UNVEILING THE BN POETRY AWARD 2015 LONGLIST
Old Together by Femi Morgan (Nigeria)
I am an angry, bad mouth felon
But she loves me
She is a rusted anchor of complaints
But I love her, more than I love anything
I am the late comer and the slight eater
As if the soup is not sweet
She is the one who refuses me on that lofty place
But I love her and she loves me.
I am the ruffian, fussing here and there for things not missing
She is the silence when silence is the need
I am the butt of her jokes when the fuss is over
When lost is found and scattered becomes arranged.
I love her though I do not tell her, she knows
She loves me though she is too old to call me stupid names like ‘darling’
Our album is full as our cups are
Our children have gone away and we are children again
Longing for companionship not as rough as it began
It will soon be over
How soon we do not know
But it will be that of full smiles of old honeymoon
Transcending in a compass of time
We are old, old together.
A JOURNEY INTO SONGS by Gbenga Adesina (Nigeria)
(On the Benin road)
i
The leaves are an imagination of green:
Self-preening Limbas, doting, motherly Guava trees unfurling their
arms on this road. The oaks and mahoganies loop like
map lines that lead to love.
And you, being you, find yourself in a state of desire
You want to touch and be touched. To fold yourself into a song, into a ballad
and give of it to this air. To re-listen to these places with new eyes, you
yielding to the road, the road yielding to you. Hugh Masekela cooing beside you;
the sheer thrush of self-surrender.
ii
But really, I’m thinking these greens, these twigs are opening sentences
I’m thinking, really, that roads are people and people are roads and
when we take them, navigate them, what we come into is a soft surprise
of songs. Some bright watermarks, some dark or maroon like love or loss
like these trees and their cheerful leaves beneath which there is a dying and a sighing
and a loving, like the red wound in Hugh’s voice as he twirls and twirls me into his space,
my hands trembling on the gear.
I press down on the pedal. Our car is a purr scissoring through the night.
iii
We are now at a junction where a slim, red-brown road on the left
slithers down the green into something we do not know
If I turn this wheel, careen down the road into its dusty insistence
Will I see her
My mother: a little Benin girl again making dreams in sand
or her father, Abulema, bare chested sculptor, his fingers
quick to love as to wood, nursing a bronze slap into a god
a waiting in his eyes, under this April sky relentlessly preaching
the gospel of rain.
Elixir by Femia Nkansa (Ghana)
When you touch me
My pores turn to pupils
I can see you in the crevices of my skin
You leave footprints under my eyelids
Your soles azonto on my irises
I touch my face
breathing your taste into my fingers, your fear into my fury
I cup fireflies in my palms
Cradling them as they flicker
on and off…on and off…
There is residue from us
Glued together
Like tape to paper
If the earth splits
wide like a plum squished in the sun
Will the rays reflect the thin-veined blood
smeared like grease on the cusp of the sky
The threadbare frays of cumulus clouds
The simper of thunder whispering air into the
mouths of shooting stars
If the earth cracks
like a spread-eagled spine
florid, translucent as the dew
gliding
down the underside of a grape
the limpid drop
poised
crouched
gone.
And the earth rips,
split, like an expanse of belly
will you
still
traverse
the ends
of the horizon
to bathe
in the
oasis
of my tongue?
Death-fall by Nick Makoha (Uganda)
Before Koni, before Museveni, before Obote’s second term, before now
there was me. We were in deep Shit! Bridges couldn’t be fixed with gaffer-tape.
America stopped lending plasticine to fill pot-holes. I quit playing refugee.
Who among you was going to pay our country’s light bill? Well? You uninvited guests
like Rome, you will know where we put the bodies in their tunics and kangas. My sins,
both real and imagined, into the trap. To my brother my rival, when he comes
don’t let him tap the glass (idiots), devise his death. You stable-god,
a month’s worth of grain for the paratroop regiment won’t purge you.
New wives and shoes and a move to State House while we live in huts.
Home will see your troubles cursed. By the way, your Chief of Police,
into the trap. You who believed in Churchill’s prophecy. You innocents
ruled by a spinning earth, your tears will quench the barns we set fire to.
You who call your guns She.You papiermâché martyrs with north Kiboko accents.
You shadow soldiers who dig dead men from their graves. You in the motion of battle.
You who search the airwaves for the British World Service, who stare
spirits in the face but can’t stand heights, the rules say, into the trap.
I will not forgive the clan who sheds blood for party politics. Your god might.
The one with his hands up as he waves, ask the firing squad to send him
with the widowers, orphans and motherless sons, into the trap.
All you disciples of empires.Mr Men ministers who paraphrase over PA systems,
into the trap. Wrecked after five days of being held under decree nineteen.
Why riffle through your Yellow pages in search of Heads-of-state? Into the trap.
The executioner who lets you watch his navel after bare-knuckle fights, into the trap.
You who played The Bard on screen and stage, or quoted Aristotle, into the trap.
Your second tongue, into the trap. Lumino-boy with that Yankee
dialect, into the trap. It makes no difference to me, you sun worshiper.
Name your Icarus and fly, into the trap. You who abandon your wife’s thighs
for the cradle of a servant girl, into the trap. You at The Uganda Company Limited
(Trojans), because you gave us cotton but took our land, follow me with your horse mask,
into the trap. Those who offer me your skins as a fig leaf, let me carve a map
on your backs to Ithaca. You can hitchhike for all I care, into the trap. Take your stand
with the soothsayer in her snake dress. The ones who hesitate, into the trap.
Like Scented Mangoes by Arinze Ifeakandu (Nigeria)
I used to like the quiet in this place
Both of us
Seated under the mango tree
Sipping our tea in paper cups
Mum used to come and check on us
—Don’t climb up the mango tree, she said
But after she left you sprinted up
Agile as a monkey
And climbed branch after branch
The sunlight bathing you in the finest gold
And between us the scent of rotting mangoes
I was the fearful little one
Who watched with longing from below
As, balanced on a sturdy branch, you stared down at me
And smiled—You see? You see?
