Blues for the New Senate King by Niyi Osundare

Who will save us from our Prostitutes in Power?

(Part 1)
He wanted so desperately to be King of Senate
He left the Path of Honour behind
Haba ! He wanted so desperately to be King of Senate
He left the Path of Honour behind
He stabbed noble Faith and Trust in the back
And put the Traitor’s knife on the bonds that bind

Power-intoxicated, blinded by ambition
He only cares for three big people: “I, Me, and Myself”
Say, Power-drunk, blinded by ambition
He only cares for three big people: “I, Me, and Myself”
A renegade old book with phoney letters
Vacuous, thumb-stained on History’s shelf

His feet never know the way to the house of Honour
“Integrity” is visibly missing in his diction of Deceit
Yes, his feet never know the way to the house of Honour
“Integrity” is visibly missing in his diction of Deceit
He sold us cheap in the commerce of the backroom caucus
Coming back later with a false receipt

Cocky without conscience, rude without restraint
He traded away a victory won with our sweat and blood
Say, cocky without conscience, rude without restraint
He traded away a victory won with our sweat and blood
A discredited enemy behind his tarnished banner
He trampled the people’s Hope in the shameful mud

The fruit never falls far from its tree
True scion of a cold and crooked clan
Ha ha ha, a fruit never falls far from its tree
True scion of a cold and crooked clan
Broken banks, broken dreams, and broken lives
He’s a fitting heir to a dubious pedigree

(Part 2)
PDP in the morning, Labour at noon, APC at night
Wind-vane politicians with multiple tongues
Say, PDP in the morning, Labour at noon, APC at night
Wind-vane politicians with multiple tongues
They plod through life like shameless masquerades
Their trails are littered by a litany of wrongs

Our rulers stink like festering corpses
Their crimes choke the startled world
Say, Nigeria’s rulers stink like festering corpses
Their nuisance chokes the startled world
Honourless, truthless, with hearts of stone
In league, all times, with treacherous forces

Prostitute dealers, perfidious scoundrels
They sell us short in every market
Say, prostitute dealers, perfidious scoundrels
Selling us short in every market
They tilt the till to their bottomless pocket
And cripple the nation with their ruinous racket

Devoid of scruple, averse to sense,
They blight the ballot and steal our vote
Alas, devoid of scruple, averse to sense
They blight the ballot and steal our vote
They cast us adrift on the swindled oceans
With tattered sails and leaking boat

And WE THE PEOPLE are the absent factor
Bought, sold, disdainfully discarded
Agbaga!* WE THE PEOPLE are the absent factor
Bought, sold, disdainfully discarded
Servile servants of mindless masters
We forgo our right to be well regarded

*Horror of horrors!

Niyi Osundare

This poem is Niyi Osundare's reaction to the current political madness in Nigeria. Specifically, the poem is addressed to the new Senate president, who is widely believed got the position through underhand and squalid means.

Niyi Osundare was born in 1947 in Ikere-Ekiti, Nigeria. He is a prolific writer and highly valued literary critic. In December 2014, Osundare was awarded the Nigerian National Merit Award (NNMA) for academic excellence.

Homeless, Not Hopeless by Sola Owonibi

Homeless, Not Hopeless

We are the native of the street
Holed-up under bridges
We are necessary
We are part of your existence
Major fragment of the globe
As the day chameleon to night
You slump in the warmth of your beds
And the heat of loved ones
We also embrace the cozy
Cardboards laid on stinks
As the night inject us with cold breeze
And endurance
We sleep and dream
And have conferences with
The indigenes of the world
When its day, in bundle
We pack our belongings
And move on with our days
Standing, kneeling and bending
To beg for alms just for the day
Necessary part of your society
Translators of your dreams
Carriers of your burdens
Angels, we open gates
Of your blessings
We are the lack
That takes your lack
We are homeless, not hopeless
This makes us rife at hereafter
When death opens the gate
To the second phase

Sola Owonibi

Sola Owonibi, a multiple award-winning Nigerian poet, playwright, culture activist and literary critic, teaches at the Department of English Studies, Adekunle Ajasin University, Akungba, Nigeria. With over two decades of teaching literature and language across Nigerian universities, Owonibi has authored numerous academic papers, poetry and drama texts.

