NIGERIAN JOURNAL OF POEMS AND SHORT STORIES (NJPSS)
Nigeria Journal of Poems and Short Stories (NJPSS) is a biannual journal devoted to well-polished poems and short stories. The journal has an editorial team and international reviewers who are dedicated to promoting literary readership and creative ingenuity through double-blind review. The journal basically accepts original poems and short stories—the literary products of poets and authors of diverse knowledge and background. The poems and short stories depict global issues thematically hinged on acceptable literary models. NJPSS is an open access journal published by Nigerian Journals Online. It is hosted in https://www.nigerianjournalsonline.com and indexed in Google Scholar as well as other prominent sites.
EDITORIAL NOTE Nigeria Journal of Poems and Short Stories (NJPSS) is a biannual journal devoted to well-polished poems and short stories. The journal has an editorial team and international reviewers who are dedicated to promoting literary readership and creative ingenuity through double-blind review. The journal basically accepts original poems and short stories—the literary products of poets and authors of diverse knowledge and background. The poems and short stories depict global issues thematically hinged on acceptable literary models. NJPSS is an open access journal published by Nigerian Journals Online. It is hosted in https://www.nigerianjournalsonline.com and indexed in Google Scholar as well as other prominent sites. Guideline for Submission All poems/short stories must be original and well-written. The length of poems must not exceed 1500 words. Short stories must not be more than 5000 words. The poems and short stories must be submitted in Microsoft Word format, Times New Roman, Font 12. The poems and short stories must not have been submitted to other journals for publication. Submission Medium All the poems and short stories must be submitted to our email address: Â The Editor: Â Dr. Ifeoma Odinye Department of English Language & Literature, Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka Email: njpssng@gmail.com Â Â Editorial Advisers: Â Prof. A.N. Akwanya Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Department of English Language & Literary Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka, Enugu State. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Prof. Chike Okoye Department of English Language & Literature, Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka. Â Shavonda Robinson (Award-winning Author and Creative Writer) Tennessee, USA.
In the country of wonders, Africa's embrace, where ghosts swirl and lightning and old legends are spoken, A huge and majestic continent, rich in diversity, where the splendour of Mother Nature colours the boundless landscape. From the blazing, searing sands of the Sahara to the verdant savannah beneath glittering moonlight, A vast and expansive weave of sceneries in the centre of this vast continent, Africa. Lions prowl the plains of the Serengeti, while tigers find homes in the woodlands. Through primordial dunes, the powerful Nile surges. A vital conduit running through the centre of Africa. As the hills rise, frost covers their peaks. The steady flow of waterfalls, the towering peaks of Kilimanjaro, and the mist of Victoria—African beauty is breath-taking. The golden grasses of Savannah tell stories. Of the cheetahs' racing tracks and the stripes of zebras, Every step in the wild places of Africa, where wildlife hide, is a symphony of life. Tribes with customs, tales to tell, traditions and civilizations, secrets to reveal, With unifying dances, chants, and rhythms, Africa's heart, full of bright, vivid brightness. Even if the ghosts of colonialism are still present, Africa's spirit is rising and its resolve to define its destiny is powerful and free. A source of optimism visible to all. Thus, let us treasure Africa's strength, beauty, and people both during the day and at night. For within this immense and marvellous continent is a world of magnificent wonders. ~~~M. Swathi is a poet who studied at Thiagarajar Arts &Science College, Madurai.
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An oblate realm of juxtaposed extremes, That's wearied of plentiful nightmares and dreams, Most obsessed in calling bloodshed 'Valour', Unethical egoism hailed as a perceptive folklore. Dampened are some, that are not aligned this way, And many more are blotted out to go astray. Identities alienated and ideologies scoffed at, Stomped upon and tempered at like a boorish cellar rat! "Speculation! Hark, must be a putrid mime. Empathy! Fie, it is some sacrilegious crime! Wrathful malice! Made of amiability extreme. Congeniality! It is but a nemesis' dream!" Is opinionation truly a crystal of downfall? Is it some birthright to trample down and brawl? Can liberated ideals not persist unhurt? Will paragons be unheeded in locutions so curt? "Down with the grimacing and mutilated mind! May disconfigured highbrowisms be left behind. Let visionary perceptions displace all sorrow, Encrypting pedestals for a pristine new morrow. May wanderers vanquish the stagnant minds, And throw open the turgid, yet latent blinds, For carnage is never a triumphant march, But more of a surly megalomaniac démarche." ~~~Richik Ghosal is a political science student who lives in West Bengal, a state on the extreme eastern end of India, in an urban town called Uttarpara. Email: richikghosal23@gmail.com
Hearing many cries, I opened my eyes. Looked for my family, In the midst of the tragedy. Shocked by seeing the pool of blood, Moved myself dragging through the mud. I crawled over the dying bodies Searching for my mom and daddy. “Mama, Papa” I called out loud But all I could hear was some painful shrieks. I could feel some wounds tearing me, My legs were burnt and my arms fractured. I started weeping and sobbing, and, Soon I heard my Papa calling, “Where is she? My child, Where is she?” I saw him barely moving his wounded limbs I moved to him hoping for a hug. Yet he screamed, “Save yourself my child, I am gunshot” Gunshot!!! But we had shot guns before. It was fun. What happened now? “Hands up, Papa” I would kiss my fingers, point it to him and shoot. He would receive my kiss shot, Take me in his arms, And carry me above him with a smile. Now that, some men shot him, He didn’t smile, but screamed in pain. Instead of kisses spreading, blood soaked his body. He didn’t carry me high, But pulled me close and hid me under his shade, Held me tight and placed his face On my forehead and remained still. Papa is asleep, I guess But, where’s my mom? ~~Gouri P holds a Bachelor's and Master's degree in English Language and Literature from the University of Kerala. She is currently pursuing Bachelor of Education in English. She is very much passionate in the fields of literature, creative writing and teaching. She resides in one of the most
I can’t marry a poet As in him, a kindred spirit I see My curses magnified My weaknesses heightened The love child of my karma and nemesis I can’t marry a poet How do I birth in-bred offsprings? Lads like him Lasses like me Him, like me Me, like him A resounding monotony, the lot of us I can't marry a poet Suave and smooth with words Licking his way through my inquisition Making slippery, my facts Have me falling and landing on words Cuts from his sharply crossed T's Punctures from his dotted I's I can't marry a poet For the love of the creator Sin is sin he said Isn't a mentally incestuous union Incest all the same? Words I can wrought Not the Creator's wrath! ~~~Hadiza Mohammed is a passionate poet who writes for the world.
