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Showing posts from June, 2013

KISUMU CITY (by Socrates Mbamalu)

The crowd ahead filled him with curiosity. Chains of thoughts formed in his mind. What could be the cause of the gathering? The political climate in the country had been tense after the ethnic clashes that took place few years ago. Was it a political rally? Thoughts bombarded his mind. The crowd did not look angry. It therefore could not be the lynching of a thief. Only few things attracted a crowd of such size. It was either a crusade or a thief being beaten. Maybe the normal promos and bonanzas organised by various companies. As he tried to study the mood of the crowd, amongst them young boys and girls, there was this sense of electric excitement. The older men and women carried branches of leaves and chanted praise names. Surely it could not be the coronation of a chief. He would have heard about it.
The source of the crowd’s excitement still remained a puzzle to him. He asked the ‘bodaboda’ to stop and paid his fare. He squeezed himself through the sweaty bodies of some smelly per…

FOREST GUESTS (by Oludipe Samuel)

We must set ears
To the oak; Before earth comes bare,
Walnut-froth suckles the sky - as who would
Await dread on a feathered night,
Wreathe oil-lamp in faint smoke
To offer swollen noses of these silent gods

To wake the path home, wipe
Your knives against the baobab counterpane,
Hear the spliced phrases of sap
Not grumbles of hunters lost,
Silenced in wilted hoots of night children,
Rasps in the vale, unnerved
Beetle-wings and river mussel lean
On shrub-toothed shadows. Cut your sight
And brush your ears alone on the bark;
Yours the healing brew...

Foot for tremor, the knee, hoarfrost
Let steeds - tenuous to sight -
The darker tangles tramp. For sooner
Shall you defy webs of grimace
To stroke enamoured seam of human mysteries
But they mock you, these raised voices
Of forebodings after a barren journey:
New tales - curses prised from the scab -
An avant-garde shock, intricacies spun
On chronic trails where treads came heavy,
Brainwaves drench the drone
Of a passing foreign breeze

On this
State, it shall be - a col…

The Best Poem (by Stephen Dick)

The best poem is not
Of paper nor is it of pen
It is of body and mind
That is now from then
When you flirt your words
Into eyes of men
And to be sugar
You don't have to pretend
Beauty will keep
Your 'start' from 'end'
And your words from depth
Will be 9 from 10

The best poem isn't written
For words aren't enough
The best poem is made
Because it is love
So touch your lines
Asmooch on love's curves
And kiss your rhymes
With a kiss of 'lip-cuffs'
Rub passion where
The sun left off
And the best poem
Will come the moon off

(c) Stephen Dick. 5/6/13

(Stephen is a reputable Nigerian Poet whose works have appeared in various publications.)

UGO BANK (by Chisim Chukwu)

Ugonna nwa m,

Kedu? How are you doing? When I received the news of your employment, my joy ran over! A job at a bank? What a dream come true. I have always wanted one of my children to be in the bank, to touch money and own it! This job came in good time. Nwanyiamaka can now proceed to Medical School since she now has a capable big sister who can handle her fees and not bat an eyelid. Your mother too is very excited. She displayed her dancing skills for close to an hour the day your message got to us. The waist that I thought had retired came alive that night. She reminded me of the Erinma whose waist young men fell over themselves to watch during festivals. Ah, how time flies and men age!

I write this letter to tell you that your father is proud of you. You are setting the pace for your sisters. They will emulate your independent spirit and try to fight for their place in life rather than sit back here, waiting for your mother and I to take wine to Honourable Omego for a job at the L…

A Poem Written By God (by Sen Ihenyen)

I long to write a poem on the walls of your heart,
that whenever your heart beats,
you will feel the throbs of my love,
steaming beyond the flames of February fourteen.

But whenever my eyes fall on yours,
Your eyes gleaming on my mobile wallpaper,
Heightened hills of ignited imaginations
break into dust, waterfalls of brimming
emotions lean to a slithering drop,

Because what I see before me
Is a work of poetry,
of art, of nature, of perfection, of
immortality -
my muse is too bemused to mould your being
with the clay of human hands, the mortality
of human desires, of human

The word of God has become flesh in you,
Would you dwell inside my heart so true,
For I now long to write on your lips with a
You’re a poem written by God in bliss.

( Senator Ihenyen is a notable Nigerian poet. "A Poem Written By God" is selected from "Stranger in the Mirror of My Life & Other Pieces", a forthcoming collection of poems.)