Capital by Wole Soyinka

It cannot be
That germ which earth has nurtured
Man tended - once I watched a waterfall
Of germ, a grain-spray plenitude
Belched from chutes of wide-mouthed
Glad satiation; I swear the grains
Were singing-
It cannot be
That policy, deliberation
Turns these embers of my life
To ashes, and in polluted seas
Lays sad beds of yeast to raise
Dough
On the world market.

Wole Soyinka.

Wole Soyinka is one the most honoured African poets. He is a playwright, poet, lecturer and an activist. He was awarded the Nobel prize in Literature in 1986 being the African to be so honoured. Wole Soyinka was born on 13 July, 1934.

Mama Preye's Ripe Mango by Robert Nabena

Her piercing smile,
Meant all was well.
Her protruding tummy,
Her tale to tell.

Shackled by beliefs
Hinged on lust
And the whims of greed.
Mama Preye's ripe mango,
Sold for a bottle of gin
And a keg of fresh palmwine.

Her value;
The worth of a cow,
Tied to the apron of a stranger
Led to a slaughter slab.

He whipped her hard,
And with each morsel,
Devoured his bowl of 'fufu'.

With audacious vigor,
Like a mangrove mosquito
He drilled for fresh blood
Oblivious of her pain,
Deeper than her bowels could contain.'

'Please be merciful
I am child not bride'
Mango's solemn plea,
A wink in the dark.

Holding on to a dry branch,
From a small frame
With a protruding tummy,
The bruise under her gown,
Told her tale.
Mama Preye's ripe mango,
Sold too early.

Robert Nabena

Robert Nabena is a Nigerian author and
contributing writer for various journals,
magazine and news letters.

Expelled by Jared Angira

We had traded in the market competitively perfect
till you came in the boat, and polished goodwill
approval from high order
all pepper differentials, denied flag-bearers

and cut our ribs, dried our cows
the vaccine from the lake
burst the cowshed, the drought you brought
planted on the market place, the tree of memory

I had no safe locket to keep my records
when Sodom burnt and Gomorrah fell
the debtor’s records blared
the creditors tapped my rusty door

My tears flowed to flooded streams
and source the rivulets from my human lake
from my veins, my heart my whole
disposition of the last penny
the last sight of my fishing-net

Everyone avoids my path; I avoid death’s too
pursuit in a dark circus
the floating garden in a gale
plants reject sea water, the sea water rejects me

I have nothing to reject
the broken lines run across my face
The auctioneer will gong his hammer
for the good left behind

Jared Angira

Jared Angira is a Kenyan poet who was born on 21st November, 1947. Because of the significance ofhis works to the recognition of Kenyan poetry, he is seen as Kenya's first truly significant poet.

Boy on a Swing by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Slowly he moves
to and fro, to and fro,
then faster and faster
he swishes up and down.

His blue shirt
billows in the breeze
like a tattered kite.

The world whirls by:
east becomes west,
north turns to south;
the four cardinal points
meet in his head.

Mother!
Where did I come from?
When will I wear long trousers?
Why was my father jailed?

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.

An Abandoned Bundle by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

The morning mist
and chimney smoke
of White City Jabavu
flowed thick yellow
as pus oozing
from a gigantic sore.

It smothered our little houses
like fish caught in a net.

Scavenging dogs
draped in red bandanas of blood
fought fiercely
for a squirming bundle.

I threw a brick
they bared fangs
flicked velvet tounges of scarlet
and scurried away,
leaving a mutilated corpse-
an infant dumped on a rubbish heap-
'Oh! Baby in the Manger
sleep well
on human dung.'