Last night I curled under the sheets Remembering the dusty streets In beautiful Ihugh where I hail And an old woman of white hair. Poor and totally wrinkled! Even life had her ridiculed. She would sing songs telling deeds of Kunav men so strong. I wished her sons Cold and loneliness pained her lungs. And a shrill smile she often wore Would a times cry as during war. To help I thought, now and then as I ought Yet my finances were short So I would pray as I was taught. She was always alone and no word described her but 'LONE' Sweet death hugged her one night I smiled: this was good for her plight. Then in awe I saw a throng. I had been wrong! For what is this assembly? I enquired. "Final respect," they chorused. My poor heart sank as it saw people of rank. To and fro they went. Money upon money they spent. Diamond casket embraced her corpse. I laughed at such waste and loss. Extravagance so fake She had had meals of no taste! Often sleeping without food. She had seen no good. Yet in death, everything was new and money flew Sadly and funnily, she never knew! ~~~Nyiyongu Samuel Shawon is a Creative Writer and teacher. He is so passionate about learners in the field of education. Twitter(X): Sam_nyiyongu
In Poetry, an adage, does not age It transcends through ages, breathes through words, emotions and images, breaks multitudinous bondages. The persistent flow of thoughts Expressed in words profound Heart touching, soul stirring Lending food for thought, Emancipating, liberating, Leaving nothing for naught. Nevertheless, it never can be taught, nor with money can be bought The beauty of thought, the truth always sought, The power of a pen, words from deep within Words with that leap of faith Words that on an inspiration begin Hard to delve deep within and try to fathom a poet’s heart. The locution, the intonation, the modulation, the articulation for in lie dark secrets and shadows, voices and verses The tone of the poet - the soul it stirs ethos of the past and hopes for tomorrow. The power of pen that can rustle bone marrows, Poetry is beauty, has form and shape Words of the poet make one sit and gape. Poetry is manifestation of human life, The ups and downs, the future and history The ebb and flow of humanity…. It gives the past an unsung voice, and the future an infinite hope… Poetry is perennial…poetry is pristine, poetry is beauty, The rhythm of the heart, the music of the soul, A melody, a harmony, a symphony, it can never die Poetry is …for the soul. Yes, poetry is truth profound! ~~~Veena Regidi is a poet. She graduated from Andhra University with M.A in English Language and Literature. She is an English Editor at Chegg, Visakhapatnam and also an Academic Quality and Policy Manager at Rumi Education, Gurgaon, Haryana.
The song of the thrush echoes the dusk’s anguish lavishly The twilight is loathing in despair wishing for peace Where the night robs my moments graciously I tread in darkness the gloomy earth wears Where I search for the vanishing Mirage wishfully The tides devour me when I was filled with tears All that I see in my dream flee Into the spooky clouds Hope perches on the distant hill clasping the willow tree The lone moon on the grey sky staunches her sparkles The stars wink at the bubbling surf wearily I am as forlorn as mermaids in fantasy near the bay Solitude joins the woebegone day Numbness creeps into my heart to petrify My emotions, where angst reigns perpetually Let God silence the hoots of owl near the stream For life is just a dream within a dream! ~~~G. Keerthana Prasanna is a passionate teacher and poet who lives in Tiruchchirappalli.
Sometimes This queer little girl in me Looks out through my eyes and Wonders where the world went in her absence She sees the creases and the frowns She sees the weighty bags under the eyes She sees the fear; the constant fear And the biting of nails in worrisome consternation And the shouldering of responsibilities not quite hers You see this queer little girl She loves fancies Fancy little things that mean everything and mean nothing Fancy places Little towns with bright red lights Slim slender beauties with exotic apparels and posh shoes The quietness of solitude The listening in the telling The fancy of everything in nothing And the beauty in everything of everything Understand my vanity, I beg of you Understand my vainness please And then you'd see that this queer little girl Just wants to live, just wants to breathe Understand my vanity, I beg of you Understand my vainness please And then maybe you'd see that Age is just a senseless number And am not that old. ~~~Ijeoma Anyachebelu (nee Emelumadu) is a lecturer in the Department of English Language and Literature, Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka. She is a mother of two and she loves eternal youth and wellness. Email: aises61@gmail.com.
I thought I'll be back, back home or to the street, At the street I would sit at Papa's warehouse, while at home, maybe sleep wake-up and get kalachi from mom. But God said No. My father thought I'll be back, Back at his farm or warehouse, tilling the ground or arranging sack of Egusi, Oh! poor graduate, he never wished me bad but if I had no job, I must follow him to farm or sit at the street. But God said No. My mother thought I'll be back, Back home, collecting the small profit she realized from her Egusi business, Daddy will take Ciroma to farm, Oh! poor Ciroma, so fragile and weak, will God relegate you to farm? But God said No. My stepmom thought I'll be back, Back home so she could laugh After all there are many graduates without work, A child should chase money not book, Is degree food? He will come back to farm. But God said No. My Uncle thought I'll be back Back to beg him because he is God Lieutenant, who will give him admission, who will make him serve at Abuja, who will give him Job, He will come back on his knees. But God said No.
This morning too, Before the sun, He hiked to the Dhaba. Same orders, same shouts, Full of heartless abuse and inhuman taunts, The seven-year-old began his routine. Cleaning, moping, carrying loads; Washing vessels and dusting menu boards. Yet, a torrent of abuse and incoherence, Unbearable words, like piercing arrows from a bow. They pinch the heart and bring forth tears. Who cares about the tears? Who cares about the soul? Sometimes traumatic, Erupting like molten lava from a volcano top. Thundering like the gale which never seems to stop. But all within himself. His thoughts just fly, Worrying about: will he ever reach the sky? After the inner conflicts for a moment, He gets back to his work, Leaving all his hopes behind. ~~~ Athira Raj is young poet with a passionate drive to influence the world through her emotional writings.
My soul searches for meaning. That meaning cannot be told, heard and deciphered. It's timeless…. Arising out of timeless hopes and will continue till the time collapses (if it is so)! My soul searches for meaning As Ashwathama is looking for Kalki to get over the curse of being alive and waiting. That meaning I am talking about Was searched by men from time immeasurable. Some told it lies in salvation, for some it's sacrifice. I know not what salvation is… Is it what Didi and Gogo searched under the barren tree Or Christ found behind the Mulberry bush! Does sacrifice mean what Prufrock released from his cigar? Or Porphyria did at the hands of her lover? I know not what sacrifice is. My soul searches for meaning and meaning. Is the meaning made of ' panchabhuta'? Or of seven deadly sins? I know not for I am in search of meaning. My voice is struck on the glass of time As Eliot's Patient-evening " etherized upon a table " And my still eyes look at the ageless hermit Who meditates upon the piles of ashes And foresees how Kubla is coming back To build his sunny dome with caves of ice. I seek an answer from him. If he can predict my ' becoming'. Vyasa started my epic that waits for another universe to complete For the sages say we live and die in numerous spaces and time. I know not what do they mean, For I am waiting and waiting and waiting. Truth is what Govinda told Parth? Or that Shelley learnt from Skylark's art? My heart bleeds for a single light to guide my path. For I am waiting for the meaning to come. I am the Bali, Bibhishana, Parshuram; I am Kalki, Buddha and Radhe-Shyam! I create meanings so that it might be found I deceive with meaning so that it may be lost. I am the forbidden fruit that Adam tasted I am the Rakshasas that Vishnu defeated. I am the past, the present and a never ending future Where time merges and faces get blurred. Despite the nothing I am the being And still in search of my becoming. For I only want to know what people call meaning.... ~~~ Anushua Chatterjee is a poet who writes for social transformation and passion.
Chirp-chirp-chirp A glamourized religious song Wading in through the dirty Window panes Soft sunlight, thick air Siya Ram, Jai Ram Two paranthas dropped on my plate With a cube of butter Mouth runs dry There’s blood in my aachar. Unlocking the dim lock-screen (brightness doesn’t suit the times); Instantly, Tears roll down, the heart Sinks into the stomach, heavy and wet, pushing everything else Out of the way Thump-thump-thump Staring at the shattered dreams on my screen ‘I want to be a doctor I want to be a professor I want my father to not die.’ Sparkling eyes, bright smiles Clutching onto the nearest kitten Soft & helpless Mothers with their hearts In their throats If they could, they would Pluck it out, hand in mouth And hide it in their thoub Pretend it is alright For the children’s sake. They have also found love In other women As they go to the Jordan River To wash away Period stains, divine blood Restorative, regenerative Wishing they could give Their blood instead, From their wombs, their Hearts, even. ‘Please don’t kill my children, don’t kill my babies, spare my husband, My al’umu, ‘ab My ‘akh, ‘ukht, ‘afdil sadiq li I am strong - divinity I would hang Your severed heads Around my neck, if I could.’ No terrorists here. One doesn’t mean millions Learn to count, the children Do it better. Dreams cannot be taken away Even if An entire generation is wiped out; You count their days, But they count yours. ~~~ Rajeshwari Guha is a passionate poet who studied at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), New Delhi.
