Returning Home III
By the time Fatima got to her mother’s hut, she was already very exhausted. She landed heavily at the doorstep. Her mother who had been awakened by footsteps approaching her hut was peeping through the window to see who it was. “I would catch the…
Gideon Emmanuel: Cobwebs
How do our lives dangle in the scale of fate, Scared of a balanced end in the trap of death How does our conscience lay ambush to our trust And our mistakes like preys, lay When shall our thoughts be free from lust And our…
I Wriggled Out of His Grip- A Sexual Assault Story
Are sexual assault stories like yawns? That when someone in a room O-s his mouth in a yawn, we suddenly feel like yawning?
Adesina Ajala: A Letter To Noroh
Dar(l)ing Noroh, It’s been eons my phone giggled to your fond calls, and for countless nights, I’ve hushed to WhatsApp, to binge on your soothing words only to get my eyes wet again when your D.P. reminded me of wilted wreaths and faded epitaphs. In…
Naphtali Festus Adda: insomnia
the night is here again, my body is perfumed with a cologne of thoughts, of grief, & of grief still – the rain of the eyelashes is falling lightly lightly on my cheeks it’s 10:39 PM already & my brother – a sleepy-snorer is calling…
Returning Home II
The quick steps behind her frightened her. It seemed the person was trying to catch up. Fatima wondered what she would do if she was in any sort of danger. She was heavily pregnant, much too so to take to her heels or fight back…
How we Spell Home, A Poem By E. Ogwiji
‘How we Spell Home’ is a gripping poem about the chaos and unrest in the poet’s home country. What else should a poet do when all the synonyms of ‘home’ she knows are words that unsettle her? Trapped in this poem, are many stories of…
RETURNING HOME I
Fatima is muttering prayers as she walks down the narrow path which leads home. She cannot stop peering through her shoulder. Everywhere is silent. The kind of silence which injects fear. When all a person hears is the chirping of crickets singing lullabies for street…
The Editor’s ‘No’ or Nod
Last night, the editor looked through a pile of poems, where mine hid, with a smear of mama’s anointing oil, wrapped in the first prayer I mumbled after my last rejection. (Is there even a thing as last rejection? Is rejection not a long endless…
A POET’S SOLILOQUY
“When tears are in your eyes, It’s time to look inside, Your heart will find another way” –Enya Are poems not the pallbearers of a poet’s dead dreams & hopes? I am awed by the way they donate their shoulders to bear the pain Of…
