise. The trickster tortoise, the wise spider, the clever

hare — these were not just characters; they were mnemonic anchors

for ethics, wit, and caution.

Moonlight games and folktales performed civic work. They trained

attention, memory, and moral sense in ways that modern feeds and

notifications rarely do. The night that held both a skipping-rope rhyme

and a story of cunning was also a night where community memory

was rehearsed and handed down. You learned who had the loudest

laugh, who could tell a story with proper shape, who kept a promise.

Presence mattered; listening mattered.

This was life’s cadence before tech: hands that played, mouths that told,

and ears that learned. The moonlight was both stage and lamp; the

folktale was script and law. As technology arrived and rearranged

rhythm into pings and streams, many of these small civic rituals

shifted, thinned, or migrated to new forms. But in memory they

remain vivid — not as romanticized relics, but as practical models of

how culture used to teach itself.

Life before technology was not fast, but it was full. A letter arriving

after weeks carried the weight of ceremony; a visit from a relative was

celebrated as an event. Waiting was part of life, and in that waiting,

value was born. Presence mattered, and memory lived not in devices

but in voices, minds, and hearts.

That was the rhythm of daily life before tech—slower, yes, but never

empty.

           CHAPTER TWO

         The Art of Communication

In the days before technology, words traveled on legs, in ink, on wind,

and in memory. There was no “delivered” check mark, no blue tick of

confirmation. To send a message was to trust people, patience, and

Providence.

Across continents and cultures, people found ingenious ways to share

stories, pass on messages, and preserve knowledge—without a single

byte of data. Whether under the stars in the savannas of Africa or in

the icy plains of the Arctic, the need to connect was universal.

In ancient Mesopotamia, clay tablets bore the first known form of

writing—cuneiform, a script etched with a reed stylus. It was used to

record trade, taxes, and the stories of kings.

The Egyptians developed hieroglyphics, intricate pictures that spoke

of gods, battles, and dynasties. Their scribes were gatekeepers of

power and memory, trusted with secrets of the pharaohs.

In China, oracle bones and bamboo slips recorded everything from

royal decrees to astronomical observations. Paper, one of the world’s

most transformative inventions, was born there long before the

printing press in Europe.

But writing was only one form of communication. In North America,

the Native American tribes used smoke signals, beadwork (like

the wampum belts), and complex sign languages to convey messages

across distances and between different linguistic groups.

The Art of Communication

In Australia, Aboriginal peoples communicated through songlines—oral

maps passed down through generations in songs, each line charting

physical and spiritual journeys across the land. Their messages lived not

on paper but in melody, memory, and myth.

In the Arab world, long before radios or newspapers, poets were the

voice of the people. A single poem could spread like wildfire across the

desert, stirring rebellion or calling for peace. Even caravans carried more

than goods—they carried news, gossip, and stories from distant lands.

Meanwhile, in Europe, heralds and messengers rode from kingdom to

kingdom, their words bearing the weight of war or alliance. Church

bells tolled not just for prayer but for danger, celebration, or the death of

a king.

In every corner of the world, communication was deeply tied to culture,

landscape, and spirituality.

And so it was in Nigeria, where the drumbeat replaced the printing press,

and the town crier served as both journalist and broadcaster. While some

wrote on parchment, others carved messages into memory. Where ink

failed, rhythm spoke. Where letters were scarce, the spirit danced.The

compound itself was often the first newsroom. A woman sweeping at

dawn could call across the fence,

“Mama Sola, have you heard?” and just

like that, information leapt across families. What began as whispers

became discussions, then debates, then news. Children were the most

common messengers. They darted through alleys barefoot, carrying

words like treasures tucked in their small mouths.

“Your uncle is here!”

or “Papa says you should come home quickly.

” Some messages were

grand—births, deaths, weddings—others were comically small:

“Bring

back the pot you borrowed.

” But every errand mattered, because the

child’s reliability carried the family’s honor.

There is something humbling in realizing that no matter how far apart

the world’s people lived, they all sought to do the same thing: to connect.