Only if birds could swim And fishes fly Humans lived on trees And monkeys in sty Each would know one's agony No one would cry Only if boys led girl’s life And girls like boys Boys disrespected And girls called nice Boys would feel the pain and shame Each girl dignified Only if no one fought For land and power Gave a little thought For everyone to empower The world would be heaven Where the blessings shower Only if I studied hard And my efforts paid I stopped playing And attention paid Haven't been sitting like this And crying in vain Only if people got everything They wanted when alive The world would have been different Sharing everyone’s pride No one would mourn, Repent, sit and cry. Only if people could anticipate And took care of their balloons Forget their vengeance And allowed to grow their talons No one would have suffered And have become baboons. Only if I overcame my weaknesses And made others smile Did guide the people And help them strive No one could stop me From taking long strides Only if fire lit water And made the world dry May be they understand the importance And helped it save with a try No one cried for resources And wouldn’t express in wry Only if no one deceived you And stabbed you high The world would have been beautiful And everyone the apple of an eye But that doesn’t mean at all It won’t make you cry ~~~ Mrs Kanchan Agrawal is a passionate poet from Mumbai, Maharashtra.
We are the leaders of tomorrow that's what we were told, and yet the old never wants this tomorrow to unfold. They've made life so hard that the future leaders have nothing else but to leave to a land seen as that of milk and honey We are the future of our nation we are the heralds of our generation but the old bald ones have taken those positions as birthright those who have refused to die killing who ever that dares oppose making lives miserable for the future. Turning us against one another because the guy by my side is shola and I’m Emeka and HERE is Musa setting us apart to luxuriate their desires. Step by step Musa moves Trampling like the Elephant with his strongest wit making his claims to our fortress, making the poor miserable, milking them in and out—the land, the food, the oil, their souls— turning them against one another at gun point. Rallying us to fight unjustly, making us believe a particular ethnicity owns the coast. We the youths, weapons of a mighty nation; now weapons of political rivalry. when the other feels powerful, we turn his bullet for war, used reaped of our intelligence and made to believe we are lesser. Stop the slumber it's our turn to stick to our claims of taking over what is ours. A peaceful and uncompromising nation free of anarchy, and corruption we young talents can thrive and not let to fight each other’s war. We must come together to protect our bleeding nation, from the shenanigans of our old destitute leaders. Don't buy what they sell us For this is that knife that tear us part we should fight, revolt against bad governance, against terrorism- against apathy, against nepotism, Mal practices. Arise humble and courageous youth to the fault of our cunning leaders that have chosen to spoil our names at the international market. Take up placards and roam the street of the coast to our colonizer a message to reply. We are the leaders of today not of tomorrow We must exercise our function now our duties to our dearest nation to uplift her glory-honour for the betterment of generation yet to be born. ~~~Herbert Izuchukwu Maxwell is a young passionate poet and student of English Language and Literature, Nnamdi Azikiwe University Awka, Anambra state, Nigeria. Email Id: maxwellherbert09@gmail.com.
I opened my eyes. Eager to see my mum. Yea, there she is! She looks tired, like she was in a lot of pain. But the best human being. I see her smile, with watery eyes. Her eyes, the best. Her words, the sweetest. She is happy that I am hers. And me because I have her. And then I was taken to the small house. People celebrating that I was born. I saw the small window and the blue sky. Initially, just a small part. I saw black birds flying. Some days there were kites. I like the colours. The clouds white. But are they moving? I hear the sounds of children. Oh!! How I yearned to watch the scene. I tried to walk, but in vain. I can’t…So waited. As I have her. I wanted her smell all the time. Don’t be angry, mum. It’s because I miss you. I don’t want to leave you. Still, I looked out of the window. Hoping to see something new. And then there was the WHITE STRIKE. I was taken aback by the sound. But, did not care what it was. As I was bleeding, hurt. My mum crying. Saying I am almost leaving. I heard her saying several times that it took years for her to have me. But to leave, it took just seconds. Is it that easy? ~~~Hina Majeed is a passionate poet. She holds a Master’s Degree in English Language & Literature. She is a Lecturer in the Languages Department at Walailak University, Thailand. Email Id: walmajeed2@gmail.com
His countenance was moody His containers were woody All he has not gotten Were left to rotten Always received harsh treatment Like the package of an evil shipment. He never asked to be born, but now he has to face the horn. A guiltless guilty soul; A faultless faulty sole He is innocent, folks Yet he received many pokes To make him choke. His days in the bloody darkness, Wrapped in the floody daftness, On his throat was kept a knife A drug attempt, to take his life. A threat he always wears as a coat. His tears, forming an ocean for his boat, He never sanctioned the illicit pleasure He is now an unwanted implicit treasure. When he came alive, In their eyes he was a bee hive; He has developed no sense But already viewed as nonsense He received great hostility It swallowed his positivity That which he received Marred the things he perceived. All of his frailty A combo of severe cruelty Paled his mind His visions made blind The unfortunate misfortune is the badge He would always hang in his garage. His mother has no suitor, She claims he's murdered her future "You are just a mistake Forever, you, I dissipate" She wails and she laments. Not aware he was in torment, For all her comment Are like a fiery dart Piercing deep through his heart. His attention wasn't proper They never wanted him to prosper In a sincere grading He received a terrible training Always deemed surplus Even when he seems scrupulous They see not his good They deny him his food His pleas they refuse His tears, they diffuse He has been pushed to the cliff As if he was a thief, They have an evil intention To take him into detention Let his spirit be cast down And make his hopes drown . . . . . . The environment helped not his plight, "Who is your father?" They ask in fight. He does not have a clue, This makes him stuck in the glue, He never received it from Mama Oh! It would have been a manna To keep his breath in his lungs, He skips their bread and takes his runs. He left home With no phone To keep out And sleep out. Soon he found some folks, Who offered him a coke. They were rough And in every turn tough, Like rascal niggas Chewing raw gingers. Crowned in dreadlocks Dangerous like the hemlocks. They gave him a coat And they rode in one boat. They removed his rags Made him a member of their gang. He is so bitter But doesn't care the litter, Because he's received a crunch That took the appetite of his brunch. The members of his gang Speaking with the cobra's fang Are teenagers of timbre and caliber, Who were once flogged with the timber And tortured with the calliper. They have one business, Born not out of laziness But a vendetta Of their harsh encounter. The streets get bloody And they go strict on everybody. Houses are burgled That possess so many baubles. They become fraudulent In the society, cause turbulence A pure nemesis For all their enemies. We cannot but say; "They are inexcusable And very accusable" But let the truth be told, They were pure gold Precious priceless destinies Wasted by abysmal entities. Had they been accepted And wasn't intercepted, Forgiven, though they did no crime Before their prime; Oh! perhaps, They wouldn’t have needed a rehab. For that single act of neglect And treatment like a piglet, We have men of the underworld Who fancy women's underwear Dare to call them Bastards That will surely be your last card. ~~~Kingsley Eneh is a writer and poet. He is a Certified Public Speaker, Content Creator, Relationship Coach, Marriage Counsellor, Good Parenting Advocate, and A servant of God. He currently resides in the United Kingdom. Email Id: Kingsleyenehc@gmai.com