And then, clambering down, we stood side by side
Watching the sunset turn all bloody red
We have grown up too quickly
And I have traveled the world
Tokyo, Japan
Accra, Ghana
America, Everywhere
I have returned to this place
Where the silence now gnaws like rats’ teeth
Gentle-gentle, coolly-coolly
Between us, distance like scented mangoes
Mum’s grave white and marble
Behind the shrubs
Where once we lay side by side
And tasted the fading tea on each other’s tongue
Hands lingering at certain places
Your breath on my neck like warm-water air—
In Memory of a Loving Mother
—Memory like a frozen smile on a fading picture
Like childhood music at Sunday School
La lala
I look up and the flowers are budding between green leafs
Two paper cups lie buried in sand and twigs
I squat to pick them up
But I pick only dust.
**********************************************************
My Hair Is By Lua Davis (Cameroon)
My hair
is loud!
Like the
ricochet of voices rumbling
down the
streets of Washington, D.C. ,,
during the
march of 1963. It yells: “Here I am! Here
I am!” Even in silence.
My hair is triumphant.
Like the exultant echo of my mother’s footsteps as
she glided across that stage to embrace the
diploma of a first generation
graduate. It dances
to the discord of discrimination, never forgetting that
a symphony is only
made with patient persistence. My hair isresilient. Like
the Cameroonian women
of my family who toiled selling granuts &palm oil
on the red-clay-soil
roadside to ensure that their brothers received education:
women who, despite
being regarded 2nd, still moved mountains for themselves
and their kin. It revolutionarily recoils at the oppositional
pull of adversity in order to
revisit the importance of its roots. My hair is poetic.
Like songs loftily uplifted bymy
Bakossi people to heaven during prayer. Each strand is the
stanza of a love poem to
God. My
hair is proud. Like the coalition of kings and queens crowned with the
curls of their ancestors---whose hair continues to
bloom in spite of
the cumbrances of oppression. It blossoms
in common accord with allied heritage
preservation. My hair is intricate. Like
the diverse cloths that kiss the skin
of my African brothers and sisters.
It harbors clusters of contrasting
curl patterns: each beautiful in
its textured diversity. My hair
is a thank you note to the soil
from which we leapt, to sun--
kissed mothers plaiting their
childrens’ ulotrichous locks,
to the men and women
with raised voices and
elevated signs, protest-
ing in Ferguson, MO,
to the parents who
tell their dark-skin
babies, “You are
more than the
world says
you are.”
My hair
Is.
**************************************************
WOMEN LOVERS By Salawu Olajide (Nigeria)
She first said her biology was failing, and then her look, then her smile, then her feeling, then her heart. We look at each other on the rocking chairs. Listen, she says. The tube of her mouth holds something venal and serious. We long for each other. Finally. The finally comes as if it is the only intended word in the middle of the phrasing. She has a way of meaning her adverb. Did you moan on each other’s thigh ‘cept for sex? She says nothing but a nod which means yes. The sun seems to be gossiping through the window, I unhinge the curtain and let darkness swallow us. There are things they must not know. I whisper some calmness into her heart. She adjusts her gown and shows the part of her breast where she last kissed her. It is as if I have never loved before.
**************************************************************
Dusk dawn by Ann Waruguru Kiai (Kenya)
We walked with our heads bowed
Hands firmly pressed on our butterfly stomachs
We rolled like dead wood, not even once did we sway our hips
How did they know?
We walked on our toes in fright
Our feet never crushed an egg shell
We were silent than the wind
Who told them?
We cemented our breasts with mud
Clogged our vaginas with cow dung
Cut our hair and stopped smiling
Who betrayed us?
We never danced to the drumbeats
Our eyes never sparkled like the sun
We have always held our breathe
Never have we lived!
When they chased us down the stream
And slid their hands on our thighs
When they dipped us in water
And discovered our breasts
Was it you who whispered
That we are women?
***********************************************************
SUICIDE BOMBER by Emmanuel Okom (Nigeria)
Suicide Bomber, Suicide Bomber,
With Death strapped to your chest like a lover,
Death nestled at your back like a baby
Or Death sitting with you like a passenger-ally,
With eyes that mirror the burning embers of hell,
And a heart of refuse, full of scorpions, ready to venom-shell.
Suicide Bomber, Suicide Bomber,
You who hate multitude and number,
Who have no regard for the sanctity of human life.
What evil has gripped you so, that you bomb children and husband and wife?
Have you no regard for your own miserable and endangered life?
If you haven’t, what of the legion of lives you smash to pieces upon your life?
Suicide Bomber, Suicide Bomber, man-like in nature,
Maybe the Devil himself has changed your good nature
And made you to believe in the Utopian Seven Virgins of heaven.
May you be reminded that there is no marriage-heaven,
For those who refuse to gather but scatter and batter
Are doomed to suffer the pangs of death in hell’s crater.
un-man me, please by Samuel Oluwatobi (Nigeria)
the fangs of the night lust after my bones
yeti reach out for that innocence
in the corridor of childhood
i have been staring as my stars burn
into ashes that rain on my black hair
but it is sand that my hair hungers for
i want to sit at the storyteller's feet
and ride on the back of the cunning tortoise
i thirst for the milk of the morning
and to make my daily bread from mother's breasts
to be a man is to drown in the sea of your inner tears
i don't want to be a man again
let me be that child whose cheeks glisten with tears
take me back to the beginning of breath...
Lisbon’ed by Babatunde Fagbayibo (Nigeria)
The heat that greeted our arrivalat Lisbon was sweltering.
It was as if the gods of this cityhave employed this unbearable humidity to
melt our intentions,to distract us from peeling the layers of
this beautiful city and view itthrough the lens of its former colonies.
And here we are:Unperturbed strangers; children of the postcolony;
keen to navigate the contours of this city;link its narrow, hilly streets and
enchanting classic facadesto the struggle of liberation in its
ex-African colonies.
Every building, every lane, every street, every train station, sparked our curiosity.
We asked ourselves:Did AgostinhoNeto or Eduardo Mondlane
or Amilcar Cabral or GracaMachel ... walk these streets or live in these buildings?
Which aspects of their liberation ideas and strategies were hatched within these facades?Did they buy groceries in these shops or had coffee in any of these cafes?
Questions, Questions, Questions...
And the answers?
The warm, welcoming facesof Lisbonites provided no answers.
Yes we saw black faces as well. We said Obrigado and made corresponding nods,
but we couldn’t understand each other for they are Lusophones.
Instead of satisfying our curiosity, the imposing, classic facades of the city only
dazzled us and kept our fingers permanentlyglued to the flicker button of our cameras.
