Saturday 11 December 2021

I Don't Know by Abike Benson

I Don't Know

I don't know, and I won't pretend to know
I don't know bad. Do I know good?
Witchcraft was her means
She got all for them making others cry
Her own children are nobles
No one knows the secret
And then she dies.
It is a befitting burial. Golden casket
Food and wine like a flowing river
Sound of music everywhere
Then it is testimony time
"Abiyamọ tòótọ́ọ́" they praised her
But is she really good?

I don't know, and I won't pretend to know
I don't know ugly. Do I know beauty?
What a dark face!
Wrinkled hands, all covered with hair
Monkey can be ugly
Its mother always see differently
How convenient?
You call it ugly
Or you don't just like it?
It is in the eyes of the beholder
It is what it seems to you
But is it really ugly?

I don't know, and I won't pretend to know
I don't know love. Do I know hatred?
Riches attract with fleet of cars and affluence
He is a royalty. She easily falls for him
How convenient?
Beauty attracts with gorgeousness
She will have crowd controlling problem
I mean men controlling problem 
Is it really love?

I don't know, and I won't pretend to know
I don't know life. Do I know death?
I'm alive. Or so I think
Maybe I am not. Am I just confused?
But those in heaven live still
When they are dead here 
The living dead!
I cannot explain the expression.

I don't know, and I won't pretend to know
I don't know generous. Do I know stingy?
I thought I knew
Until someone was given a cap
And had his head taken from him
Beware of money givers
What if he's buying virtue not for sale
How then can I know?
Trade by barter ring a bell
But never found its synonym.

Words can be misinterpreted
Actions misjudged
The physical eyes have limitations
A think lining covering the mind
Not like a big bowl,
The stomach cannot be opened
Many ambiguities in a single line
Relativity of words driving me crazy
How can I know if I don't know?
And why should I misjudge?
Concluding almost impossible
If I don't know. Yet, won't pretend to know.

Abike Benson

Friday 10 December 2021

Teach Me

Teach Me by Oladehinde Ibikunle

Teach me
To speak, to write and to act
Without tenuating the tenets of truth.

Teach me
Oh, to love with the whole heart
Whether - or not - such love be unrequited.

Teach me
To douse my anger
When my heart is bedevilled with fury.

Teach me
That anger is insanity, sadness is folly
And happiness is but sweet ecstasy.

Teach me
To smile and try again
When the sadness of failure betides.

Teach me
My peace to hold, the impulse to control
When happiness holds the rein of my heart.

Teach me
To live each day in furtherance
Of yesterday at my own little pace.

Teach me
To live not by competition
But by the pursuit of internal happiness

Teach me
Yes, teach me of contentment
Even if everything altogether is a pinch of salt.

Teach me
Please, teach me to laugh
For each cackle of laughter, they say, is priceless.

Teach me
On my fellow, mercy to have
For my soul abhors seeing a fellow languishing.

Teach me
To be remorseful and sorry
Whenever I fall fallibly to imperfection.

Teach me
The good and the bad to know
And to discern when any of them comes disguising.

Oladehinde Ibikunle

Thursday 2 December 2021

The Sun

 The Sun
by Seun Lari-Williams 

In winter, I watched as the sun barely bothered
to get out of bed in the morning (as though
terribly ill), only to shut its eyes again
not long after.

In summer, I could swear I saw it rise
at just a few minutes past midnight, 
and then relentlessly refuse to go to sleep
at night (like a toddler).

As one whose sub-Saharan skin had only 
ever seen the sun rise and set
really about the same time each day,
I thought to myself:

How drastically different a fundamental fact 
can be to a traveler.
Even you, glorious, ancient sun – 
you, too, have taken a stab at my tiny little bubble.

Seun Lari-Williams was born in 1987. He attended Badagry Grammar School and studied law at the University of Lagos where he served as President of the Law Society. His first anthology Garri for Breakfast was longlisted for the 2017 NLNG Prize for Literature.