Child of mine; This is the voice of the one that called you mine; The one who journeyed the thousand mile; And crossed death’s rigorous line. Child whose smile I had wished to see; This is the face of the one you chose not to see; The face that had a future with you seen; Who before a protruded belly, your value had seen. Tell me child, tell me; Is it the wine before that so troubles me; Or the late meal that sickens me? Is it a deserved pain that I now feel; Or is it just the result of fate’s seal. I would wail with a weak voice; I would name every suspected vice; I would rethink my every choice; But in the end, you would still be cold as ice. My heart wreaks like a million Titanics; My joy covered as was Atlantis; The pain within has torn me to pieces; And you are gone who would have been my peace. How easy it would be to pretend; To pretend the pain has come to an end; How easy it would be to smile; When all the heart does is sigh. There’s no space for me out there; Too much space for me in here; Claustrophobic; Agoraphobic; Feelings like fever forever fighting; None leaving, so, I fear. Dear child; How do I a broken heart hide? Insomnia and pain together dine; The little sign on my head their wine. My ma visits and counsels; Quick wipe your eyes! You must not let them see; They must never see your eyes flood like the sea. No one understands me like you do; No one truly knows me like you do; No one knows this pain nor can any take it from me. For it was caused by you who was closest to me. I have stood for long at this river observing my very form; Thinking maybe you saw something out of the norm; Perhaps a look at me sent you running; Running back to that world where little voices keep calling. I know I promised not to cry; Look and you’ll see how to keep my word I try; But the loss of you has caused tears that refuse to dry, So, I hide my face from eyes that do naught but pry. Hello child so fair, Is it your dancing feet that I see in the air? Mixing leaves with dust, dust with leaves; Mixing tears with ache, ache with tears. Let me sail the seven seas of the Netherland; Let me fight the seven headed monster of the spirit land. I would cross the rivers to come to you; But would I find you who left in June. Tears blind my vision as I cross the doorpost to your room; I stare at the crib which remains oblivious of your doom. The walls have turned gloomy that were once blue; This gloom that hangs around and makes me naught but blue. He who would have been your father smiles broadly; Being an XY gender has never been carried so heavily; He looks at me and says ‘Nne’ be strong; I look at him and wish he didn’t need to act so strong. They say ‘hang in there, you’ll get another’; How do I tell them it’s you I want, not any other? I am haunted by my forever dreams; In them, I hold you close to my ribs; I am haunted because now they ask for a face; When I tell them I do not know yours, they think I feign. The demons of my dream are not pacified; I wait on fate and I’m not satisfied. Maybe I’ll wake from this slumber; And realize I had been asleep far longer; Maybe I’ll remain in this slumber; And move on to the world far yonder. Have you seen the tears in my eyes; They were born of long painful sighs; Of wishes had and hopes dead; Of life gotten and life dead; This pain will last me a lifetime, This ache will life me till deaths time. Am I to accept your absence; Does that even make sense? Am I to smile and tell the world you’re gone; Am I to smile and accept you’re gone! Deep breaths; Deep breaths; You’re not here and that’s fine; You’re over there and that’s final.; You’re not coming back; I accept; I may yet smile again, I expect. The affairs of this world are never fair; This world is itself not fair. As I close my window this night, I hope. That there’ll be no end to this hope. This light that burns within me; That burns and tells me you loved me. For however short our time together was. For however long my tears for you was. I unbutton the black dress. The night is dark enough for this heart. Out the window goes the mournful dress; This pain goes along, out of my heart. Bleeding souls have never known such peace; As I feel within me tonight. Peace! I shall no longer mourn, No longer shall I mourn. This night I let you go. Go, go… Voice cracks… Tears are wiped from faces cracked… Go be where there are no yokes. This world was never deserving of you! ~~~Uchenna Nnaemeka is currently pursuing her master's degree at the Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka. She is from Anambra state, Nigeria. Email Id: noblewoman191@gmail.com
Old window panes amidst a new city I see mothers there, Cleaning and seeking Seeking a world outside Dust, cars, horns and sometimes A bit of orange pink skies Slow walking through the street lights I think of coriander and groceries Like a pocket notebook Where lost travellers scribble about Love as a pretense of poetry Sketching emptiness, within. I see children here Mud on one hand, crayons on another Birds flying back to nests The absurdist piano playing Moments beneath afternoons Afternoons and evenings. I sew threads of a memoir Slow breaths, long hymns Cathedral in the eye of a stranger For Ephesians on mundanity I carry the clouds of summer While there is a knock at my door, within. I have seen the sketches of a world A world where breaths are heavier than hymns, I pass by the rain of a winter A winter where poetry is warmer than love. Within, Within. ~~~ Sikha Sengupta is a passionate poet whose voice resonates with reasons. She studied Master of Arts in English Literature at Cotton University.
Divine Earth burdened with contaminant, Envisaged a pure atmosphere. The inhabitants yearned for, A glimpse of nature’s wonder. The celestial angel waved her wand, The world procured the requisite pace; Demonstrating to the human race The position amongst world populace. The Fosbury flop brought to the fore - The twittering parrots, Bubbly Bulbuls, Minuscule Humming birds, The resplendent King fisher, Perching on the lush guava tree; And Yiang Ylang tree With fragrant dangling flora. The verdant leaves and boughs, Welcoming the rightful inheritors of Mother Nature The capricious chameleon camouflaging to capture the creatures crawling by. The effervescent squirrels join hands, With the avian delights. The ornate butterflies not far behind, In lending exquisiteness to the ambience. Glance at astounding nature, Enjoying the long lost serenity, Prevailing in the environment. Free from effluence, Hustle and bustle of human life. Wondering at the abrupt change, Yet utilizing the moments. Imbibing gratification to the fullest, Converting it into moments to be - Cherished by mankind, thus Fostering nature for the virtuous posterity. ~~~A. K Nisha is a poet with emotional energy spurred by the reality of human existence.
With his white garment he walked to the altar singing and blessing the body of Christ What pain I feel in my heart for the man my heart beats for belongs to another He is as funny as a stand-up comedian As calm as a still lake As loving as a mother's embrace His voice is a melody He doesn't look bad Should I compare his love to that of a father's love or that of a man to his girlfriend? or that of a white man to his pet; he can go miles to cure the pet of his illness The illness we both contacted was that of love The sin we committed was that of love or lust We are two in this, just as love and lust are two words. I wonder what he has for me, I am sure mine is love. My father who lives in heaven do not forgive us, me in particular for eating the fruit that is kept for you. I would have loved to return it back but my heart has grown to love it and my body is weak to do so yet my spirit is willing What ungracious offence I have committed against God, my body and to the white garment man The world I live in please do not spit me, do not judge me. I better clean up my tears and be strong. Even if the world rejects me And God himself rejects me The soil will not reject me and I refuse to regret my actions nor what I feel for the white garment man. For now, I will keep my head straight And wait for a reply from heaven, until heaven calls me I plead onto the trees to plead on our behalf To the white garment man, I am sorry if I lured you. ~~~Augustine Chidimma Doris is a young Nigerian poet. She is very passionate about poetry.
