Poem:

[ symmetry ]

😐
there are times i wish to be something
i don’t know
maybe a falconer
{or} maybe a sacred verse
from the qu’ran
that reads like the first vowel
used by the prophet muhammad.

there are times i want to ask my father
how many sun-melt it took
for him to burn his beard
before meeting my mother
at the last page of his readings
but i do not have the gullet
to swallow much of those words
for to my father’s clansmen
a child learns to chew only
what his throat can carry.

i have fought the devil before
i know his strength
i have seen his eyes before
they look like that of a boy
dried in the sun – & the sun
is every magic that breaks
upon the opening of god’s morning eyes.

& here on this streamside
there are many who think of tears
as the only distance
that separates a girl’s face
from her make-up in the mirror—
when she realizes that
she is half cosmetic & half every rumour
carrying a sinner’s plight to the heavens.

a boy muscles his hopes heavenwards
he sticks his fairly penciled chin in the wind
asks the wind for where hope dies
after it had flown out of the body
& when the sun downs its head at eventide
the boy gathers his body into his palms:

there is no heaven after death
there is no devil in the hiding
– the two bodies
– are earth with us
& faith upon streaming waters.
😐

 

Bio:

Abeiku Arhin Tsiwah considers himself in two worlds: earth & (or) magic — and water or & [spirit] —sprinkled beside a converged highway of motionless bodies. His breathe cuts through the nerves of words & many beautiful things that aren’t always beautiful. A Ghanaian of the Cape Coast fatherhood, Abeiku creates and performs poetry with the Village Thinkers — an afro-poetry footprint & edits Poetry for Lunaris Review, Ghana and Nigeria respectively.
Although widely published [or baptized] in several streams on the internet and in collected texts, Tsiwah prefers the joy & freedom that comes with being a creek on social media — his narrow space of a wall on facebook under his name.

Attachments area

 

 

THE NEW GODS

Yesterday…

Our fathers reverenced the ancestors’ altars

With lowered gazes of bowed heads

And with sobered hearts, they poured libations

To appease their fury gods.

 

Our elders cowered at graven images

Like timid dogs before dead foxes

And with chorused voices, they chanted incantations

To offer their cowries of pleas.

 

Our mothers took refuge in sacred shrines

Where strange fires of blind sacrifices

Were prepared with stale sticks of traditions

To break the shadowy arms of discomforts.

 

 

But today…

We defile the altars of our ancestors

With the fermented urines of our children

And we hurl the rituals of our fathers

To the wandering wind of oblivion.

 

 

We break the vows made by our mothers

At the navel of the village square

Where the piety kolanuts of fortune

Were revered by the molars of our elders.

 

The venerated relics of native oracles

Are fired into forgotten ashes

And we flaunt around as new gods

Who feed not with broken gourds.

 

 

Biography:

Ogedengbe Tolulope Impact is a chemical engineering graduate of the prestigious Obafemi Awolowo University  Ile-ife, Osun State. He started writing poems in 2012 and his works have appeared in various anthologies and literary websites.

Tolulope was one of the Wole Soyinka’s at 81 shortlisted poets, 2015 organised by the Poetry Court, and the 7th Korea Nigeria Poetry Fiesta, 2017 organised by Arojah Concepts. His poems won the 2016 maiden edition of Spring Literary contest, 2016 June edition of Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest (BPPC), and shortlisted poet for Poets in Nigeria poetry challenge.

Tolulope currently resides in Benin city where he writes and imparts children through teaching.

 

YET ANOTHER CORN SEASON

It is yet another corn season
Our mothers’ hearths grow cold
But the soils grow hot

Caking up with the rain of each season
The corns sprout in full bloom

Their ears and tassels kiss the face of the naked sun
But this is only in far away places,
Where peace is no misery
But for us, a luxury

But there is hunger in the land
Sitting by our bedside
Feeding us death for supper
Counting our grave stones

Opening up the walls of our intestine

Our shirts or torn
We go about with nameless faces
Wearing our bereavements like a badge of honour
Pressed against the walls of suppression
Our hands, tied to our backs
Our tongue, castrated from our entrails
We hover around like zombies
With our teeth on edge
Looking for preys to pounce on
We have been made foreigners in our own land
Uprooted from our farmsteads

Made fragments for the hawks to feed on
Buried and decayed
Pounded and sifted
What more can we say?
What more is left of us and our cursed lands?

Our hands ache for the hoe
Our hearts pant, and with time, grow weary
But fear grips us
As we watch from afar
In far lands hearth to, where
Corns bloom in their full season
Yet, our part is to watch our hungrysoil

Hungry for seeds to be planted
In yet another season
Where no corns bloom in their season.