Wednesday 1 December 2021

Gather My Blood, Rivers Of Song

Remi Raji


Sometimes a man gets tired of going to sea as now 
when the voices I hear speak nothing but shame, and silence. 

When the calabash goes to the river and never returns 
The carver is drenched in tears, the drinker is famished. 

Sometimes all we have is the inheritance of loss 
the infidel body wrapped in the thickness of sins 

There is wickedness beneath the tranquil sea. 
And the heaviness above craves the lightness of love. 

So I return to the red sea that flows in the vein. 

II 
certainty is far behind in the coast, and it is up behind the hills 
each time you think you arrive there, it is uncertainty that lies waiting 

To embrace fire, you must breathe the wind

To claim the sea's presence, you must share the river's route; 

To die you must be afraid to live... 
And if you cannot kill the smoke, why do you start the fire? 

To become the sorcery of days 
You must possess the gaze that blinds beyond the light. 

III 
you were not in these places, but there's a scent of each in you 
i should know 
i wished you were beside me in lagos, mealha, cachopo, 
in portugal, 
the rustic air reminds me of the valley of a thousand stories, 
as in durban, south africa, which awakens the midsummer night's dream 
of the bright woodlands of Stockholm, Sweden, 
where I could read my palms and the fine letters 
of jared diamond's guns, germs and steel… 
the little streets knew our steps, lost in a circle of eden, innocent to the lights 
as it was in the delicate neck of the dance in addis, ethiopia 
as it was in salzburg, austria, where friendship was won suddenly by ideas and 
instinct 
as it was in Cambridge, uk where we organized parties for books and stars 

and i wished you were close by in the crazed joys of riga, 
and ventspils, latvia... 
and even absent in the many other places, you always remain 
as the sturdy baobab in my heart's savannah... 

in the mouth of night, every firefly has your attitude 
gather my blood, rivers of song... 

IV 
i love you as 
the sun kisses the day, 
i love you as 
the moon wraps the tender night, 
i love you as 
the rivers run into the rimless sea, 
i love you as 
the wind caresses my naked skin 
in the promise of rain, 
i love you as 
love is; and because they say love doesn't last, 
i don't want to love you anymore, 
i just want to be, 
with you. I want to walk your coast 
in silence, in laughter, and in tears, 
one with you as the colour of night. 

I want to marry you again in the age of enlightenment 
You will be my muse 
You will kill me and resurrect me 
You will make me dance to the song in your eyes 
You will make me all over and I will be made 
You are the lovely stretch marks over my bones 
You're the sweetness of day, the lovely mystery of night, 
and the everlasting breath... 

i want to do to you what needles of rain do 
to the parched earth 
i want to do to you what the morning sun does 
to butter nuggets 
what the honey bee does to the pollen in the shrub 
i want to hide in you, and hide you in me, 
that the world will end and come alive again, and again 
i want to love every alphabet that spells your name. 

Gather my blood, rivers of song.


Remi Raji

Remi Raji is a Nigerian poet, scholar, literary organiser and cultural activist. Raji’s first collection of poems – A Harvest of Laughters (1997) – has won national and international recognition. 

Lockdown

Lockdown
by Collen Xumalo

I am on lockdown in a small shack
praying hard, hoping Mr. Pres hear my cries
no need to send soldiers,they worsen da attack 
da hunger will probably kill me b4 da virus does 

I'm on lockdown with a monster inside da house
 I only feel safe when I play outside 
my step dad touches me like I'm his spouse 
he took my virginity & killed my pride 

we're on lockdown under unbearable conditions 
people shout "stay at home" from afar 
judging us based on what they see on television 
vivid pictures, they can't see our scars 

we have been on lockdown all our lives 
fighting to escape, see da sunshine & stay alive

Collen Xumalo

The Other Ninety-Nine

The Other Ninety-Nine 
by Seun Lari-Williams

You go around telling how the
shepherd left us,
the remaining ninety-nine,
in search of you, 
the lost one,
until he found you.
You say, when he found you,
he carried you on his shoulders,
rejoicing.
That it made you smile sheepishly.
You go off singing, off-key,
a love song about
how special you are.