Caught amidst the uncertainties of Life, The intricacies of the past keep me dumb, On the ululations of the souls departed, For the bodies, lifeless is lying. Piercing deep down my marrow, Is the blood that bursts out like torrents, From the merest of striplings, And like a wine, Was poured out, from the mildest men, Yet without a cause. Why are lives wasted at the altar of bloodbath? From a government soo tyrannical, From armed men soo inhumane, With power soo cruel, Ah! Marauding beasts!!! With the clasping of AK- 47's, They let loose of surreptitious bullets, Striking down a helpless crowd, In the indelible 2020's of Imo state, When humans became chickens, When blood became black, When bodies shattered beyond repairs, When mortuaries became full- blast, In a bid to satisfy their bloodsucking thirsts, Even without a cause. Is blood really thicker than water? For man has ceased to be man, Brother has become beast, And in a lethal appetite for blood, Man has become prey. How else can I explain this mystique? In pain I languish, With a fearful glance of "what happens next", When the land has become "nights in day", By the unceasing disasters of bloodbath, Yet without a cause. ~~~ Solomon Victor Imoh is a poet with so much passion for humanity. His lines are infused with narratives laced with soulful passion.
Unruly aliens stepped on the land To civilize the race of genteel, Superseded the earth—our mother, And doom'd the will of demon upon us. Once Black - the colour of pride; Known for every unknown beauty, Became the subject of infamy, And looked as the fount of disgrace. Once Black - the race of glory Shrank into triviality; Forsaking the spake of our lord, And marching towards decay. Numbness pain wilted the heart, When the cult of the soil That makes us proud, Being berated by the burgess. Vulpine smile inhabited the innocent lips, No rays of tenderness be found, Like a shameless picaroon, Clashing with our own kith and kin. Once Black – the race of prowess, Being scared of our own shadow; Crawling like witty fools on the land, Penniless tycoons we became. ~~~Marimuthu Malaisamy is an Assistant Professor of English at Dr. N.G.P Arts and Science College.
Nightfall, Nightfall, Some call thee, mortal enemy, Harbinger of misfortune, "Accursed!" They say you are. Your wondrous being, A sight to behold. In testament, the stars Bow to your majesty. Thou art my peace, My mind's resting place. Your gentle caress, Filling my being with delight! Like a mother hen, Your wings envelope me. Unburdening my heart Of the day's woes. Like a loving mother, Patiently; you pay heed, Yes, you pay heed To my every wail and tale. Nightfall, Nightfall, Solace of migrants. Succour of the embittered, Answer, to every thought. Not a mortal enemy but friend Harbinger, not of misfortune But fortunes. Nightfall, Nightfall, In thee I find solace; Solace from the day's toil. ~~~Kelechi Monica Nnaji is a young poet from Imo State, Nigeria. She is currently a law student at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka, Anambra State, Nigeria. Email Id: nnajikellygirl@gmail.com
Listen, Carefully, with abandon, Disguised in poise, To the words of those, you are around. Maintain. Neutrality in the face of favour, Disdain hidden, When in their presence. Observe. Actions speak louder, always. Disguised words of contempt, Relayed in voices dripping honey. Voice. Be the one with reason, Doing away with the pettiness, Weaving the web for a much greater battle. Wield. Diplomacy, it is a weapon, Filing away the weaknesses Revealed without fear of retaliation. Learn. The world is not kind Treat it as it does you. With warmth or with scorn. Watch. It will learn of you You aren’t meant to be thrown around. Bestowing respect where it is due. ~~~ Khushi Smitha is a poet with so much zeal to speak the truth from reality.
He is the poetry residing in the abyss of my soul gently igniting the fire of powerful lines which spread like the harmattan fire He is the sweetness of my soul My eyes hazy with savage passion for my lover On cold nights devoid of your presence memories of our rendezvous keeps me warm He is the best distraction for my soul lips on my neck as if to mark me my entire being surges with renewed passion I am putty in his hands as I quiver in anticipation But I haven't seen my lover in ages everywhere I look, I see his face I now live in the wilderness of my emotions like a robot without a heart and soul wandering and wondering when you will come back do you think he can hear my wails? the numbness of my body? the emptiness of my soul? I hope you come back before I fade away into the horizon. ~~~ Adaobi Christiana Iwuno is an undergraduate student of English Language and Literary Studies at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka. Email Id: adaobiiwuno6@gmail.com.
Oh my generation how you weary me in your euphoric mood; your room when you I see great and small dine and wine on delightful meals camouflaged of dire danger through enticing presentation and delicious taste. Experts with deeper knowledge withdraw. To the layman propagate sophistication of what and what man dine and wine from the few who dared to explore the secrets of our sweetened consumptions~ Alert of the harm beneath; the gradual layering of spirited substances constituting our consumptions and the cuisine, yet ignored. At noon comes a call on doc's deck complaining, A and B, C and so on After many tests comes the option to manage health because it's beyond restoration. Oh man! Take heed that thou was not assembled like some toy for play with none to wail when doomed. Therefore, make that which thou feast on simple drawing richness from nature's abundance. ~~~ Nnonye Nnagbo is young poet from Nigeria. She is a poet that speaks to many hearts in lines.
First, I thought I could call them my pals, I was misled by their fake smile, I was lost in thought thinking you all were my pals, Unfortunately, it was all an act. My heart bleeds with pain, I was affronted by their mouth, misled by their smiles, misled by their lies, What I called a fam was all a fabrication of fake minders. All memories are pathways of the breeze of peace of mind, I feel better alone with no one around to hold on to I feel better alone without them, I feel better alone without fabrication minders. Hoping for the best that life has to offer, Hoping for my maker to see me through, What a world of pains and fabrication, I sure will make it out with a smile. ~~~Sandra Chidinma Ogubude is a young poet. She is a poet with resounding zeal that speaks of hope.
Sandra Chidinma Ogubude (Katherine Lybert)
I used to weep, uncertain why, Now, when there's cause, no tears comply. I strive for a heart of frosty grace, But within, warmth I can't erase. Am I too aged to rekindle sorrow's art, To nurture the ability to weep from the heart? In this broken, tired state, I dwell, Wounds and weariness, stories to tell. Life's weight upon my weary frame, Yet, within, I seek an ember of the same. Eyes heavy, shoulders bowed low, Carrying burdens, emotions in tow. In the depths of this tired soul, A yearning to mend, to once again feel whole. Once, I extended warmth to all I'd meet, Now, my kindness wanes, an incomplete feat. I long to be good to people once more, To bridge the gap my heart implores. Though jaded and weary, a desire persists, To rediscover the kindness that once existed. Through life has left me craked and sore, I'll search for tears, my heart to restore In this quest for renewal, I may find, A way to heal a heart that's intertwined; As I seek the kindness buried deep within, I'll rediscover the warmth, let a new chapter begin ~~~Vanshika Nanda is an Engineering Student (3rd year ECE), LPU, Punjab, India. Email Id: vanshikananda864@gmail.com
She violently turns herself into a touch-me-not-plant. Growing steadily in a far off place away from me a thousand miles apart within this small 10×10 sq. feet room— a place yearning for something. The bed becomes a burning furnace, and she grows like a tiny touch-me-not-plant. The more I move towards her, the more she grows like it. Too sensitive, too fearful and too much of coyness. Aloofs and aloofs— she becomes a touch-me-not-plant. The bed becomes a barren one. Infertile. Impotent. Unproductive. Love and lust are lovely lusts but here they are lost. She has awesomely turned herself into a touch-me-not-plant. I laydown besides her, deeply mourning the deaths of so many undelivered still- born births of my discontinued lineage. My grandfathers and forefathers mock at me for keeping a touch-me-not- plant at home. ~~~Dr.M. Elangovan is an Associate Professor, P.G. and Research Department of English, Madurai, Tamil Nadu, India. Email: mjanamithran@gmail.com.