Its mother
had melted into the rays of the rising sun,
her face glittering with innocence
her heart as pure as untrampled dew.

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.

Zimbabwe by Anonymous

Proud city of stone
You frown, alone
South of the Zambezi!

Your walls of stone
Green moss have grown,
South of the Zambezi!

Your soldiers proud
Once stood, unbowed,
Guarding the gold
And treasure untold,
South of the Zambezi!

Once again town will stand,
The glory of ancient land-
Your drums will pound,
Your trumpets sound-
For Zimbabawe stands again-
South of the Zambezi!

...Anonymous

Men in Chains by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Men in Chains
The train stopped
at a country station.
Through sleep curtained eyes
I peered through the frosty window,
and saw six men:
men shorn
of all human honour
like sheep after shearing,
bleating at the blistering wind,
‘Go away! Cold wind! Go away!
Can’t you see we are naked?’
They hobbled into the train
on bare feet,
wrists handcuffed,
ankles manacled
with steel rings like cattle at the abattoirs
shying away from the trapdoor.
One man with a head
shaven clean as a potato
whispered to the rising sun,
a red eye wiped by a tattered
handkerchief of clouds,
‘Oh! Dear Sun!
Won’t you warm my heart
with hope?’
The train went on its way to nowhere.

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.

Sounds of a Cowhide Drum by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Boom! Boom! Boom!
I am the drum on your dormant soul,
cut from the black hide of a sacrificial cow.
I am the spirit of your ancestors,
habitant in hallowed huts,
eager to protect,
forever vigilant.
Let me tell you of your precious heritage,
of your glorious past trampled by the conqueror,
destroyed by the zeal of a missionary.
I lay bare facts for scrutiny
by your searching mind, all declarations and dogmas.
. . .
Boom! Boom! Boom!
That is the sound of a cowhide drum--
The Voice of Mother Africa.

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.

Not My Business by Niyi Osundare

They picked Akanni up one morning
Beat him soft like clay
And stuffed him down the belly
Of a waiting jeep.

What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?

They came one night
Booted the whole house awake
And dragged Danladi out,
Then off to a lengthy absence.

What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?

Chinwe went to work one day
Only to find her job was gone:
No query, no warning, no probe –
Just one neat sack for a stainless record.

What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?

And then one evening
As I sat down to eat my yam
A knock on the door froze my hungry hand.

The jeep was waiting on my bewildered lawn
Waiting, waiting in its usual silence.

Niyi Osundare

Niyi Osundare was born in 1947 in Ikere-Ekiti, Nigeria. He is a prolific writer and highly valued literary critic. In December 2014, Osundare was awarded the Nigerian National Merit Award (NNMA) for academic excellence.

Nightfall in Soweto by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Nightfall comes like
a dreaded disease
seeping through the pores
of a healthy body
and ravaging it beyond repair

A murderer’s hand,
lurking in the shadows,
clasping the dagger,
strikes down the helpless victim.

I am the victim.
I am slaughtered
every night in the streets.
I am cornered by the fear
gnawing at my timid heart;
in my helplessness I languish.

Man has ceased to be man
Man has become beast
Man has become prey.

I am the prey;
I am the quarry to be run down
by the marauding beast
let loose by cruel nightfall
from his cage of death.

Where is my refuge?
Where am I safe?
Not in my matchbox house
Where I barricade myself against nightfall.

I tremble at his crunching footsteps,
I quake at his deafening knock at the door.
“Open up!” he barks like a rabid dog
thirsty for my blood.

Nightfall! Nightfall!
You are my mortal enemy.
But why were you ever created?
Why can’t it be daytime?
Daytime forever more?

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.

Racism by Abdelwaheb Dhaou

Racist stickers on
Dark hours of segregation -
Horrid ignorance.

Haiku
Abdelwaheb Dhaou.

