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…
My Favourite Pastime
A place, where I would eagerly volunteer is a rich library or book store, with lots of books on literature and just about any subject. There are two things about that place which I have grown to love. First, the silence. Second, books and the…
THIS IS HOW I MADE MY WINGS
With sunken eyes in tired sockets, a girl ran after her father’s sigh; seized it, slit its throat, hid the blood-stained knife in a lawn of solitude & became the dream her father had on the night of her conception. She remembers her mother’s words,…
Aunty Maria: A Short Story By Ehi-kowochio Ogwiji
In “Aunty Maria”, Ehi-kowochio Ogwiji shares a story that is real and heavy with sadness. There is a poetic undertone of metaphors and imageries cuddling away in the crisp paragraphs of this story. Although the story is cold with grief, it closes with a warmth…
AN ECHO OF SILENCE
Because we do not preserve memories from decay By immersing them in vessels filled with formalin, I tried to remember you today- your smell, your kiss The beats and lyrics of the songs you said your heart Sang for me, but I can’t remember any….
THE NEW DEATH MANUAL
Pain is like alcohol. I do not know how many shots gets you tipsy, But the first time life served me shots of pain, I staggered home, entered into a poem & passed out. At dawn, mother dispelled the hangover with these words: “Daughter, pain…
LETTERS TO MY SON I
Dear son, I have told you before that loving a woman is like roasting a yam tuber. You have to stay near, without minding the heat of the fireplace. You have the smoke which escorts the nearly unbearable heat to contend with. If you are…
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