Thirteen years After We are still in darkness city The Hello, Hello yet to stabilize And our sleep still without closed eyes Thirteen years After Highways still death traps Airways still beclouded Many still on zero, zero, one And pipe borne water still in the pipe line Thirteen years After Electoral process yet to find feet Language and worship conflict on the increase Land and farm dispute very much with us And politics of bitterness yet to depart from us Thirteen years After The monster thrives the more For it is pension scam today Tomorrow, it is capital market Thirteen years After It is still eighteen thousand wage With fuel subsidy removal And paying more for darkness in the city Thirteen years After It is still ocean of promises— Flooded promises of brighter future The future we may not see As the sea of promises becomes decades of yearnings. ~~~Engr. Isah Musa Faruq is passionate poet and Consultant. Email Id: Barmifmc@gmail.com
Reminiscing on our old memories. The morning encounters, so lovely it was. The joy together we shared, so lovely it was. The smiles together we shared, so lovely it was. The fulfilment together we felt, so lovely it was. Reminiscing on our love years back. So satisfying, the encounters. So satisfying, the joy. So satisfying, the smiles. So satisfying, the affection. Reminiscing on our friendship. So great, the affection. So deep, the love. So captivating, the smiles. So amazing, the joy. Reminiscing on our adventures years back. In your school, you to see. So satisfying, the adventure. In your house, you to see. To villa you travelled, was told. Still intact, the love. Still satisfying, the joy. Still captivating, the smiles; Still fresh, the memories. Beyond explanation, the love. My good friend, you I love. My good friend, you I cherish. My good friend, a good one you are. My good brother, a good friend you are. My good friend, God bless you I pray. ~~~Chukwuebuka Emmanuel Okoye is an Author and Poet. He is the President of Grace & Mercy Portal International. Email Id: chukwuebukae126@gmail.com
Sometimes it feels good to remain aloof from everything, but sometimes we wish to turn out to be gregarious. Sometimes it feels good to be silent, but sometimes we just wanna pour our hearts out to somebody. Sometimes everything seems to be going good, sometimes even a single moment can finish everything. Sometimes we try our best to find someone, but sometimes we forget ourselves while trying to find that person. Sometimes nothing can ever please us, but sometimes only the sight of someone makes our heart happy. Sometimes even our close ones can never understand us, but sometimes a stranger knows the state of our heart well. Sometimes we never feel like doing anything, but sometimes the heart wants to do the opposite. Sometimes it feels good to be close to someone, but sometimes those close to us can give the worst feelings ever. Sometimes the heart never cries at any cost, but sometimes it sheds tears for no reason. Sometimes we have thought a lot about our future life in our own way, but sometimes our fate brings those things in our lives that we haven't even think about. Sometimes we want to keep our emotions hidden inside us, but sometimes our heart wants to put out our inner feelings to words. ~~~Sharika Showkat is a graduate student from Government Degree College for Women, Anantnag Jammu & Kashmir, INDIA. Email Id: sharikashowket@gmail.com
Resilient Rhapsody: A Symphony of Setbacks and Triumphs
In a world where time unfolds its tales, A girl emerged, her spirit set to sail. Beneath the canvas of an azure sky, She bore the weight of a world awry. In the alleys of adversity, she walked, Each step a testament, each setback talked. A symphony of challenges, life's bitter lore, Yet she danced through the storm, wanting more. Her tale began in the hush of twilight, A narrative painted in hues of might. Bearing the weight of shackles unseen, She wore strength like a regal queen. Amidst the labyrinth of dreams deferred, She whispered to the wind, her vision stirred. For every obstacle that sought to bind, In her heart, resilience she'd find. In the garden of life where thorns abound, She plucked courage, a flower profound. Petals of hope in her weary hand, She faced the tempests, took her stand. A metaphor, her story, written in stars, Against the canvas of the midnight spars. The setbacks, but pauses in her song, In adversity, she found where she belonged. Imagine a chapter where shadows grew, The girl faced setbacks, the world askew. Yet, like a comet streaking 'cross the night, She battled through with celestial might. A metaphorical quilt, patches of despair, Each stitch woven with utmost care. Yet, in the tapestry of her complex strife, Threads of resilience stitched her life. Her journey, an odyssey in a world of gray, Yet, she painted it with colors of the day. The setbacks, mere commas in her prose, In the grand novel of her life, they chose. In the gallery of life, a portrait she'd paint, Brushstrokes of courage, colours quaint. Metaphors interwoven, a lyrical tide, Her story, a ballad, in silence sighed. Picture a moment, a storm's cruel spree, Raindrops as setbacks, soaking glee. Yet, she stood like an oak, roots entwined, In the face of setbacks, a resilience enshrined. Through the kaleidoscope of circumstance, She learned to waltz, took setbacks as a chance. In the book of her life, each chapter turned, A narrative of courage, fervently earned. In the theatre of life, a dramatic scene, She played the lead with a grace serene. The setbacks, mere scenes in her play, In the script of her destiny, she'd sway. Her heart, a compass pointing North, In the labyrinth, she'd find her course. For every setback that sought her tears, She'd sculpt a smile, conquer fears. In the echo of despair, she found a song, A melody of resilience, sung strong. A narrative rich with metaphor, In every setback, she found a door. In the quiet hours where shadows blend, She became the author of a story to mend. A saga of triumph, setbacks aside, Her narrative in the stars, an eternal guide. For in her battles, a symphony played, A masterpiece in setbacks, carefully laid. A metaphorical journey, a girl's brave creed, Her story, a testament to faith, indeed. ~~~Riya Singh is a First Year Biomedical Engineering student from India. She is also an International level orator. E-mail Id: riyasinghbme@gmail.com
Gentle streams of memories floating by Sparking nostalgia making me sigh Moments travelling on trains of dreams Longings entwined me in streams Far away from my home Deep solitude fills my soul Patience & Forbearance fading away Take me home where I belong all the way Aching to perish the stretch of distance In pursuit of my gone existence Far away from my home Deep solitude fills my soul I am drenched in an ocean of solitude Sombre feels making me screwed The hues of life are merely dusted The joys and bliss getting diminished Far away from my home Deep solitude fills my soul…. ~~~Meer Mehroosa Manzoor is a B.A student from Government Degree College for Boys Anantnag Kashmir, India. Email Id: mirmehroosa2@gmail.com
Her skin is smudged with Shea butter, pleasant and coruscating even when the sun is on its peak, she is embellished with so much a gait; elegant when she walks. Beauty is embedded and hidden in her. There's no artificiality in her; even her colour, her looks so daring and luring, like a tranquil river, her voice echoes her hair is woolen in beauty; this is her pride. Her strength is found within her booby, and her pride is the envy of all, her smile arouses her man's attention; among the women, fairest she stands. The gentleness of her hands protrude more loveliness of her colour. She radiates the beauty of Africans, blessed land and filled with artistry, quintessential in all ramification of cultural diversity, her alluring beauty is a sine qua non of African true beauty. She is a paragon of virtue. In her body, African exotic fragrance is looped. ~~ Raphael Ejike Ibekwe is a poet and motivational writer. He is an Undergraduate student English Language and Literature at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka, Anambra State, Nigeria. Email Id: raphaelibekwe200@gmail.com
We applaud them We celebrate them We frown when they are criticized Their narrative; simply put— Restoration of forefathers’ wealth Sweet yet dumb Started as thieves Now blood thirsty In a bid to sustain and build more They tear bodies in pieces Incapacitation looms— Destruction aflame walls of griefs falling bit by bit Men wailing in suicidal force Without comfort to grab of destruction caused on built wealth for years No matter the sugarcoating You are a THIEF In case you’ve forgotten THIEVES take what isn’t theirs Hey, you, you can drop it all today You can disrupt your quest for greed And embrace life the right way ~~~Ogechukwu Ngene is a passionate poet. She graduated from the Department of English Language and Literature, Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka, Anambra State, Nigeria. Email Id:ngene.ob@gmail.com
Agony is the syncopated song on our lips, The drum to which it beats we sway our hips, Our voices have lost volume! We shout—hurl—scream, But no one hears us, Yes, no one hears us! Our body; is systematized to work to the rhythm of their tune! With their feet; they have stamped repeatedly on our rights With their bare hands; our hope of tomorrow is stifled! Our dreams — butchered, distorted beyond recognition, lying in the abyss of no return! But are we going to sit and watch ourselves drown in the pool of shame? Are we going to let our hope mare? Are we crawling beneath bridges by force? Have we thrown away resilience? Or have we lost ourselves? ~~~Ms. Peace Chielotam Okafor, also known as Lottie TheeWriter, is a talented wordsmith and poet based in Ifite Awka, Anambra State. She's a student of English Language and Literature at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka. Email Id: lottietheewriter@gmail.com.