Nocturnal Swots (by Nzube Ifechukwu)

craning, oil-sullied necks
contaminate eyes

sore pains seeping through knees
water-quench persistent blinks

knees sag
in lieu of lids

somnambulists rare
as iroko faggots

Day, your light
Night, a brighter light
prodding nature’s pupil

(Nzube is a Nigerian poet)

Kindness (O.C Zinny)

I may not have
The fattest ride
The biggest mansion
The cuban cigar
But the little I have
I shall give.

My account
May twinkle red
My shoes
May be swearing to heaven
But the little I have
I shall give.

I will not wait till
I have excess to
jingle in my pocket
Till I have leftover at dinner
But the little I have

(O.C is a Nigerian Poet. When She is not writing, She is living.)

LIBERATED (by Olisaeloka Onyekaonwu)

Strained rays of light
piercing into the bars of caged emotions
setting loose the fire of concealed desires. Desires stiff in solitude,

Dry thirsty emotions, gasping, longing,
flames from our soul
binding us together in passionate wishes,

Light from the cloud of truth
liberates our shackled passions, guiding our emotions
to the cathedral of Romance,

I must voice:
no longer are we strangers
chained in the shackles of darkness
staggering for another's soul-love.

(Olisaeloka is poet and short story writer)

After The Funeral (by Chimee Adioha)

Three weeks after Papa died and two weeks after the funeral service at St Paul’s chaplaincy, I was sitting on the hotel bed, rubbing my fingers along the embroidery on the brocade I and mama wore on the burial day. I loved the texture and the patterns but the clothe smelt of grief. I will tell Aunty Patty to get me another one.

Mama came into the room and watched me with berieved eyes. Her low- cut hair was covered with a net cap she complains stings her scalp. I saw sorrow sitting in her eyes and wished I could drive it away. She folded her arms across her chest, and spoke in a cracked voice. “Ifunanya, are you sure you are alright?”

“Yes mama.”

“I know why I am asking” she said.

I smiled and lay on the bed. She saw my pains, the shock of being without a father at nine. I loved papa, deeply. Even though he had slapped my face for holding hands with a boy and had deducted my second term fees for breaking the mirror in the visitor’s room, I loved him still.

Mama told me that w…

WATERS OF ORIGIN (by Socrates Mbamalu)

Once . . .
My eyes saw what they refused to believe.

I waited like the long travelled Saharan camel
Thirsty and thirsting. . .
I longed and panted like the deer
For waters of clean origin

Once. . .
My eyes saw what they refused to believe

The human sacrifice to the gods,
The sacrifice of an osu
Blood must be spilt!
The land must drink

Once . . .
My eyes saw what they refused to believe

The dotted leopard playing with a lamb
The spotted cheetah eating grass
Africa must remain Africa
The birth of all mankind

Once . .
My eyes saw what they refused to believe

The sugar coated skin of my queen
Beautiful as the palm tree
She I saw
And my eyes refused to believe

(Socrates is a young and very gifted poet. More of his poems would appear here.)

Homecoming (by Chimezie Chika)

The trees posed
No sudden intrusion
Into this train.

My thoughts
Fleeted away like the trees
Past this moving train

Vision of past
Mingled and mangled
The present.

The spirit walks
Backwards towards
The vague
Retrospection of events.

The spirit roamed
Among the debris
Of the past,
Reeking in mutilation.

Splashes of human vulnerability
That exiled
The freedom of man
That chased him out
Matchet in hand
The house of exile.

Return is imminent
As the treshold
Opens its benign
Mouth to swallow me

The halcyon of forest whispers
And singing beings

Homecoming becomes
The moment of open arms
And warm embraces.

(Chimezie Chika is a young Nigerian writer born twenty years ago. He is interested in human experiences and condition; these drive his writing. He has been published in blogs such as WRRpoetry and Lyriversity.)

The Walls Between (by Uzoma Ihejirika)

That evening, on the eve of Christmas, Rachel sat before the television, looking, but not seeing. Her thoughts were miles away and her heart, laden with grief.

Feeling light-headed, she placed the back of her hand on her forehead and reclined her head on the cushion, letting out a deep sigh. Then the tears hanging at the corners of her eyes coursed down her cheeks.

A hand rapped on the door, startling her to reality. She strained her ears to be sure. The knock came again, this time, louder. She quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Na me!”

“Who?”she asked, irritated. “Who?” she quizzed again.


Rachel sighed. She walked towards the door. She could hear the faraway sounds of firecrackers.

“Hapi Christmas, Anti Rachel.” Johnpaul’s lips stretched into a smile. “I wan–”

“What is it?” Rachel snapped at him.