Whether by firelight or signal fire, gossip or through echoing chants or

silent signs, humanity has always reached out to one another—not just to

survive, but to be understood.Then there were letters. A letter arriving

was not a routine matter; it was an event. The sight of an envelope

bearing a faraway postmark stirred excitement. Families gathered

around as the eldest broke the seal.The Art of Communication

The words were not consumed in a glance but savored line by line, read

aloud, then reread silently. Each curve of handwriting carried personality;

each smudge of ink spoke of distance. Some letters bore perfume, others a

pressed flower, still others a photograph with a carefully written note at the

back. They were folded and refolded, kept in wooden chests, wrapped in

cloth, or tucked inside family Bibles. To receive one was to hold proof that

someone, somewhere, still remembered you. Replies were slow, but patience

made affection grow deeper, not weaker. Love letters especially became

heirlooms. Some lived longer than the lovers who wrote them.

For those without literacy, the town crier was the people’s broadcast. His

gong—kpàn! kpàn! kpàn!—cut through the dusk air, and people poured out of

homes to listen. Standing beneath the big iroko tree or at a village square, he

declared the chief’s orders, market days, or warnings of danger. He carried

no microphone, yet his voice reached the last hut at the edge of the

settlement. The town crier was both journalist and herald, his words binding

a community together. In his absence, silence meant mystery; in his

presence, truth was expected.

But beyond letters and criers, communication had its deeper codes. Proverbs

were the poetry of everyday speech. Direct words were often avoided;

wisdom was hidden in imagery. An elder would never simply say,

“Be

patient.

” Instead, he might say:

“Even the okra plant does not grow taller than

the farmer who planted it.

” The hearer had to chew the words slowly, like

kola nut, before meaning emerged. Riddles, too, tested wit, while praise

poetry elevated names and lineages into living history. To master language

was to master life.

Courtship was another theater of communication. A young man in love did

not slide into a young woman’s “DM”

—he sent messages through elders, gifts,

and symbols. Kola nuts presented at a family’s doorstep spoke louder than

words. Songs under the moon carried hints of desire. Even silence had

meaning: averted eyes might mean “not yet,

” a lingering glance “perhaps.

”

Love letters, when they came, were careful dances of metaphor. A girl could

hide one under her pillow for months, rereading it until the ink blurred.

      The Art of Communication

Quarrels, too, had their language. Two neighbors in conflict might

shout insults so loudly the entire street became audience. But

resolution was never faceless. Elders summoned both sides, sitting

them in the open where reputation, shame, and reconciliation all had

weight. Words mattered because they could not be deleted. They

stayed in the minds of those who heard, carried into the marketplace,

repeated at festivals, remembered for years. A reckless insult could

destroy a name, just as a wise apology could restore it.

Drums also spoke. The talking drum was more than an instrument; it

was a language in itself. Skilled drummers bent tones to mimic

speech, sending coded messages across miles. A rhythm might warn

of danger, announce a king’s arrival, or praise a warrior’s bravery.

Entire villages could understand without a word spoken. To hear the

drum was to hear a pulse of identity, a reminder that language was

not only in mouths but in hands, sticks, and stretched hide.

Songs carried messages, too. Women sang at the grinding stone,

embedding gossip into melody. Farmers sang on the field, sending

words floating across furrows. Mothers sang riddles into lullabies,

weaving history into dreams. Even play songs among children

—

“Suwe, suwe!” or “Ten-ten!”

—carried small lessons about turn-

taking, rhythm, and resilience. Every sound communicated.

The pace of communication was slow, but slowness gave weight. A

letter could shape years. A proverb could settle quarrels. A drumbeat

could summon courage. A folktale told under the moon could linger

in memory until adulthood. Nothing was disposable. Nothing was

forgotten as quickly as today’s viral clip.

That was the art of communication before tech—layered, coded,

deliberate. It was not just about sending information but about

shaping identity. Every word spoken, every beat struck, every silence

held was part of the great conversation that built community.