Peace Chielotam Okafor (Lottie TheeWriter)
We sat by each other in brooding silence. He gave me a diamond, I pushed him a laptop. The cake arrived, cut in a jiffy. All cameras flashed and clicked, as we danced, kissed, and posed. I wore a designer gown. My hands were manicured. My hair-do took two hours, so did my makeup artist. He was late from office, so hurried in his favorite suit. We gave marriage advice. And set couple goals. Dinner time was announced. A sumptuous buffet was served. When the guests had departed, we unpacked their gifts. And when all were gone, we retired to bed. I turned to the side and slept. He opened his laptop to finish his pending work. Happy Crystal Anniversary to us! ~~~ Rianka Sarkar is an Assistant Professor at Mount Carmel College Autonomous, Bangalore. Email Id: riankasarkar431@gmail.com
The renovation of my ancestral home has been finished now lately. The rooms have been restored like before. The walls have been painted teal But my once excited self now regrets. I was the one, who wanted to see it in a new frame. But that house no longer seems to be mine. Or did I live in a facade all these years thinking of it as mine? I don't hear the doors calling me back. Neither do I hear the incoherent echoes of my giggles in the childhood inscribed in the nooks of that house. The walls now don't have the imprints of my tiny hands. Nor does it have my footprints dipped in the red vermillion dye as I ran through the porch. The greeting cards I pasted, the utterly imperfect drawings, the crafts I made out of bamboo shoots all are stories of a bygone era. As if they weren't there, ever. The asbestos had greater comfort than the new roof. The patio where I fell in love with the moon and the stars is covered up. Not a single star peeps in. Not even the moonlight spreads its warm embrace. I don't find a single sign of me there. Puzzled, I rethink, is this the same, where I dreamt of happily ever after? We haven't lived there since years, but at least I felt belonged to. But it pains me, My home has turned into a house again. And I, a rootless wanderer. ~~ Padmaja Mishra studied Master’s Programme in English and American Literature at Ravenshaw University—Class of 2023. She is from Jagatsingpur, Orissa, India. Email Id: padmaja.mishra19@gmail.com
Sleeping amidst din, daring to awake Planning overnight, for a better day next, Thoughts of amorous meeting ahead Rapture! Bliss amiss! Devoid of rest, even at best Test of modesty, tiring twist Why should it be a normal day? With fumes of ice cold coffee mugs, Looking at me with Frightful frown! The half cooked Bull's Eye seems to burst Silently cherished steam of fear! What about the time, the wink? Who records every bit? Even in speckless whiteness Twice told tales, hard to devour Stuck in the coils of memory. ~~~K. V. Suja is a passionate poet with so much dream to change the world.
It was late autumn and Tekasenla was rummaging through her cabinet searching for a stapler to staple her son’s school assignment and something caught her eyes, a rich, rusk brown leather album and she lifted it up. It was her wedding photo album which in the bustle of life she has not looked into after her whirlwind and dream-like marriage ten years ago. A mysterious smile, the Mona Lisa smile lit up the corner of her mouth as she remembered her wedding day and in a daydream it took her back to old memories, archived in the mind and coming back like a forgotten song suddenly with gusto and she went down memory lane.
Keleabetswe wandered aimlessly around the shop, deep in thought. Looking at the baby clothes, she imagined the possibilities life could offer a child. She wondered which colours a little girl would prefer. Then she saw it – the cutest little black fur coat. She walked towards it as if pulled by a magnet. She took and caressed it, feeling its softness against her face. Her eyes filled with sadness and hope at the same time; she smiled as she held it up. She wondered whether the coat would shield the girl from the harshness of life, whether it would remind her of the gentleness, warmth and love that had cushioned her for nine months. In that moment, a sharp pain shot through Keleabetswe’s veins, pumping sorrow through her whole body. She clutched the coat against her face and its smoothness calmed her. A tear dropped from her face, landing on the shiny coat and, as she touched it, it disappeared into the thickness of the fur.
"Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you," we all sang. "Hip Hip Hip"! Merit shouted.
He had always said that he would love to spend eternity with me. This young man who makes my heart go thump thump. We have had those kinds of conversations - those kinds that would make you go to sleep, dreaming of that perfect wedding. What did I not do? I always cooked for him or is it because I use too much pepper? I satisfied him in bed or is it because I have a bad hip and can't spread my legs wide enough? Okay, I get it. It's the money I gave him monthly - it's too small. I have no sense of direction anymore; he got married last Saturday and it's not to me. He came back though— two days ago, to say that he misses me and regrets ever leaving. I believe him and I've forgiven him. I've accepted my fate and I'm ready to be his mistress; it's better than nothing. He is coming over today and the reunion will be magical. Hummmm! Shush! Hummmm! Shush baby, don't try to fight it. Do you remember this dress? We picked it out together - I bless this union in the devil's name, for we are both going to hell. Hold my hands and enjoy the smooth ride - till eternity. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. ~~~Benedicta Egbo is a Nigerian writer whose vision of the real makes a glaring mark in fictional representation.
South Abbort Street, a quiet street, except after 8 pm when dogs set free themselves from the shackles of public rush during day hours. Houses of the streets, conscious of the situations around, engulf themselves in the darkness. Solemnly, she mounted on her bed and thought about the house in neighbourhood. These thoughts and images filtering through these thoughts displeased her. The house nearby has the possession of an Old man on the death bed. His face, like a canvas, carved with untimely wrinkles told the story of human destiny.
I don't know about you people but whenever I see a bottle on the Street, I get the urge to showcase my soccer skills. Sometimes, the child-like behaviour in me would win and sometimes, it got overpowered by maturity and I'd just walk pass it.
Mama regaled us with the haunting tale of the wounded Hausa soldier who had unwittingly sought refuge in their backyard, a place of refuge marred by the echoes of gunshots and unrest from the previous night. A throng of furious women had gathered, throwing stones and hurled curses at the ill-fated man. Mama, fueled by a deep-seated resentment stemming from the memory of her husband’s incomplete returns from the North, had joined in the stoning with the same fervor she once used to pound fufu in good times.