It is yet another corn season
The moths eat our cobs black
Our children with sunken eyes and distended stomach
Those eyes judge us; they cry for what we cannot give
A dead child is good news to the stomach
Others must have a meal

It is yet another corn season
This is how it all began
A man honest to his hoe
Another pledged by his cattle
At dawn
The hoofs rustled the corns
It made them shake from the roots
The farmer comes in the morning
Panting near the corridors of death
His cutlass is made bare  from their hiding place
Gun powder blinds the eyes that can see
Women with their children on their dangling breasts
Run like rustled cows
Young men with blood on their hands
Prance about in raged tirade
But a night came
When peace was covered in black
It knocked on each door
But no one answered
In my sleep
I heard their footsteps
I smelt flesh burn
I saw my father beheaded
And yet for many years
We wait for a season of bloom,

for yet we hope,

After so many years, and counting

For another corn season

 

 

 

 

BIO

Udemezue, Oluoma loves to read and write; she also enjoys movies, oldies, and meeting new people. Oluoma believes that life is nothing without a touch of culture,  romance, thriller and reality. Her short stories and poem have appeared on different online magazines (pulse.ng, amakaanozie.wordpress.com, creativeprizes.com, coutales.com, etc,) and blogs. Catch her on: udemezueoluoma@yahoo.com, Udemezue, Oluoma Judith on Facebook, Instag- oluomaudemezue, and Twit- @Udemezueoluoma.
 

We are privileged to have Professor Joe Ukemenam. United Nations Expert on African Development, Senior Researcher at Enugu State University of Science and Technology. Adjudicator Employment Tribunals England and Wales. Chairman, Enugu State Diaspora UK & Ireland

FINDING REASONS

For a body gone wrong

 

How do you rebuild a broken cathedral?

Do not make a fool of me with tales

of healing and hope and heaven

 

for home does not taste the same

once chipped like granny’s china

bearing curses to ends and beginnings.

 

Mother says, ‘say a prayer son’. I open

my mouth and my words run into heads

and lips and hands burning brisk and brief

 

places meant for holy. Joy is a quickie

cumming and going in her seasons and

Father is an eternity, going and coming;

 

a little boy searching for rainbows’ end.

Mother says ‘Man must be patient. Man

must wait’. Each time I try to spell Man,

 

I fall into father’s fetters, and awake

covered in my lover’s blood. How does one

sing his own dirge- a mocked mother spills

 

into an ember of questions? Freedom is a chaff

the wind blows away, yet this temple remains

a body of wrongs, a work of art. I am enough.

 

WordPress:    www.wisdomotikor.wordpress.com

Facebook:     Wisdom Nemi Otikor

Instagram:     @wisdomotikor

 

Biography

 

Wisdom Nemi Otikor believes that writing is therapeutic and sees poetry as a course to healing.

 

He is from the Niger Delta region of Nigeria. He still believes in love and happily ever afters- he strives daily to create his. Home to him is firstly Mom and his two younger brothers, other things can follow.

 

He is a bubble of laughter in a city of God.

 

 

Attachments area

 

IN THE KERNEL OF SERVICE

 

• Richard Inya

 

An armed revolution

Rages against quietness

In the belly of starving retirees

Their intestines are trapped snakes
Struggling to break loose
Ever seen they that chew silence
And swallow air?

Pity is a bucketful of a minute silence
Harvested from the bosom of caretakers
Waiting to cast oration on graveyards

Promises sway despair

Vain promises are faecal stuffs

From the anus of bloated talks
This path is not far from mass murder
Another has just fallen whose statue
will never make it into the square

 

II

 

At the tail of service

Is a houseful of ghosts

Echoes and questions

 

Should I go or should I stay?

What if tomorrow doesn’t come

Or hunger lifts me away like a hawk?

 

Fifty something is allergic to jokes on age

Trepidation begets rejuvenation

In the enclave of browning records

Manipulation hands out extra years

To faces ripe to vacate the facade of duty

 

Retirement songs echo the sounds of war with self

The sphere of service is a mountain village

Every swift leap or brisk walk awaits accounting

When age meets with the year of reckoning

 

 

III

 

Giant hawks prey on pension funds

Hawks are rock-hearted caretakers

Nay, lions watching over aged sheep

 

Out in the cold the old queue

The lot of veterans exalts beggars

And sets the feet of the fledgling

On the path of wanton thievery

 

The piteous lot of pensioners

Is the offence of tribesmen

The offence of tribesmen isn’t offensive

Tongues and tribal marks settle scores

 

Wellbeing of the aged is the Holy Grail

The search for this is endless

Arthritis accompanies spent legs

On their way to another round of verification

There shall be more and more roll calls

Until more names fly with the hawks

 

Richard Inya is a Nigerian poet and short story writer. His works have been adopted for use in over eight states in Nigeria. Apart from his literay engagements, he works at Federal University Ndufu-Alike Ikwo, Ebonyi State. He is the Vice Chairman, Ebonyi State Branch of the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA). He writes and

We are privileged to have Dr. Dayo Olomu, the Vice Chairman, Chartered Institute of Personnel & Development, South London, a renowned international motivational speaker, human capital development expert, corporate trainer, business mentor, executive coach, award-winning event host, bestselling author and marketplace minister.