Abdelwaheb Dhaou is one of the contemporary African poets. His poems are spectacular and his themes are centred on the maladies of African societies. Abdelwaheb Dhaou is a Tunisian.

Conversation at Night with a Cockroach by Wole Shoyinka

I murmured to their riven hearts:
Yet blood must flow, a living flood
Bravely guarded, boldly split
.
Half-way up your grove of union
We watched you stumble-mere men
Lose footing on the peaks of deities.
.
A round table, board
Of the new abiding-man, ghoul, Cockroach,
Jackal and broods of vile crossbreedings
Broke bread to a loud veneration
Of awe-filled creatures of the wild.
Sat to a feast of love-our pulsing hearts!
.
No air, no earth, no loves or death
Only the brittle sky in harmattan
And in due season, rain to waken the shurb
A hailstone herald to the rouse
Of hills, echoes in canyons, pastures
In the palm of ranges, moss horizons
On distant ridges, anthill spires for milestones.
.
Spread its wings in a feeble sun
And rasped his saw-teeth. A song
Of triumph rose on the deadened air
A feeler probed the awful silence,
Withdrew in foreknowing contentment
All was well. All was even
As it was in the beginning
.
In that year's crucible we sought
To force impurities in nation weal
Belly-up, heat-drawn by fires
Of truth.
.
You lit the fires, you and saw
Your dawn of dawning yield
To our noon of darkness.

Wole Soyinka.

Wole Soyinka is one the most honoured African poets. He is a playwright, poet, lecturer and an activist. He was awarded the Nobel prize in Literature in 1986 being the African to be so honoured. Wole Soyinka was born on 13 July, 1934.

Injustice by Abdelwaheb Dhaou

Dustmen bell the cat
Collect domestic refuse
Meager salary.

Haiku
Abdelwaheb Dhaou

Abdelwaheb Dhaou is one of the contemporary African poets. His poems are spectacular and his themes are centred on the maladies of African societies. Abdelwaheb Dhaou is a Tunisian.

To the Tyrants of the World by Aboul-Qacem Echebbi (Translated)

Hark! You tyrannous dictator,
lover of darkness, enemy of life.
You mocked the cries of the weak,
and your palm is stained with their blood.
You set out tarnishing the enchantment of existence,
sowing the thorns of anguish among the hills.

Slow down! Let not the spring deceive you,
nor the serenity of the sky, nor the glow of the morning.
For in the vast horizon lurks the power of darkness,
the bombardment of thunder, and the raging of winds.
Beware! Under the ashes burns the flame,
and he who sows the thorns harvests the wounds.

Think! Whenever you reap
the heads of men and the flowers of hope,
wherever you water the heart of the earth with blood
and inebriate it with tears,
the flood will carry you away, the torrent of blood,
and the burning rage will consume you.

Aboul-Qacem Echebbi

The above poem was written originally in Tunisian Arabic. Aboul-Qacem Echebbi, after his death has many translators of his works. This is therefore one the translated versions of the poem.

Aboul-Qacem Echebbi (also ﺃﺑﻮ ﺍﻟﻘﺎﺳﻢ ﺍﻟﺸﺎﺑﻲ) was a Tunisian poet. He was best known for writing the last two stanzas of Tunisia anthem "Defenders of the Homeland". He was born on 24 February 1909 and died on 9 October 1934.

The Sea Eats the Land at Home by Koffi Awoonor

At home sea is in the town,
Running in and out of the cooking places,
Collecting the firewood from the hearths
And sending it back at night;
The sea eats the land at home.

It came one day at the dead of night,
Destroying the cement walls,
And carried away the fowls,
The cooking-pots and the ladles,
The sea eats the land at home;

It is a sad thing to hear the wails,
And the mourning shouts of the women,
Calling on all the gods they worship,
To protect them from the angry sea.