The narrow streets sucked us in,stretched our legs and allowed the
the excruciating heat to brutishly massage our black skins.
We didn't mind because we thought it would lead us to the answers.
Alas, it only led us to cafes, shops, restaurants … where our
whetted fashion and culinary appetite were adequately addressed.
We have been Lisbon'ed.
We fell in love with this city.In between its ancient and modern feel,
we found a space for expression.The self became apparent; the otherwas embraced.
Our post-colonial lens remains intact. The questions still rage but at the moment deferred,simply because we have been
Lisbon'ed.
Privilege by Mugabi Byenkya (Nigeria/Uganda)
The bottle spins as the reams of thoughts flutter by my consciousness
As my disjointed synapses fire off things I would not mind saying with confidence
The bottle stops.
On me.
Breath in…
PAUSE
Settle on one idea, I see
‘Never have I ever wished for the unearned advantages distributed based on the values of the dominant matriarchal society that we live in’
All the men take a shot
All the women sit in awkward defensive silence
Sometimes silence is violent
Sometimes silence speaks of untold and underrepresented voices
Sometimes silence speaks of long internally torn oppressed histories, also known as ‘background noises’
Sometimes silence tells a story
Sometimes silence tells this story from alternate eyes
Do you realize?
Sometimes silence is violent
Like that one night out
Or EVERY single night out
Going out for some drinks, dancing and good times with the guys
As we get on the dancefloor, we form a little circle, and the dance the night away to our hears content
Enter woman.
She tries dancing up on me, to which I reply
By turning around and politely explaining ‘I’m sorry but I don’t want to dance with you’
‘Wow’ she replies, ‘What do you think you’re too good for me or something?’
‘No’-
‘Then what?? You got a girlfriend or something?’
‘No’-
‘Then what?? Are you gay or something?’
‘No’-
‘Then’- WHAT, WHAT, WHAT, WHAT answer would ever satisfy one who does not care about what I want
This is NOT my story to tell..
Truth is, never have I ever wished for the unearned advantages based on the values of the dominant patriarchal society that we live in
Truth is, all the women take a shot
Truth is, all the men sit in awkward defensive silence
Truth is, silence is violent
Truth is, no matter how many female friends, girlfriends, mother’s, sisters, cousins etc. I have, I will never ever, fully relate to the female experience
Truth is, I cannot speak for a life I have not lived
Truth is, however angry and frustrated this makes me, this does not compare to the experiences of those that have to live it every single dayTruth is, I think I finally know what it feels like to be white
MY MOTHER’S REGRETS by Chiuga Veronica Akaolisa (Nigeria)
Mama would tell me stories of her past only at night
The melancholy in her voice could never be masked by darkness of the sky.
Her stories became a lullaby to my young, sleepy eyes
Her regrets, a cautionary tale for my growing mind
I still remember how her eyes glimmered with unshed tears
Held back by the resolution to her fate.
For every life she never lived, every chapter she never wrote
A book outlining my days was thus created.
A young, betrothed bride of nineteen, her innocence was ripped from her
Her pristine mind gradually replaced by sin and guilt
Her vivid dreams were bound by four walls and a cradle
Held prisoner by the cries of my soiled diapers
Our striking resemblance forced her to don a cape
Determined to prevent history from rewriting her story
Her back never grew weary of shielding me
Her laser vision, never tired of scrutinizing me
My childhood was consequently filled with bruises I never had
Lies I never told, mistakes I never made
Battles I never won and lessons I never learned
If only her frown remained turned, I thought
I would sit quietly in the box confining me
Her stories, I promised to tell
Her cross, I vowed to bear
I only wish the outside world wasn’t so tempting
Its enchanting call inviting me to create my own regrets
LHR: by Nick Makoha (Uganda)
An airport is a room. I keep talking as if my body is elsewhere.
In full sight of a crimson God as children we were burdens,
coffins with eyes. A professor steps into the light to educate us.
You can't kill the dead twice. Has he seen the militia slide down
a mountain like goats, or a beatingheart explode on to a barrack wall?
Even the coffee I brought back in hand luggage when poured in a cup
is an eye, a past dark itching for light.Therefore, I cannot be the memory
of your death, let me bend the waya river does, all shadow and sound,
around a hill, towards a village I once recognised. There are days
when this unplanned landscape speaks its music, above a ribbon of stars,
below a wall of torn out tents and beyond a river waiting as one would
the apocalypse. On other daysyou are a name on a list, given to armed men
at a roadblock. Guns held loosely by their waist. Hovering as catfish
in a shallow pool. Before roads led to you, or Livingston's maps found you,
before the mountains grew their backs, before sight was tempered,
before the revelation on a skies blank page in this perfect chalice of night
you are not the first pilgrim to ask the oracle what will I become me.
If I could stop the sky from stretching its arms across the horizon,
or the serpent Nile opening it's mouth toward a sea, or star blinking
in a midnight constellation as god watches your wife wash silk in a stream
would I not stopped our countries screams. I have the luck of Caesar
his robe his crown and quest for immortality but soon this course
of blue and the way it bends will have no need of me.
SHE SITS by Edidiong Bassey (Nigeria)
On a swivel leather chair,
She sits.
She sits,
Enclosed by walls of rusty case files;
Draft Minutes pile up her desk;
Instructions drop ceaselessly in her mail box.
She sits at12:30 p.m.,
She sits adjacent to the exit door,
Where her gigantic lady-boss towers and screams;
“They better be ready by noon or you get fired.”
Lost in her career as that “Corporate Practitioner”,
She sits.
She sits,
Sentenced to an uncertain term,
By someone else’s dream.
There she sits;
The speaker par excellence,
The great poet,
The undiscovered Dancer,
The Artist,
The Inventor;
On that dusty seat of failure,
She sits.
Smile by Kelvin Kaesa (Kenya)
She still has most of her teeth
and about five fake ones,
A great personality
and a smile to kill for…
She lives on the third floor
Fourth apartment, to the right
Five kids no dad, he’d left
He’d left because on certain nights in their single room,
He would come home mad and soaked in the stench of booze
Random fights
Streams of trashy talk and bloody eyes would always ooze
On a certain night in their single room,
He came home late with the usual stench of booze
She heard him call their daughter, “hey, baby-boo”
Saw him touch her
Her hair, her hips and now her boobs
Mighty quick, she picked a knife and slit right through
His chest to the left, where he had a tattoo
Of her name bold and shaded in blue
She wasn’t glad, but really sad that she’d missed his heart
On that night in their single room,
She ended up a single mom
With five kids, five fake teeth and a smile to kill for
And whenever her kids ask her,
She smiles and says,
“When life knocks you down,
Get up, dust yourself, don’t mind the scars and move on.
