Nigerian literature is not in the state that it ought to be, given the enormous Nigerian population; we need to do more. We need to develop a conscious policy towards enhancing the results achieved by our books out there in the market across the world.
Kunle lets the phone fall off his ear. He leaves his mother’s voice vibrating on the mattress. He goes to the fridge but he doesn’t take anything. He rests his head on it instead.
Everyone thought it was the end of the world but it wasn’t,
For it came like a thief at night, taking both the holy and unholy.
We remain in our homes,
like prisoners in their cells,
because there’s no promise
of aseptic air,
no promise of safe strolls,
We that stayed indoor painted figments of fear over our doorsteps,
We that went outside wore spacesuits on earth,
Once more, in our sandals of hope
Our weary feet will stand firm and tall
Again, the trees and wind will sing,
Nothing but ecstasy in lyrics of joy
Somewhere around, a sneeze only wreaked out from a
man’s throat & everyone faded away like smoke.
death figures drown the eyes. conjectures:
a new cold war of superpowers or theory of conspiracy?
We’re busy fondling the breast of our phones
depositing our minds in the abstract
while avoiding reality’s stony face
They drove past me and my brother—
The x and y in an equation
Past our cry for survival
Our hands resting on our waists