The road ahead is a forbidden way
leading to a discotheque for lost boys.
You are trying to say home, but I mistake
it for run, & so I leave.
In This Poem, I Am Biafra | a CỌ́N-SCÌÒ poem by Fortune Simeon
This body is Biafra. I want to be Ojukwu. I want to secede this flesh. Let me break out.
Flotsam: My Cesspit of Ancestral Heirloom | a CỌ́N-SCÌÒ poem by Nnadi Samuel
I go into every accident—headfirst.
the cesspit claimed by frogs is an ancestral heirloom.
HoMe | a CỌ́N-SCÌÒ poem by Káyọ̀dé Ayobami
You wake up, your mouth is too heavy
To say the morning prayer. Your knees
Are too weak to kiss the cold floor.
THIS LOVE | a CỌ́N-SCÌÒ poem by Salami Alimot Temitope
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”: A CỌ́N-SCÌÒ Magazine ‘Migration’ Issue Interview with Ayomide Bayowa
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.
EMMANUEL AYOOLA’S ‘THE WIG AND THE STREETS’ TACKLES SERIOUS EXPERIENCES IN THE LEGAL PROFESSION WITH WELL-TIMED DOSES OF WITTICISM AND HUMOUR | a review by Onis Sampson
Brilliantly written with language rich in figurative expressions and devices and stories hard to forget, ‘The Wig and the Streets’ is a testament to Ayoola’s mastery of good storytelling.
TIME TO PIPE PEPPERY VERSES — OF LUSH IMAGERIES, ORIGINAL & WITTY METAPHORS | A Review of James Eze’s NLNG Prize 2022 Longlisted “dispossessed” by Ugochukwu Anadi
dispossessed, with lush imageries and original and witty metaphors presents us with the chronicles of Eze’s growth as a poet, his intellectual maturation and the heights of his social consciousness.
OF IMAGINATIONS & IMBIBING: A BOOK LOVER’S TRIBUTE TO AFRICA’S FINEST AUTHORS | an essay by Enit’ayanfe Ayosojumi Akinsanya
They merged all the way from my childhood and became the flame in my rocket today. It is only natural that, like murals, their portraits keep surfacing in my works, and yet, they leave me whole, undefiled, true, the writer child they had raised.
A LETTER TO MY MOTHER | a short story by Abdulrazaq Salihu
Mother, I fear I have lost a whole lot of contacts and relationships as a mango tree loses its leaves. Our street looks smaller now. It is now a strange place even to people like me who once had only its scent inflected in their nostrils.