You can always buy fake teeth if you need them!
So smile”
A DIVORCE LETTER TO FEAR by Eseza Nabaggala (Uganda)
I don’t know what I was thinking
when I decided to get engaged
to you, later on marry you. The
years married to you have been
the most horrific of my life. You are so
self centered, all you think about is you.
I met someone new, his name is Faith
and he is incredible. Every moment with him is
a reminder of what I can be if only I believe in myself.
I didn’t have to give myself time to get over you since it
didn’t hurt to leave you in the first place.
As soon as me and Faith met, I decided to marry him
he is mine to have and to hold for the rest of my life.
I tried to walk down memory lane,
to find one reason to fight for our marriage.
I found none, all the memories that I have of you
are of dread and intimidation.
How many times have you talked to me
about how I can never amount to anything?
Or those images you have imprinted in my mind
showing me that the worst is yet to come?
And like a fool, I believed you. Looking
back I don’t know how and why I let myself
put up with you for so long. But not anymore
I won’t let you manipulate me, a single moment in my life.
Am sending you divorce papers
which I have already signed.
Whether you sign them or not doesn’t matter.
I made up my mind to leave you.
I also know that you will keep creeping on me
But that is all you will ever do, creep up on me
I will never give you the chance to manifest.
It’s said that you should not bang the exit door
because you might need to use it,
but I won’t say the same for you.
I didn't just bang the exit door,
I locked it with chains.
Am done and out with you, Good riddance.
PS: keep the divorce papers, you may be convinced
to sign them some time. Your ex wife, sorry slave.
Living for Dead By Ayeyemi Taye (Nigeria)
Must all the dead lie face up
In their confinements?
Maybe bats are right in their
Upside-down-ness in turning land to
Sky, in their dilemma: neither rat nor bird.
They should have tried something new.
Maybe the unchangeable can be changed
In this clickable age where men try
God’s patience with gender changes.
Cry the sea dry for them
In case they don’t survive.
Mourn the dead down the grave
In this universe of sadness.
Bury them in your sleep battered
By echoes that quake with fire,
By wind that blows off their dreams
As a white scarf on the line
As a paper kite on a suicide mission
In the den of wired poles where
They live on beyond the dream
Of remembrance because the resurrected
Will never go back to their graves.
How far they were from home?
As the distance between body and soul
A gap longer than the rail
But they should have been born old
And then ungrow into babies
And then buried as foetus
In the womb of the land
Where they have come
From young to dust and young to dust.
The pearl by Kitumba John Mary (Uganda)
she is as silent
As the brown dust.
she speaks in whispers like whirlwinds
And together they churn in the air
And get lost after a couple in distances
she wishes the sun hold back
Leave the morning in a gloom like the owl stare
she is faint of eyes that cannot see
When the wings of beauty are lifted
And hark in rays she is.
And today, tomorrow, like yesterday
She will lift eyes round as the globe
Roll her tongue small as a petal
Shine and glide with mild ease
And watch as they all go to sleep
She is a pearl
The outsider said so
In her house they will to break her
In her composure she soars
Light of her heart might just be contagious
She motions again
In gestures loud as the rat scampers
Slow to slur she treasures her keepers
Modest her fingers in softness
And yes, she is their mother
They called her the pearl.
Melanin God by Ama Asantewa Diaka (Ghana)
My motherland is made up of old people’s bones.
My motherland is the reason my bones
are jutting out like door knobs.
My motherland is the Monday morning
I accidentally slept through;
A pocket full of old currency notes,
The smell that invites the flies to the backyards,
The youth whose insecurities followed him into his 30s.
My people are full of words;
smart words, pseudo-intellectual words,
persuasive words, ignorant words.
But words never won a fist fight.
We’ve brought our hands together
in prayer at the smell of trouble for so long,
that we have forgotten we can join
those same hands together for work.
The foreigners sprinkle water on our smoldering beards,
so we believe in them.
They say they are trying to give us God,
but it looks a lot like they are trying to be him.
When shall we learn that God already resides in our melanin?
We take over from our mothers the act of holding our hands up
to prevent the sun from setting.
We grow weary, but our hands never fall to our sides
O
NLY WHEN IT RAINS by Adaeze M. Nwadike (Nigeria)
It is all true
Everything you heard about Uzo is true
That he left on a hot night
And never turned back
That the sky appeared in my dreams that night
Brightly dark; heavy with clouds
And in the morning I wished we could talk
I wished we could say all that we left unsaid
All the bitter words we hid in our hearts
That drenched our souls
It is true that during the noon
They poured out as tears
Because the sun goes mad during the day
And frown cloudly at night
I wished it rained
It is true
Everything you heard about waiting day and night is true
That the days seemed longer
And the nights vaster
That calls were not returned
And I prayed and mama did
That I forged a smile as I repeated after her
''It is well''
It is true she told me to wait
And I waited
But they were like chasing a shadow
Because we did what we could do
Yet it never rained
TREMOURS IN KIGALI by Richard Otwao (Uganda)
Had you been there!
Had you been there in Kigali
When death anchored?
When the nation turned into a mortuary?
Kagera was the conveyor belt
Victoria, the thankless mass grave.
For Kigali, the sun stood still
As men sized their hatred for each other
Guns coughed and brought a great many
A great many thousands onto their knees.
As the tribal instinct fed its fury
Into the hearts of men.
Bullet riddled,
Bodies lay covered in blankets of green flies
Limbless bodies danced in the conveyor belt
On their way to the open liquid grave
As death patronized and patrolled Kigali.
Defined Holy Sanctuaries were defiled
Pagans clutched on stolen rosaries
As Christians forgot to pray
But loved to hate death.
The experiment in human suffering
Was a success in Kigali
Artillery fire rocked the landscape
Echoed and re-echoed
Reverberated and re-reverberated
In Kigali: When death charged.