Aku stood outside where her cooking-pot stood,
With her two children shivering from the cold,
Her hands on her breasts,
Weeping mournfully.
Her ancestors have neglected her,
Her gods have deserted her,
It was a cold Sunday morning,
The storm was raging,
Goats and fowls were struggling in the water,
The angry water of the cruel sea;
The lap-lapping of the bark water at the shore,
And above the sobs and the deep and low moans,
Was the eternal hum of the living sea.
It has taken away their belongings
Adena has lost the trinkets which
Were her dowry and her joy,
In the sea that eats the land at home,
Eats the whole land at home.

Koffi Awoonor

Koffi Awoonor Williams is a Ghanaian poet of Ewe origin. He was born in Ghana on 13 March 1935 anddied in the Kenya Shopping Mall attack on 21 September 2013.

A Plea for Mercy by Kwesi Brew

We have come to your shrine to worship
We the sons of the land
The naked cowherd has brought
The cows safely home,
And stands silent with his bamboo flute
Wiping the rain from his brow;
As the birds brood in their nests
Awaiting the dawn with unsung melodies
The shadows crowd on the shore
Pressing their lips against the bosom of the sea;
The peasants home from their labours
Sit by their log-fires
Telling tales of long-ago.
Why should we the sons of the land
Plead unheeded before your shrine?
When our hearts are full of song
And our lips tremble with sadness?
The little firefly vies with the star,
The log-fire with the sun
The water in the calabash
With the mighty Volta,
But we have come in tattered penury
Begging at the door of a Master.

Kwesi Brew

Kwesi Brew was a Ghanaian poet born in 1928 and died in 2007. He was born to a Fante family but he was brought up by a British guardian - education officer, K. J. Dickens after his parents died.

A Troubadour I traverse Dennis Brutus

A troubadour, I traverse all my land
exploring all her wide flung parts with zest
probing in motion sweeter far than rest
her secret thickets with an amorous hand:
5 and I have laughed disdaining those who banned
enquiry and movement, delighting in the test
of wills when doomed by Saracened arrest,
choosing, like unarmed thumb, simply to stand.

Thus, quixoting till a cast-off of my land
10 I sing and fare, person to loved-one pressed
braced for this pressure and the captor’s hand
that snaps off service like a weathered strand:
– no mistress-favor has adorned my breast
only the shadow of an arrow-brand.
(Italian Sonnet)

...Dennis Brutus

Dennis Vincent Brutus was a South African social activist and prolific poet. He was jailed with Nelson Mandela in the 1960s in the fight against apartheid having their cells next to each other in Roben Island. He was born on 28th November 1924 and died on 26 December 2009.

Songs of Sorrow by Koffi Awoonor

1.
Dzogbese Lisa has treated me thus
It has led me among the sharps of the forest
Returning is not possible
And going forward is a great difficulty
The affairs of this world are like the chameleon feces
Into which I have stepped
When I clean it cannot go.

I am on the world's extreme corner,
I am not sitting in the row with the eminent
But those who are lucky
Sit in the middle and forget
I am on the world's extreme corner
I can only go beyond and forget.

My people, I have been somewhere
If I turn here, the rain beats me
If I turn there the sun burns me
The firewood of this world
Is for only those who can take heart
That is why not all can gather it.
The world is not good for anybody
But you are so happy with your fate;
Alas! The travelers are back
All covered with debt.

2
Something has happened to me
The things so great that I cannot weep;
I have no sons to fire the gun when I die
And no daughters to wail when I close my mouth
I have wandered on the wilderness
The great wilderness men call life
The rain has beaten me,
And the sharp stumps cut as keen as knives
I shall go beyond and rest.
I have no kin and no brother,
Death has made war upon our house;

And Kpeti's great household is no more,
Only the broken fence stands;
And those who dared not look in his face
Have come out as men.
How well their pride is with them.
Let those gone before take note
They have treated their offspring badly.
What is the wailing for?
Somebody is dead. Agosu himself
Alas! A snake has bitten me
My right arm is broken,
And the tree on which I lean is fallen.