It was such a lovely day when we were together. The way you held my hand and chose me over everyone, you were the one I was waiting for. You brought my chaos down and set a peaceful alarm. I was satisfied to get a person like you; that was all I wanted. You were not after my body; you captured my soul and made me realize my worth. You gave me the support I needed for a lifetime. I reached all the levels of happiness with you; you were always at my back; the sun shines brighter than before; the moon is peaceful; I can sleep in your arms forever; and I would never ever want to leave your side. You have gifted me the time that wasn't given by anyone earlier; you held me at my lowest and lifted me up with love and support. I realized this on the day we were together.
When I think about home, it goes in an opposite feeling of how my friends feel. I can't even remember the last time I had the feeling of joy, having both mother and father together as parents. Even the harsh words that came from their mouths before they parted sounded more interesting to me than the recent monotonous voice I hear. I see myself as an orphan, though death did not make me one, but divorce did.
Time is a Joker. This moment you have it, the next you don't. Life belongs to you and at the same time, it doesn't. It's more like a tragi-comedy. One that makes you laugh through your tears because that's how conflicted your insides are.
I Felt Like a Printer That Just Had a Paper Jam
Putting down the minutes of a meeting was one of the duties carried out by a Secretary and I was good at such. Fingers were being pointed at me behind my back as someone who should be nominated to take up the post of a Secretary. I wasn't aware of it. How will I know until I was told? This skill got me qualified to assist a Secretary at the Chapter level. After the Chapter election, it got to the turn of the State executives to bring their tenure to an end so that new ones can take over. A date was assigned to them when they'll hand over. According to the Constitution and Structure of the Union, those that will take over the State leadership will be nominated from every Chapter. On the D-day, all the Chapters arrived for the election.
It started up with the ads l saw on the net, the poets brandishing efforts for us to have our PVCs. Amina has already registered online and scheduled to come and pick it up. If only every other thing good pertaining to this country was quickened this way, my father—a very deep rooted Muslim spiced up with philosophy and psychology kept bragging of the result of the election being held. Not only was he confident about this, he said "these election is to justify all righteousness, the person who they want has been chosen".
A hidden gem known as Kyari lies on the outskirts of Ramnagar, a popular tourist destination in Uttarakhand India. This is where wilderness whispers and myths blend. Encased in a cocoon of natural splendour, this place remained tucked away from the casual traveller’s eye, its secrets guarded by tall trees and the gentle hum of a nearby stream. Mr. Jay, an amateur photographer with a thirst for the unknown, aimed his compass at this mysterious spot.
In a small remote village nestled amidst rolling green hills, a resilient community fought day in and day out, struggling through the relentless cycle of life. This village, like many others, became a microcosm of existencea tapestry woven with threads of joy, sorrow, hope, and despair. The air was thick with stories whispered by the trees, and the villagers carried the weight of countless generations on their weary shoulders. They were bound together by shared history, traditions, and an unbreakable spirit. Each sunrise brought with it a renewed determination to face the day's trials head-on.
Uwaoma is a luck-magnet. The day her late mother, Nwanyidiya, had her, the whole village was indoors. The day started with a strange rain in mid okochi, the season of dryness, winds and cold breeze and shortly after Ekeano festival. It was midday before the raindrops abated, letting in a different sound- the groaning of a woman in labour. One after another, the women came out of their huts, hurrying towards the voice. They knew it was Nwanyidiya, the only woman duly pregnant in the neighbourhood. It was both habitual and obligatory for women to lay aside their usual squabbles whenever it had to do with welcoming a new one. Even as it still drizzled, all hands were on deck until the cry of a baby was heard. Another female was born to Mazi Nzenna. The first, Akuoma, born about seven rain seasons ago, was happy to have a second. The drizzling ceased and ushered in a mild sun upon the kingdom, so tender. People remarked the baby had a bright destiny, was a luck magnet. Nzenna thus named his baby-daughter Uwaoma, meaning ‘the lucky one’. Of course since her arrival, their fireplace never lacked fish for Nwanyidiya’s omugho.
In the heart of a quaint, sun-kissed village, nestled between rolling hills and lush orchards, there lived a woman named Eleano. She was known by all for her captivating beauty, but more so for her silence. Eleano never spoke a word, and her life was shrouded in mystery. People whispered that her voice was the most beautiful in the world, but no one had ever heard it. The village was named Ekemma. Eleano's existence was a perplexing puzzle, a silent enigma that intrigued and bewildered everyone. Her veils, layers of soft, flowing fabric, concealed her face, and she wore them like a fortress guarding her secrets. Eleano's emerald eyes, however, shone with a melancholic depth that hinted at untold stories. Eleano lived in a modest cottage on the outskirts of the village. She earned a living as a seamstress, and her nimble fingers could weave the most intricate patterns. The villagers admired her craftsmanship, but it was her silence that fascinated them the most. It was as if she had chosen not to speak, as if her voice was too precious to share.
She saw him drop dead and for the first time she became scared. What if the police came after her? What if his family doesn't believe her? What was she going to tell them in the first place? Hot tears rolled down her eyes as she sat broken. Suddenly, she started blaming herself. "That was too easy a death. He was only poisoned. I should have made his death worse. What's even the point of living with a dead womb? What was even my offence?". Sandra asked as she recoiled how she had met the demon which later became her husband.
So this girl, in the crowd of thousands, no, millions, remained asleep that day. Her bed was warm, though not as warm as her heart had been just a couple of days ago. Outside, rain poured down, but the earth, earth wasn't as wet as the pillow she made damp. The clock chimed 10 o'clock in the morning, and nothing happened. "Why did it have to chime?" She thought, yes, she was alive, unfortunately, she was alive in her room where 10 O'clock meant nothing to her. Does that really count as alive? "Maybe, just maybe, there might exist a universe where the 10 o'clock on my clock means nothing to me. Does living in that universe also count as 'being alive?" Her bloodshot eyes questioned this to some god knows entity residing in her head. Yet once again the answer, as always, lost its way in the screaming, that came with the silence wide. Her entire body, numb, had become as dead as the rock in the farthest corner of the world untouched, unknown, and unimaginable. Yet her mind was awake, pardon, it was way more than just awake, it was fighting, fighting with the tempest of all kinds of emotions but joy. She was furious, and at the same time, she was not. She was calm, and again, she was not. She was sleeping, but her mind was raging around like a hungry mad dog running for a small cat to feed upon. But not that dog, and please, not that cat again. The bullets of emotions her mind was firing at the image of that dog were fatal enough to blow up an entire building, but she knew, the buildings were not guilty of that act she was now suffering from.
The temperature in the room reached a high point. The once cool room, emitted heat, and the ceiling fan was circulating a warm breeze. It was as if my room had absorbed the warmth from outside. I clutched a plastic chair and made my way to a sprawling mango tree where I settled down with my favorite text, flipping through the pages to find the folded page where I had left off. The rustling of leaves filled the air, creating a soothing melody and a sense of nostalgia; I had not nestled myself under such a sprawling tree in a long time. A gust of breeze periodically brushed my face, wiping away the beads of sweat on my forehead, and whispering in my ears. It was soothing and delicate, like an ethereal lullaby. It was as though it carried nature's message, enveloped by the wind's gentle caress of my skin, filling my senses with tranquility and serenity.