When I looked across the plains
Down the ocean of life,
I saw Kigali
Drifting like a salvo –shattered boat
Surrounded by ripples of death.
Had you been there in Kigali:
When the tribal instinct
Laid bare, the nakedness of annihilation
In what the world knows today:
Tremours in Kigali.
Luna by Danica Kreusch (South Africa)
Light spills into the stone basin
And collects itself into the moon
This is the place the birds bathe
Celebrating their freedom and purpose
And lifetime of trying to touch the sun
He has none of these three things
But he has her hand in his
Fingers knotted and not cupped
These long-dirtied palms
Submerge in the water
And for long moments they have created chaos
Then light collects itself over their linked hands
Luna
She feels like purpose and freedom and starlight
Enough, his heart finally sighs
No more striving. She is enough.
FORGIVENESS by Esther Karin Mngodo (Tanzania)
The first day you started your periods, you knew that you were a grown up now. Your mother had told you that when you see blood, know that you are now able to give birth. White should be your favourite colour. For you are now meant to be clean. You were afraid to tell your best friends about it, you still wanted to play with them. But you cannot hinder growth. You cannot stop the hands of time and say, No, I am not ready.
The first day you slept with your husband, you knew that you were a grown up now. Your mother had told you that when you see blood, know that you are now able to give birth. You were afraid to tell mother that your husband didn’t open your doors. You remembered the day you were raped in your home. You prayed: forgive me God, forgive me baba and mama, forgive me my husband.
The first day you started living without your husband, you knew that you were a grown up now. Your mother had told you that if he leaves, no one else will marry you. No one wants to inherit what has been used by someone else. You wondered since when had you become an inheritable property. You remembered the day your husband beat you. He called you a whore when he found your door open. You prayed: God, forgive me! forgive me! forgive me! You heard God’s gentle voice speak back to you - Daughter, forgive yourself! forgive yourself! forgive yourself!
Destiny of free will by Efe Tokunbo (U.K/Mexico/Nigeria)
So I met this shaman down the forest way;
he said, “I'm another you, wanna come out and play?”
It sounded like fun so I joined the mystery school;
little did I know it was no place for fools.
See, I've been on the run for most of my life,
fleeing sorrow and strife like they were an ex-wife
with a couple of babies seeking alimony payments.
I've squatted in mansions
and slept on the pavement
but no matter how far I roamed,
I was still stuck in the basement.
Just up the stairs, there was a whole other world
full of sunshine and laughter but even though I bawled
my eyes out...
the darkness wouldn't let me go.
“Nonsense!” cried the shaman, “step into the clear light;
pure love awaits – you know it feels right.
Just let go of all your fear and desire,
be free of attachment like a monk on fire.
I'm not saying it's easy but the choice is simple,
life is complex but it ain't complicated:
forget the drama, cleanse your karma,
love Pacha Mama and escape into dharma.
The Buddha did it and so did the Christ,
now it's our turn, can you dig the zeitgeist?
We're infinite and immortal,
we only appear otherwise,
So come on, brother-man,
your true self is on the rise.”
Well the road is long and hard and I'm still a-struggling;
and truth be told, I don't know the ending,
but if you were to ask what I see ahead of me,
I'd say, “free will is an arrow aimed at destiny.”
My Son by Adhiamno Agoro (Kenya)
Fruit of my womb
I beg to stay away
And let you build bridges
To carve sculptures of our souls
To read invisible lines of Holy books
To find meaning in meaningless lines
And hope from tombs left for so long
Mother will be back
Let me find one like us, for us to become one
As your spine gives your body posture
So does the rhythm of our blood play upright music?
You are my last winter bird
My twins gave hope
My smile gave pride
But we're little termites with big hearts
We need our scraggy feet for paths we haven't crossed
Let me find one like us, for us to become one
The roses of our hearts have a charity case
The sidelines of our thoughts need ironing
We consume a variety of edibles to keep ourselves strong
It is a hard claim to live up to, Son
I recall your baby steps
And maps you left on the seabed after a longer drought.
Our change is forbidden but still
Let me find one like us, for us to become one
I will write these lines on paper
For the crowd to listen to our acapella
My name was lonely
Your father's name was pain
We covered your eyes from the world
For us to clean the dirt under our nails
Your life is a yearned cliché
I cry
Let me find one like us, for us to become one
We have few pieces of joy
Will we suffocate on these solitary streets?
No Son. We need history and tales
For kisses woke up the Queens and portions made Kingdoms sleep
Hold my hand to seal these words
Feel the scent from unseen paradises
As we beseech the mercies of prayer and faith
Let me find one like us, for us to become one.
A ROOM WITH A DROWNING BOOK by Adeeko Ibukun (Nigeria)
Somewhere in the room a book is drowning, the floor
is shivering with pages. You said the spine is the balance
to our two winged hearts. Sometimes it’s the light knitting
its letters to our hearts. I see how things hold us in their lights
so we aren’t here or there like you’re here and somewhere
a lover holds you in her heart, light in water teaching these lessons.
Sometimes something holds clearly what we couldn’t say in words.
We face it to learn our silence and that again becomes part of
our languages. Places own us like this, light bounces off them,
turning their spears at me. Our hearts beat now and vision takes
its shapes—the stream of consciousness, nuances as water turn,
streamlet as novella lost in our undercurrent. I’m lost in a story now
or a story’s lost in me. Perhaps we should hang on words so that
we do not drown. Remembering makes living its anchor. So I asked
if it’s us you wanted to save insisting everything is placed this way
and that way of our anniversaries, each moment achieved as light
buried in water—so it’s here or there, past or present, our chairs and tables,
dresser and records becoming the dykes. The mirror’s at an angle
to the world so it does not yield all its light at once. Everything’s our
subject before we become their subject, relying on memories to endure.
The Ghost of Jevanjee by Nyanduaki Okongo Omare (Kenya)
You knew he would visit you,
sitting on the concrete bench, alone, pretending to be immersed in an old book
He greets your silence like an old friend
and stays there.
He will bother to describe the trees to you
each one of them
points at the shrubs by your feet and say- choose the one that speaks to you most and I'll give you its name.
The sun will burn your back for attention
the ants will pilgrimage up your skin like hungry hands
but you will do nothing about it.