Agosi if you go tell them,
Tell Nyidevu, Kpeti, and Kove
That they have done us evil;
Tell them their house is falling
And the trees in the fence
Have been eaten by termites;
That the martels curse them.
Ask them why they idle there
While we suffer, and eat sand.
And the crow and the vulture
Hover always above our broken fences
And strangers walk over our portion.

Koffi Awoonor

Koffi Awoonor Williams is a Ghanaian poet of Ewe origin. He was born in Ghana on 13 March 1935 and died in the Kenya Shopping Mall attack on 21 September 2013.

If This Life Is All We Have by Dennis Brutus

IF this life is all we have
if in fact it is all we shall know
as indeed may be most probable
and if, as is reasonably certain
we shall have no more on earth
then it is wrong to lament –
wrong to wish for the end of life
wrong to feel one must drag somehow through
and surely one must do whatever one can
fill each day with as much as can be done
while we live, we must fill each day with living
and do each day as much as we can
of what seems to us worthwhile;
all that is good, as we understand it
all that stirs us with a sense of joy
and this we must do each day as much as we can
while we are living
since this may be the only life
and certainly the only one we shall know here
it is sensible to make it full and alive
and rich and satisfying
and filled with all that seems good to us good,
and that seems enduring and brings joy
all that seems virtuous
all that seems alive

...Dennis Brutus

Dennis Vincent Brutus was a South African social activist and prolific poet. He was jailed with Nelson Mandela in the 1960s in the fight against apartheid having their cells next to each other in Roben Island. He was born on 28th November 1924 and died on 26 December 2009.

The Fence by Lenrie Peters

There where the dim past and future mingle
their nebulous hopes and aspirations
there I lie.

There where truth and untruth struggle
in endless and bloody combat,
there I lie.

There where time moves forwards and backwards
with not one moment’s pause for sighing,
there I lie.

There where the body ages relentlessly
and only the feeble mind can wander back

there I lie in open-souled amazement

There where all the opposites arrive
to plague the inner senses, but do not fuse,
I hold my head; and then contrive
to stop the constant motion.
my head goes round and round,
but I have not been drinking;
I feel the buoyant waves; I stagger

It seems the world has changed her garment.
but it is I who have not crossed the fence,
So there I lie.

There where the need for good and “the doing good” conflict, there I lie.

LENRIE PETERS

Lenrie Leopold Wilfred Peters was a Gambian surgeon, educationist, novelist and poet. He was born on 1st September, 1932 and died on 28th May, 2009. May his soul rest in peace.

No Coffin No Grave by Jared Angira

He was buried without a coffin
without a grave
the scavengers performed the post-mortem
in the open mortuary
without sterilized knives
in front of the night club

stuttering rifles put up
the gun salute of the day
that was a state burial anyway the car knelt
the red plate wept, wrapped itself in blood its master’s

the diary revealed to the sea
the rain anchored there at last
isn’t our flag red, black, and white?
so he wrapped himself well

who could signal yellow
when we had to leave politics to the experts
and brood on books
brood on hunger
and schoolgirls
grumble under the black pot
sleep under torn mosquito net
and let lice lick our intestines
the lord of the bar, money speaks madam
woman magnet, money speaks madam
we only cover the stinking darkness
of the cave of our mouths
and ask our father who is in hell to judge him
the quick and the good

Well, his dairy, submarine of the Third World War showed he wished
to be buried in a gold-laden coffin
like a VIP
under the jacaranda tree beside his palace
a shelter for his grave
and much beer for the funeral party

anyway one noisy pupil suggested we bring
tractors and plough the land.

...JARED ANGIRA

Jared Angira is a Kenyan poet who was born on 21st November, 1947. Because of the significance of his works to the recognition of Kenyan poetry, he is seen as Kenya's first truly significant poet.