The little boy was taken aback. “Em… I just wan come wish you hapi–”

“Thank you,” Rachel said curtly, making to close her door.

“Em… Anti Rachel.…

African Women(by Ogarama Goodness)

We are meek
Yet proud.
We know humility
Despite how much we earn.
We take pride in our heritage;
Our cultures and values we hold in high esteem.
Our culture is our identity;
Our values,our worth.
Our heritage defines us. Our thick hair, our crowning glory.
African Women,
We are proudly African.

( Ogarama Goodness is 17 and she majors in English at the University. Asides writing and reading, she loves Cooking)

African Women (by Ogarama Goodness)

We are meek
Yet proud.
We know humility
Despite how much we earn.
We take pride in our heritage;
Our cultures and values we hold in high esteem.
Our culture is our identity;
Our values,our worth.
Our heritage defines us. Our thick hair, our crowning glory.
African Women,
We are proudly African.

( Ogarama Goodness is 17 and she majors in English at the University. Asides writing and reading, she loves Cooking)

Mother Says.... (by Ucheoma Onwutuebe)

Mother says
The world has gone rife with perversity
So we look at it
Only through the windows of the living room
Don't play with the kids outside
They are below contempt
So we sit in front of the TV
Ladled with oily snacks and big toys
To the escape the perversity
Of the outside world

But what we see in the box
Mugs our childhood
Leaving us more rotten
Than the kids who play outside.

(Ucheoma blogs at

MARTINA ( a short story by Chimee Adioha)

Martina returned on a Sunday evening when the rains had stopped and there was a rainbow in the sky.

I watched Martina play with little Junior in front of the veranda. My head burnt.

Martina wore her usual white gown and Junior touched the ends and ran away. Martina ran after him. They played, but my head still burnt.

Martina was too guilty to be with Junior. She had left Junior with me and ran to a man who was not her husband. Now she is back to her senses, and she is playing with our son.

My eyes were tired of watching. I had pressed my face to the burglary proofing, from the room where I watched.
They are still running. Then Junior stained her white gown and she had slapped him.

Junior broke down in tears and rushed into the house, coming to me. He placed his face, hot with tears on my laps. I touched his head and he did not cry again. We were silent in the room for awhile.

Martina shuffled in with her bathroom slippers along the corridor.
She pushed the door open and stood there, her …

Sexual Epiphany (by Ucheoma Onwutuebe)

I was nine, my fifth year in elementary school when one day, out of curiosity, I pulled out my mother’s Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English and looked up the word 'sex'. I wish I had spared myself that knowledge for suddenly, my little world took on a harsher hue. The second meaning of the word was not as intriguing as the first-it was just a synonym for ‘gender’. But it was the first meaning that took preeminence; it handed me a ticket to the theatre of the adult world. Now I knew what my King James Bible tried to hide from me when it used the word ‘intercourse’. I knew what was in those movies grown-ups watched behind locked up doors after they shooed us away. I knew what might be in those books and magazines my aunties hid from me and slapped my hands whenever I touched them, shouting, "This book is not for small children!”  
So this was it. Really…? I see….

Sadly, I was alone in my discovery. It was too risqué to share with fellow playmates and too risky to confi…

It Will Be My Shame

It would be my shame
And yours too

If our children
Still stormed streets
With angry placards
Hearts pounding in sedition
“All we are saying….”

If they’d still shout
And leap for joy,
“Up NEPA!”

If they’d still
Loll and recline at home
Because the gates of schools
Remain unopened,

If they’d still wheel a barrow
To buy water from
The next street

If after S S 3
They’d be unable
To spell their names.

It would be my shame
But yours too.

Tell Me The Cadence Of His Laughter (By Uche Omar)

that's laughable
you stand there,pitting yourself against me
thinking you can have me bested.
Do you know him
as much as I do?

Do you know the waves in which his hairs grow?
Have you crammed the thudding of his feet
as he climbs a flight of stairs?
Can you tell what haunts his dreams;
raison d'etre of his insomnia?
And you stand there, pitting yourself against me!

Have you ever held him when he shook in pain,
heard the cacophony,
the hiccups of his sobs?

Tell me how he smells when the sun's rays have been too hard on him.
How does he yawn when he is hungry?
Has he ever lain in your arms in that foetal posture
as a child lies,recieving warmth from the uterus?

Tell me the cadence of his laughter,
the melody of his voice,
the rythm of his heartbeat.

See, I have known him,
known him so well most times I wonder
what to make of my knowledge.

In me is a little radar
built in just for him.
I can spot him in a maze,
find his in a sea of faces.
His scents are my congenial company
when he is gone.

and you,