You’ve always liked to feel special
though.
And that’s your weakness.
Call us the jealous brother but
you do realize he didn’t leave us
in an unsafe place, right?
You know he’d never do that?
And you do realize he’d do the same
for the rest of us –
each and every one of us?
Can you imagine how he’d have felt
if when he returned, he couldn’t find the
remaining ninety-nine?
No, you can’t.
Because you can’t help thinking there’s
something special about you.

You say, when he got home,
he called his friends, his family, 
and his neighbours
to rejoice with him.
But did he offer them meat? 
Did he say to them:
“Let’s kill and eat one or two
of my other sheep
because I found this one”?
Of course, not.
You know why?
You’re not special.
You know why?
We’re all special.

Seun Lari-Williams was born in 1987. He attended Badagry Grammar School and studied law at the University of Lagos where he served as President of the Law Society. His first anthology Garri for Breakfast was longlisted for the 2017 NLNG Prize for Literature.

Squid Game Naija

Squid Game Naija 
by Seun Lari-Williams

Green light, red light. 
Where you for see light?
If to sey money dey am, 
maybe we for tink am.
But for Squid Game Naija,
na for only our life we dey play.

Start.

Obi Chikolobi 
Obi out! 
(But Obi for no die if to sey 
doctor dem no dey on strike). 
Ada chikalada
Ada bang!
(Container fall on top Ada
for Ojuelegba).
Tinko Tinko 
tinkoloko Tinko.
We no see uncle Tanko again, 
as we no get money for ransom.

Farmers, form a big circle
at the back of your homes. 
Now, who is in the garden? 
Ten chubby, graceful cows.
Boju Boju, o! O! 
Now open your eyes.
After round one, 
one hundred farmers shot
in the head.

On 20/10
youths played Ten Ten. 
Several raised the wrong leg.
All of them dead
(Accidental discharge by
Ungun knownmen). 

Pikin sef dey play o. 
Like police wey dey find thief,
pikin sef must find
mama and papa wey 
fit give dem food chop -
before dem even born dem.
No be me go tok 
how many pikin die
for inside and outside IDP camp 
for only last year.

There is fire on the mountain. 
If anybody run go Mountain of Fire, 
abeg help me ask 
why e be like sey na we
be de ten thousand 
falling at the side.

Seun Lari-Williams was born in 1987. He attended Badagry Grammar School and studied law at the University of Lagos where he served as President of the Law Society. His first anthology Garri for Breakfast was longlisted for the 2017 NLNG Prize for Literature.

The Meeting

The Meeting
by Seun Lari-Williams 

A pandemic meets an old man on the road. 
Who is this who is not afraid of me? 
You must be religious, I believe. 
Which of the gods do you worship? 

I am not religious, the old man replies, 
I must go about my business. 
You must be immune, then, the pandemic says,
or perhaps you have found a cure? 

I really don't care, the old man groans, 
my business is urgent, I must go. 
Then surely, you are foolish, the pandemic retorts. 
Have you not heard the reports? 

I am hunger, the old man began, 
I've been here since the world began. 
Wars and diseases, they come and they go. 
None has lived as long as I have. 
You burn at both ends; your end is near. 
I burn slow like fine firewood. 
Keep them indoors and fill them with fright, 
but when l knock, they come right out. 

Your reputation precedes you, the pandemic responds 
and bows before the old man. 
They kiss and hug and shake hands like old friends and 
smile knowingly at each other. 

The old man takes his leave and continues his routine-
knocking on doors and turning knobs.

Seun Lari-Williams was born in 1987. He attended Badagry Grammar School and studied law at the University of Lagos where he served as President of the Law Society. His first anthology Garri for Breakfast was longlisted for the 2017 NLNG Prize for Literature.

The Celebrants, a poem by Ken Saro-Wiwa

The Celebrants They are met once again To beat drums of confusion Tattooes of mediocrity They are met once again The new cow to lead To the ...