Who Buys My Thoughts by Dennis Osadede

Who Buys My Thoughts

Who buys my thoughts
Buys not a cup of honey
That sweetens every taste;
He buys the throb,
5 Of Young Africa’s soul,
The soul of teeming millions,
Hungry, naked, sick,
Yearning, pleading, waiting.

Buys not false pretence
Of oracles and tin gods;
He buys the thoughts
Projected by the mass
Of restless youths who are born
Into deep and clashing cultures,
Sorting, questioning, watching.

Who buys my thoughts
Buys the spirit of the age,
The unquenching fire that smoulders
And smoulders
In every living heart
That’s true and noble or suffering;
It burns all o’er the earth,
Destroying, chastening, cleansing.

...DENNIS OSADEBE

Dennis Chukude Osadebay (29 June 1911—26 December 1994) was a Nigerian politician, poet, journalist and former premier of the now defunct Mid-Western Region of Nigeria, which now comprises Edo and Delta State. He was one of the pioneering Nigerian poets who wrote in English.

About African Poem Archives

African Poem Archives is a blog of poetry journal. As the name unequivocally suggests, it features evergreen poems penned by African writers both ancient and contemporary. Every poem on this platform remains the property of the name which appears on it. Poems on this website are copyrighted materials and are essentially published for educational purpose. Hence, if you wish to use any of the poems on this blog, the author's name must be acknowledged. Otherwise, such usage may be regarded as plagiarisation.

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The Casualties by J. P. Clark

The casualties are not only those who are dead .
They are well out of it .
The casualties are not only those who are dead .
Though they await burial by installment.
The casualties are not only those who are lost
Persons or property, hard as it is
To grope for a touch that some
May not know is not there.
The casualties are not only those led away by night.
The cell is a cruel place , sometimes a haven .
No where as absolute as the grave .
The casualties are not only those who started
A fire and now cannot put out. Thousands
Are are burning that have no say in the matter .
The casualties are not only those who are escaping.
The shattered shall become prisoners in
A fortress of falling walls

The casualties are many , and a good member as well
Outside the scenes of ravage and wreck ;
They are the emissaries of rift ,
So smug in smoke -rooms they haunt abroad ,
They do not see the funeral piles
At home eating up the forests .
They are wandering minstrels who, beating on
The drums of the human heart, draw the world
Into a dance with rites it does not know .

The drums overwhelm the guns…
Caught in the clash of counter claims and charges
How Can I Go On When not in the niche others left,
We fall .
All casualties of the war.
Because we cannot hear each other speak .
Because eyes have ceased the face from the crowd .
Because whether we know or
Do not the extent of wrongs on all sides ,
We are characters now other than before
The war began, the stay- at - home unsettled

By taxes and rumours, the looters for office
And wares, fearful everyday the owners may return .
We are all casualties,
All sagging as are
The cases celebrated for kwashiorkor .
The unforseen camp - follower of not just our war .

J.P. Clark
John Pepper Clark-Bekederemo was born on 6th April,1935. He is a Nigerian poet and playwright. He has written and published numerous poems and plays, some of his most popular works are Abiku (poetry) and Song of a Goat (a play).

How Can I Go On by Margaret Sammy

How can I go on,
When the world is chasing me
A race I might never win,
My legs fail me.

I need help,
Not encouragement
Why won’t they listen to me?
I can’t run anymore,
I am just a girl,
Tomorrow’s woman I’m out of breath.

Can’t you hear me?
I might be trapped in a box,
With my talent strapped in my pouch
I plead for a moment to be heard,
To be seen,
Please don’t say no

If I do my part,
What about yours?
I am human, Not a machine,
Listen to me,
I beg to be heard


© Margaret Sammy (June 2015)
Margaret Sammy is 10 years old and a sixth grade pupil of Vine International School, Port-Harcourt in Nigeria and a girls’ rights writer.