The gods play a dangerous game, tempting us with their gifts while slowly but surely eroding our minds. And as we spiral deeper into madness, we must ask ourselves, “Is this really what we desired?”
Tonight in Kampala, you turn off your light but open the eyes in your head: to see Liz finish her life in a struggle. You see her flapping her hands as the waters lap on her face, helplessly as you yelp for any help. None comes and so she dies. You wish you had contained her spirit before it migrated to a different realm, leaving her body—lifeless.
One of the difficult parts of moving was having to explain to friends and neighbours why we’d no longer be living ‘here’ next year. Saying goodbye and ending friendships you had forged. It was always sad to leave people behind.
So much is said about those who leave, but no one spares a thought for those who are left behind to pick up the pieces of nations broken apart by decades of greed and corruption
This body is Biafra. I want to be Ojukwu. I want to secede this flesh. Let me break out.
What is this tingling sensation in my stomach? Your name,
hibiscus in my mouth. Your voice, a star in the night
of my body. This love scintillates the orchid of my core.
The craft of poetry writing is rooted in the pursuit of one’s voice, an elusive element that can be found within oneself, whether it be deep within the vocal cords or buried within the pits of one’s impressions.
“So, you….” Alex stares at his hands “… you don become my padi abi?”
Timi laughs as he walks towards Alex, “Ehen na’’. And they shake hands, in the weird way that guys do.
From my mother’s words emerged a girl,
Her hair a cascade on my eyelashes unfurled.
Simultaneously, I am but a line,
In a poem where my mother’s a verse so divine.
Tomorrow, I may vanish like the morning mist,
Which gracefully dissipates beneath the caress of sun’s smile
So, when I find my room beneath the earth’s embrace
Do not afflict your eyes with desolate tears