“WHERE IS OUR BENUE” WRITTEN BY LINUS AJENE, IN MEMORY OF THE DEPARTED SOULS OF THE MIDDLE BELT REGION

LINUS WAS ALSO A FINALIST OF THE TONY TOKUNBO FERNANDEZ INTERNATIONAL ONLINE POETRY COMPETITION 2018

 

WHERE IS OUR BENUE

For some days (if not weeks) or months or rather years now, I have got my torchlight looking for our BENUE – the BENUE of many years ago where goats and lions traded in the same market and they could make peaceful transactions including trade by barter and the atmosphere would still maintain her tranquil breeze that makes everyone smiles affectionately; but I have not seen that ancient, glorious BENUE. So, where is our BENUE.

Where is our BENUE? The BENUE where I only read about killings from books and I once told SAM, my friend that, “this must be a make-belief story; how can a man kill a fellow man” when I read the story of killings from books and newspaper, and SAM would say in his natural pragmatic way, “TOM, I believe it happens”. I only got to agree with SAM when I got to Borno State, but now killings have become the daily news headline in BENUE. I ask, where is our BENUE?

I can no longer sleep. When I close my eyes, I hear the voice of children and women wailing all over the street of Okpoga, seeking justice, crying about their lives made short and their dreams got shattered. The street of Okpoga is covered with plenty ghosts from Logo, Guma, Agatu, Gwer West, Gwer East, Omusu and other places of the killing. They are crying from Okpoga to Otukpo and to Gboko, seeking where to tender their case. They are homeless ghosts scattered around with tears flooding the streets and mixing with the pool of blood in River Benue. This is not our BENUE. Tell me, if you have mouth to talk, where our BENUE is?

Our River Benue is no longer the place of tourism and fishing. No water there anymore-it is now River of blood, the blood of the innocents. Our lakes and spring waters have rather become pools of fresh blood, no more water and no single food in our basket anymore; the basket is full of the heads of men, women and children. Smoke everywhere; but can the smoke take the cry of the innocent souls to Heaven?
I am still waiting for your answer, where is our BENUE?

Who had stolen our BENUE? Who had bedeviled our BENUE? Who had bewitched our BENUE?

Where is our BENUE.

———
Abah, Linus Ajene was born in Ogo Oluwa L.G.A. of Oyo State and brought up in Idiri Okpoga in Okpokwu L.G.A. of Benue State where he has his biological root. He is a 400L student of Benue State University studying English/Education with the ambition of become an African Literature scholar as he progresses in life with time. He was the first runner-up of the 2017 Albert Jungers Poetry Prize and was also shortlisted for the 2018 Tony Tokunbo Fernandez International Poetry Competition. He is the current President of Writers League, Benue State University chapter. He write poems and prose-fictions.

 

MOTHER WILL BE WELL AGAIN

Yesterday, I wore agbada; today I’m in suit
Which one fit my black face?

Sunrise rises with indignation-
Beating me in my face to the wall
Crying the cry of my misery only fuels
the imbroglio of my nightmare
I’m a child of a Mother seeking a new mother
that will mother me into a warrior

I heard Mother had breast fed warriors
I heard She was dark, tall and strong:

Mother is alive-breathing hard to survive
I’m Her child chased to the cage to be caged
from Her tears
I’m the child seeking oases in my father’s land
I’m the child castrated by the mixed history of Mother

Listen!
Mother is bleeding heavily:

Yesterday;
Jack and Jim raped Mother at the bank of
Nile when the day was calmed
But the world was deaf when She cried
Mother was defiled by strangers

All I heard, all I know-
Mother was raped after Berlin’s meeting:

But, where is father?
Father should hold his arrow-
I mean his hunting arrow
That has brought down elephants and
tamed the howling mouth of hyenas
To avenge for Mother

Oh! Father was bedeviled-
I heard the tale:

Jack came to pray for father
Jim clothed father with suit and hangman’s rope
Father was tricked to England
He left his arrow at the feet of Kilimanjaro

I dream to become a man
With amplified voice:

I’m still a running-nose kid of Mother
Whenever I hear of Mandela; of Wiwa; of Senghor-
Of the scars that greeted their skins after their shout-outs
I fear to raise my voice to speak for Mother

Hope for Mother and me is jingling
And in the next wet season, I will talk:

I have elders of the great savannah-
Despising father’s dancing steps
Holding firm their flutes
Singing songs of the revolution

And let the whole ears hear that-
We have Voices and we have flutes:

In prison and in pains
They cling to their flutes
Singing, singing, singing
Singing for me that Mother is alive
And Mother will be well again

*                                         *                                                     *

Abah, Linus Ajene was born in Ogo Oluwa L.G.A. of Oyo State and brought up in Idiri Okpoga in Okpokwu L.G.A. of Benue State where he has his biological root. He is a 400L student of Benue State University studying English/Education with the ambition of become an African Literature scholar as he progresses in life with time. He write poems and prose-fictions.

Attachments area

The Nigerian Community Association in Bradford in conjunction with Just a little help organisation presents “UK IMMIGRATION TODAY FROM A HUMANITARIAN PERSPECTIVE” on Saturday the 23rd of June at The Fields Sports and Social Club, Chelsea Road, Bradford BD7 2RE

ADMISSION FREE, REFRESHMENTS WILL BE PROVIDED

This is an event you cannot afford to miss, Watch this space for more updates