He will tell you this- when the imminent rain comes, don't run away from it
allow it to wash your shadow clean
until it no longer darkens the ground above you.
And that even there,
in the midst of love oaths
buried earthworms
hands pressed together in worry
planned sabbaticals
eagles' droppings
'I am the bread of life' sermons
thieves with no faces
memories of sex
great jokes told with closed mouths
smooth stones and potted flowers.
Even there,
you will find two friends:
Wrath, which burns but is sweeter
and Mercy, which suffocates but is lighter.
Choose one,
and it will give you your name.
A Poem We Would Rather Forget by Sanya Noel (Kenya)
thirty one years after the Wagalla Massacre
This is what you remember
the butt of a gun landing to your mouth
and then the muzzle pushed
way down your throat
and all you could pray for
was for them to pull the trigger.
This is what happened
they came for you in lorries
and you were innocent enough to think
that a Kenyan citizenship
would shield you from harm.
This is what followed
they asked for your clan
but how could you tell that
saying you were of the Degodia Clan
was signing your own death warrant?
These are the memories
naked bellies on the asphalt
and boots with guns
stepping on their heads and necks.
These are the memories
gunshots ringing
and truncheons landing on chests
and the cracking of sternums
and the giving in of skulls.
These are the memories
every sternum broken, was your sternum broken
every skull smashed in, was your skull smashed in
and every thud of a truncheon, was a thud to your soul.
This was your decision
you were going to die anyway
but the fear in you
couldn’t let you die just lying on the ground.
This was your luck
the terror made you run so fast
even the bullets couldn’t catch up with you.
This is your regret
you wish you had died too
so you would be relieved of memories
of cracking sternums and skulls smashed in
of unheeded cries for mercy, and prayers to God.
This is what you wish for
a chance to forget
that on this day, thirty one years ago
five thousand people were executed
by their own country.
These are your questions
Do the dead move on?
Did the ground ever quench
its thirst for Somali blood?
Hot Spot by James Yeku (Nigeria)
I am bound to this land by bytes
That is why my vision is strained by the screen
I am routed through its labyrinths and streets
and its algorithms travel in my networks
I hear the rants and raves of users
Morphing guys into games and bots into nuts.
I feel the weight of its wired burdens
And I know the fantasies of its paths,
The wishes of its data well up in my mind
Leaving messages imploding in my head
Like a mishmash of spannin’ and unplugged rhythms.
I have heard the cryptic cheers of illusions
Deleting truths from defragged girls
I have seen men reduce its space to choice empires
Splashing its walls with dreams of self-glories.
I have seen words bowing at floodgates of faces
Faces flooding gates 404 and refusing to be broken
By ancient links and paths…
I have seen men cached out by knotty cookies
And teens taken by leery trolls.
I have seen images dancing to the vain beats of selfists,
With Narcissus rewriting the victories of Nemesis
I have seen phonies selling cheap sex to babies
And princes scamming thieves abroad for bread.
I have seen the profiles of a thousand friends
Liking and following friends at a thousand paces
I have seen the memes of artful madness,
And the madness of artful memes viraling ideas
Like a gene carrying the imprints of geeky minds.
I have seen the scape of souls on the stages of Facebook
And read the tweets of their vanities retweeted
Like a celebrity cult to be reposted.
If I sing not of orangery smiles,
Or write not of elegant poses
On the screens of Instagram,
Or sing of the delight
Of words to the pleasures
Of seeking eyes and wandering hearts
It is because of the capillaries of chaos
Which adorn this land of empty knowledge.
Because I am bound to this land,
I have seen secrets of the bedroom
’tubing you way into their slips
WIth sleep running from eyes
Too busy to surf reality.
Yet I have not seen IT all…
Ladi by AbdulKareem (Nigeria)
Ladi
You weren't this beautiful when you were young
Ladi, how did you
Become this so pretty!
Ladi, life punctured you on your cheeks
And you made them into dimples
Now, I envy the depth in the purity of your smiles
When your loving uncle raped you
You then wrote a virgin poem afterwards
And you said, this, no one can deflower
When I read your poem, Ladi
I trembled
How could such a weak hand
Sculpt a poem that strong
Ladi, even when life bathed you in blood
You shone as if you bath in milk
Ladi, the grace in your steps
Is a story every man wants to tell
Ladi, the architecture of your hips
Is an art every painter wants to behold
I said, Ladi you are a miracle
You said, No, you are a poem
I said read you to me
You said, like a song in a foreign language
No one understands but loves
Ladi, you said you are a poem
Like lightning that kisses the earth in a flash
You are beauty
Like light tearing through the garb of darkness
You are fearless
Like the mystery water in the belly of the coconut
You are wonder
Ladi, if poetry makes one this strong
If poetry makes one this happy
Ladi, teach me poetry
Ladi, make me a poet
Bloodlust by J.K Anowe (Nigeria)
what
botanical
names
do you
call God
blood and loss
when
reminiscence
leaves your
lifeless eyes
gazing at the
eloping sun
when the
skies are like
deserts dry
and laughter
is not enough
and sweet vanity
from your slit
wrists thinly drips
what
pen-names
do you call
eachfreefall
as you watch it
hit the cold sterile
floor drip against drip
making delicate
poker dots on the
white bathroom floor
‘til the silence surrounds
you like fog and you are
lost in its symphony soft
as cotton or wolf’s fur where
you drift slowly through the
windowpane then towards
the faceless horizon
where the last sun glows…
I won't write a heartbreak poem for you
I won't write a heartbreak poem for you
Because I am too proud to pickle your memories to preservation and
I cannot...
I cannot afford to immortalise you
In the sublime wordings of my poetry
For I know how cocky you get sometimes.
Suppose that the poem appears in papers
You would buy a copy for all your friends and brag
"Look what creativity I inspired"
I won't write a heartbreak poem for you
Because massaging egos is one of my least favourite sports
I often wonder what pride he feels,
The boy who inspired Adele's "Someone like you"
That his abandonment of her
created a song gone platinum
What if I wrote a heartbreak poem for you
And it goes viral?
Your cocky self would clip it off papers
Attach it to your C.V for your next job hunt
The board would offer you prompt employment
Since they are always looking people
Who inspire creativity in others
And you think I want to grant you such favours
I will stop this poem here
For it is beginning to sound
Like a heartbreak poem for you
Queen of Heart-Breaks by Annette Mumbi (Kenya)
(I’m just here, staring at the ice cubes on the ice tray by my side
Then, like in a game of cards,
I draw out a tough one, that’s yet to melt.)
