We stepped out from my
borrowed flat in the Marais, under
the Renaissance arches of the Place
des Vosges and the formalities of
the Hotel de Sully, into the squalid
modernities of far-flung banlieu
where a cathedral lurks amongst
market debris.
THIS CITY SHAN’T BE MY CAULDRON!(a poem by Olajuwon Joseph Olumide)
where is the rainbow i often found
in the sky of returning lips
oh port harcourt whose pots are courts
where meat arbirates fingers
A BOY’S CITY (a poem by Odemakin Taiwo Hassan)
a weird mix of pain and nostalgia latch on to my
tongue. this city moulded me too, in ways too many to mention.
CEMETERY & THE MAGIC AROUND HERE (two poems by Chisom Charles Nnanna)
Here, boys are men, and girls
are no ladies— no—they’re no less the man
who shoulders a house for a living—frankly. And
it’s no child abuse, it’s the hustle.
EDGE OF TOMORROW (a short story by Nwabuisi Kenneth N.)
Today, Monday, he packs up his belongings and places them on top of a bench in the middle of their compound. Nwanyimma hands him a polythene bag that contains a bottle of red oil, unripe avocadoes, and other perishable goods.
ABA IS A STORY (a short story by Jaachi Anyatonwu)
So, on and on it reels, the wheel of time, churning out plot twists of a beautiful mosaic of everything good, bad, ugly – Aba!
“AT THE FOREFRONT OF MY INTENTIONS AS A WRITER IS A NEED TO ENTERTAIN”: A CỌ́N-SCÌÒ MAGAZINE INTERVIEW WITH OTHUKE OMINIABOHS
At the forefront of my intentions is a need to entertain. Of course to whom much is given, much is expected in return. This means I do not write in a vacuum, or rather I do not ‘entertain’ in a vacuum. There is so much to be said, so many questions to be asked, ills to be addressed . . . so much that even a thousand books will still not be enough to cover it all. So I write, first to entertain, and in the same vein, to question/address whatever pressing concerns there may be.
INCENSE OF DIVINE OMENS (a poem by Akor Agada)
There are times hope turns into rain drops
in the quiet corner of our tongues
Pacifying the thirsty desert
MAYS (a poem by Ambali Abdulkabeer)
May the roads be clear for the air of rebirth
& the streets be free of draping agonies
GRAY HAIR (a poem by Luper Damkor)
It is a marvel, the Grace of gray
It is a cup, like the Holy Grail
Everyone longs… for a taste, they pray