***
It’s a crystal clear, ice cold Cube.
So cold, I can see smoke come off of it.
So cold, it sticks to my tips when I touch it.
So cold, it burns, and stings and numbs me,
And it rubs off the cold on me, this ice cold crystal clear cube.
Then you come along; like heat to that ice-cold, crystal clear cube.
You sneak up on me; you make me take down my guard.
I stop believing, like that ice cold, crystal clear cube,
That ice cold is the ideal state of my heart.
You warm up to me, and I, in turn, like the ice cold cube, warms off my comfort zone.
You melt my heart of ice,
And soon enough, the only solid, sane, part of it is swimming in a pool of its own,
Just like the ice cold, crystal, clear, melting cube.
They call you the King of Hearts,
Because it’s always what you draw each time a round of cards is won.
And they call me the Queen of Heart-breaks,
Because I seem to head the club of hearts that loved and lost.
What you know not about me, Mr King,
Is that you didn't break my heart honey-
You sort of melted it.
And no, there aren't broken pieces to pick up, sorry...
'Cos Like that ice-cold, crystal clear cube,
My heart melts, but it doesn't break.
So sorry, honey, it's not me, it's you;
It's that you're too warm to be around...
Cold hearts like mine got no to time for lukewarm.
You're either cold, hot or you're out...
the concept of freedom by Samuel Oluwatobi Olatunji (Nigeria)
i know of a caged songbird
whose singing has solidified into shrieking
she keeps flapping her weary wings
in a fruitless attempt to forge forces
into a farfetched freedom
but her breakthrough comes in form
of bruises breaking through her bones
listen, friend
freedom is an abstraction that outwits
pure physical manifestation
life is a stage in the shape of a cage
and we are struggling succumbers
to the tune of immortal pipers
WE WRITE by Adelaja Ridwan Olayiwola (Nigeria)
MAYBE WE WRITE to annoy –plucking
tears like almond fruits from the
eyes of men. Maybe we write
to provoke, like chanting
warriors to war. Maybe
we write to Remember
–weaving fantasies
like raffia basket.
Maybe we write to
arouse –melting the hidden thought of a solitary lover.
Maybe
we write for
the sake of writing,
summoning friends
to our temple of art.
Maybe we write simply
like scribes, to polish
our sandals of imagery
and dust our cabinet
of words. Maybe
we write to
express or impress, to inform or REFORM. Maybe we write to narrate or relate
mysteries –of dirty shrinesthat MAKE babies, and neat and tidy hospitals
that cannot! Maybe we write of ERRORS –of power that has become wine
and pride that has become PILLOW. Maybe we write, yes, to be
WRITTEN
about. Maybe we write to REMIND death of our names. And
perhaps, maybe we WRITE to stun, to amuse and
amaze like RASAQ*, yes, perhaps
M A Y B E!
My Blanket (Originally written in Tumbuka with the title Gombeza)
See the blanket, drying on the clothes line,
Yes, the red one with decorative black butterflies on the edges. It’s mine
Guess what, it won’t be long before it dries
Please do not move it from where I put it in the bedroom
Without my knowledge
When there is a cool breeze, my blanket feels nicely cosy,
Wrapping it around my body I snuggle in it
Even when it reeks thick stink of raw tobacco, I own it
Sometimes you can smell pee, I know, well, that’s mine too
I don’t mind farting in it after a hearty meal of red beans, in rich creamy sauce I own it. It gets washed, right? Look! It’s on the clothes line getting dry
I cannot get too far
Without my red blanket with the decorative black butterflies on the edges
Sometimes, it serves as a cushion for my head when I carry heavy loads
Like pots of water from the dambo
Or firewood from the forests
Just the other day, I wrapped sweet potatoes in it from the fields
I know, some among you were making silly comments like,
‘How disgusting!’
But later you came to eat, and even enjoyed my sweet potatoes
Well now’s my turn to boast;
See, the blanket is mine;
The filthiness too, is mine,
That being the case I say, suck it up, dude!
The blanket is good for me;
Nurturing and taking care of me
Oh..., and another thing; I’m aware of your speculative scheming; gossip mongering
Even before the smell of death nears you are already deliberating about who’ll get my precious blanket when I get bumped off the planet
Stop that nonsense right now! I intend to be interred with my blanket
Should death come for me today, oh baby, I am ready; I mean bring it on!
Here’s the plan: You will wrap my remains in my red blanket, yes the one with the decorative black butterflies on the edges.
To hell with your fancy caskets or new blankets
My precious red blanket with the decorative black butterflies on the edges
Will suffice.
Are You True? by Edith Nakku-Joloba (Uganda)
Are you?
The mother’s daughter, stubborn, not so wise?
The father’s girl, eager to please, a distance denied
The sister dear, gossiping close
Secrets hanging like ripe mangoes
Ready to fall
The mother? Anxious and fast,
brown hot banana leaves stinging your hands
Wafting smells to the waiting many
The One?
Are you?
“My dear, come and I tell you
What the supervisor said on your appraisal”
Motivated?
In taxis perched, back to driver, on tiny extra seat.
Hot or broke?
Are you born out of wedlock or born again?
Sheep of the pastor’s flock
Tithing, giving and soon eating grass?
One?
Are you?
The Radio- Reality fan?
Listening to auditory unwinding horror
Gonna call that number?
The quintessential African woman?
Short dreads, beeswax royal
Anointing your head
A kitenge of mixed colors adorning your waist
Ready for funeral or party
True?
Diz Poetry by Babajide Michael Olusegun (Nigeria)
Diz Poetry go come in many many styles
Since Diz Poetry dey com Uganda
Diz Poetry godey dub reggae reggae free
But Diz Poetry don dey use hin beat
Diz Poetry gat many manytinz to say
So Diz Poetry know know which one to say
Diz Poetry fit no make much sense
For Diz Poetry no come to impress
Diz Poetry fit look- within- personal
But Diz Poetry may dey –without- political.
Diz Poetry will be so long in longitude
For Diz Poetry will be very versed in latitude
Diz Poetry will burst into rhythmic tears
For Diz Poetry was writt’n with wilderness’s words
Diz Poetry is speaking from Africa
As Boko Haram blows up North-East Nigeria
Diz Poetry won’t call on Cupid
For Diz Poetry is lonely not blind and stupid
Diz Poetry is not from “Dis Poetry”
Diz Poetry is only like “Dis Poetry”.
Diz Poetry 4 lov use Gangan’s mouth
Diz Poetry sef 4 lovdanz with Sekere’sileke
Diz Poetry 4 talk of libarti
But Diz Poetry sef don enta captivity
Diz Poetry won halasom poets
Since Diz Poetry owe demobonge respect.
As I hala: Maya- Angelou- Zephaniah- Neruda, Rudyard. NiyiOsundare-
And Johnson in d States plus Okotp’Bitek for izSong of LawinowitJumokeVerissimo.
May I sharpali say: Una go watch Diz Poetry like say na Play on Words
Cos Diz Poetry dey flow wit watery meanings in stanzas of 4 by 10.
You may wanna ask
What Diz Poetry is all about
Or is Diz Poetry simply all about nothing?
Never mind, Diz Poetry has no answers to these
For Diz Poetry gonna slip through my heart to thee
Diz Poetry might make you laugh
And you may wanna push Diz Poetry aside
But Diz Poetry’s two and three
May make you wanna give it a chance
Cos Diz Poetry is simply free, M.A.D and booing your mind.
The Wavesongs of the Tompontany.
Dedicated to Derek Walcott and the Malagasy.
In the days when our fathers still gave their sons to the sea
Cast them out, unbearded, in small boats, to dance with the waves
And return to the small islands from whence we came,
To learn the ways of our people and seek the acceptance
Of the wrinkled, history-ridden women of our tribe,
Death Defiers, Stygian Nymphs, Reverse Charons
Whose black, budless tongues
Ferry knowledge back across Death’s pond.
And if our mothers find them worthy and the sea permits,
They would return to the big island as men with wives-immaterial;
Small island spirit-wives who will possess and inhabit
The big island women they will eventually marry.
Unprepuced, salt seasoned seafarers, who know their history
And carry ancestral memories tattooed on their shoulders,
They return to the big island with hair on their chins
And the names they will carry through life.
Armed with the secrets of fire; how pitched flames
Can caulk and denature dugouts into taming the waves
How outriggers provide stability by confusing the sea,
How to knit sails, listen to the wind and commit to stars their journeys.
Skills with which they will feed and mesmerise their sons;
The styx-obsessed offspring their immaterial wives will produce,
And one day, house and guide them, when they,
Tired of being mesmerised, are cast out to sea.
Something Pretty by Michael Ochoki (Wudz) (Kenya)
There is something magical about a pretty woman who unreservedly opens up about her humble background. Tales like how she had corn porridge for breakfast growing up and picked her nose in class and smeared it on the collar of her patched dress and she could stick chewing gum under her desk and later unstick it and eat it for lunch when other kids had buttered bread and new shoes.
You should see the sparkle of this pretty woman in her eyes when she recalls how her mom endured her father's drunkardness and slaps and she will tell you how she came to town so naive and twisted an ankle as she tried to walk on life in cheap high-heeled shoes and unmatched shades of lipstick as she sipped Fanta in the night club not knowing whether to twerk or nod her head to the loud music of mimicked sophistication.
There is something magical about a pretty woman who is not ashamed to cry at the bus station in colourful rivulets of make-up because you had an argument last night and you decide to go home this morning to visit your grandma who raised you when your own mom died during your birth and she was pretty too.
There is something magical about a pretty woman who dares to dream and can serve tea at a local café just to pay for her tuition and she can surprise you with a pair of boxers and a 200 bob necktie when all you do is spend 5, 000 on beer and friends on Sunday evening and she has to remind you that you have a job interview on Monday morning 500 kilometers away.
There is something magical about a pretty woman who is not ashamed of saying she has a kid at home because the sonofabitch who ejaculated in her when she was 19 ducked and can’t even call or buy the kid those teddy bear shoes that have disco lights at the soles with an annoying "tchuitchuitchui" sound or a stub of pencil for him to write tiny poems about absent fathers and the freckles of smiling single baby mamas.
There is something magical about a pretty woman who begs you to stay though she can replace your broke ugly ass any minute because a dozen bachelors with money to burn are preying around her aura like wolves but she is pretty enough to know what love smells like and it is nothing close to your socks or weed or your macho attitude or roses and dust in the rain but she keeps her head up because she is pretty and all pretty things are divine and priceless.
There is something pretty about a magical woman.
Evolution by Tolase Ajibola (Nigeria)
(foradonis)
“A star is also
a pebble in the field of space” – Adonis
i
i like to write in circles,
circle is the shape of the sun
when it breaks through ocean doors;
the sun is the end of dreams.
dreams are images pushed in wooden carts,
cart is an idea of trees.
the moon writes endless verses
about the sun's mood
in the night time.
ii
the moon gambles with me,
seven is his lucky number.
he sips beer after each win.
his moustache welcomes froth,
uncultured alcoholic draped in the mourning clouds
at a friend's funeral.
i won't be at the funeral
for time wins Olympics
and this friend reincarnates
iii
poetry lies with the sun,
within it are two rivers
one washes dreams,
the other poisons all things.
this ship doesn't move,
it sank in the current of mood.
i cannot write too
the river is ink and
i am confused…
I won't write a heartbreak poem for you by Ucheoma Onwutuebe (Nigeria)
I won't write a heartbreak poem for you
Because I am too proud to pickle your memories to preservation and
I cannot...
I cannot afford to immortalise you
In the sublime wordings of my poetry
For I know how cocky you get sometimes.
Suppose that the poem appears in papers
You would buy a copy for all your friends and brag
"Look what creativity I inspired"
I won't write a heartbreak poem for you
Because massaging egos is one of my least favourite sports
I often wonder what pride he feels,
The boy who inspired Adele's "Someone like you"
That his abandonment of her
created a song gone platinum
What if I wrote a heartbreak poem for you
And it goes viral?
Your cocky self would clip it off papers
Attach it to your C.V for your next job hunt
The board would offer you prompt employment
Since they are always looking people
Who inspire creativity in others
And you think I want to grant you such favours
I will stop this poem here
For it is beginning to sound
Like a heartbreak poem for you
