DEAR DADDY by ‘Bukola Ibirogba

DEAR DADDY by ‘Bukola Ibirogba

by | Feb 14, 2017 | POEMS

DEAR DADDY

by ‘Bukola Ibirogba

—01
Dear Daddy,
Mommy does not smile anymore,
Her eyes no longer light up with joy.
I remember nights when she cried herself sore,
And I have realized that,
We would go on,
After you,
Without you,
We would go on.
Though something beautiful dwells inside us,
all has turned to stone.

 

 

—02
Dear Daddy,
It has been eighteen years and counting.
I can barely remember your face,
Ivie is an adult now and doubting
if she ever heard your voice or felt your gaze,
It is hard but, we shall go on
after you,
Without you, through the years
of pain and raw bewilderment,
brutal and angry tears.

 

—03
Dear Daddy,
We struggled to eat from day to day,
Pangs of hunger, the scourge of kwashiorkor.
We had no place to lay
our heads,
and we thought you would walk through that door.
We survived and
we shall go on
after you.
Without you, we will heal,
Though love may labor in the heart,
The loss conceals the joy.

 

—04

 

Dear Daddy,
I am grown now, and I cannot forget
How other children laughed at me,
Prize-giving days when you were absent,
Birthdays you did miss, tears you did not see,
So much pain, but
we shall go on
after you,
Without you, life goes on,
But neither hope nor happiness
may undo what you have done.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘Bukola Ibirogba is a recent graduate of Law from the University of Ibadan. She draws inspiration for her poetry from her love for God and everyday issues.

 

LOVE by Eunice Oladeji

LOVE by Eunice Oladeji

by | Feb 7, 2017 | SHORT STORIES

LOVE

by Eunice Oladeji

Right after my parents died, I was packaged to my brother’s home. I was still in shock from watching my parents burn to death in a fire that I started. At an age where everything was fascinating and worth trying, I had lit a match close to a leaking gas cylinder. The explosion that ensued flung me against the edge of our kitchen table. My father was the first to get to me. Mother was upstairs, ill in bed. He carried me out and told me to run to our neighbors. He ran back inside to get mother, but neither of them made it out.

 
My brother, Gabe, had left home two years ago. He had concluded that the Christian lifestyle of my parents was below him. He had started clubbing, drinking heavily and bringing his girlfriends home. Mother tried her best to turn him from the wrong path he had chosen. Father took over fully when mother was diagnosed with cancer. I would not say father did a good job of advising Gabe because soon after, both of them had this big row and Gabe left home the next day. He got married to one Faye and got a house.

So, when father and mother died, there was nowhere else to go, except his house. Gabe and I were never close, so it was just strange and awkward at his place. It was worse with Faye, because I saw her as just one of the random girls that Gabe moved with, and not his wife. I desperately needed comfort and someone to share my grief and guilt with. I needed assurance that their death was not entirely my fault. I desired a hug to take away the pains that tore at my six-year-old heart. But, Gabe could offer me none of these. Things got worse a year later when Gabe and Faye divorced. Gabe said he could no longer cope with taking care of me. He put me up for adoption. I thought it was a joke, until my first foster parents walked up the front porch of Gabe’s house. I can’t recall the surname they came with, but I remember the cigarette smell that clung to them. After some hasty handshakes between the adults, I was taken to their green truck. I remember the color of the truck because I so much dislike green and that made me conclude I was not going to like that couple either. I was right.

 

That marked the genesis of my life as a foster child to more than three homes. The longest I stayed was in the third home, four years. By the time I was to go to the fourth home, I was fourteen. I had experienced more bad than good and had grown a bitter heart. I was going with rebellion brewing in my veins and was determined to fight against anyone and anything that attempted to add to my miserable state. No more was I the whimpering child seeking for any attention I could get. I was all out for war.
 
Mrs. Hans was my fourth foster mother. She was a very young and recently widowed woman. When I got to her place, I was first enchanted by the beautiful garden in front of her house. The flowers were gorgeously arranged and kept. I wondered if she was the one taking care of them. Inside, the house was even more captivating. There were splashes of many colors adorning the walls. Her wedding pictures hung on walls and stood on tables.

 

 

 

I had come prepared to fight hatred, but was ill-equipped for the love she showered on me. I did not know how to respond to her care, love and attention. In fact, I still rebelled and tried to throw her love back at her. I used rude words, hissed at her when she used the word love. I purposely disobeyed and avoided being with her as much as I could. All that was my way of testing if her love was real and lasting. She passed that test and won my heart. I gradually let go of the hurt and anger I had bottled up for a long time. I later learnt that the garden had been her husband’s idea and he had diligently kept at it for the two years of their marriage. When he died, she took over and made sure it was always neat. Six months on, she still enjoyed quiet moments sitting in the midst of the flowers planted and preserved by her husband’s love.
 
My fifth year with her, I gained admission into the university. I was so sad leaving her even for one session. Holidays were eagerly expected and were spent in precious moments of love. For me, it was love that sprouted amidst conflicting emotions and was nurtured till full blossom. That love had encompassed my very being and lifted lots of weights off my shoulders. I always went back to the university campus loaded with love and other essentials for living.

 

Three major things Mrs. Hans dealt with first were my faith in God, forgiving my brother and most importantly, forgiving myself. Once my faith was successfully restored, it was quite easy to forgive my brother. The hard part was forgiving myself. I could not deny that my curiosity had pushed me to do what I should not have done. The guilt I felt had grown into a deep fear of matches and naked fire. Mrs. Hans had a long and hard time convincing me to cook on my own. In my other foster homes, I never had to cook. Most times, I ate in restaurants or went hungry. My first successful cooking left me in tears of relief and joy, mixed with sad memories of father and mother.
 
I met with my brother the same day I lost my mother, Mrs. Hans. Unknown to me, Gabe had been tracking me throughout my transfers from one home to another. When he saw that I was well established with Mrs. Hans, he decided to come over. I was at church, preparing for a special Sunday ministration with the church choir. I was in the middle of a laugh with some of the choristers when Gabe walked in. It was a moment I had been waiting for and at the same time dreading. His face held lots of emotions and prominent among them was a pain.

 

I have never seen Gabe in tears and I have never felt those tears on any part of my body. As I drew him into a hug, I felt hot drops falling on my shirt and seeping through the fibres. When he finally pulled back, he said, “She is dead, I am so sorry.” Of course, it took me a long time to come to terms with the meaning of those words. When I finally did, I blacked out. He had walked into the house and met her ‘sleeping’. He made some deliberate noises intended to rouse her. After waiting for a response, he moved closer and called her name, she gave no response. He alerted our neighbors who also told him where he could find me.
 
Her burial was a quiet one. Apart from Gabe, the attendees had intimately known Mrs. Hans for at least ten years. I wept more than I did at the burial of my biological parents. That woman took me in at a time when she was still grieving, yet, she helped me rise above my own negativities. She helped me look and see beyond the dark tunnel I placed myself. Through her untiring efforts, I grew up into a better person than I could ever have imagined.
 
Over the next few months, before I left for my final year at school, I got to spend time with Gabe. I got the chance to show him and make him feel the same love I had known with Mrs. Hans. We picked up the thin thread that connected us and forged a bond, a tight bond. Gabe came looking for me with nothing to himself. When I left for school, he had love, a fast growing business and a house.
 
My name is Vik. In a day, I lost a family and gained a family back. Love is the principal thing.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 
My name is Eunice Oladeji Oluwafolakemi and my pen name is PEO.  Starting from essays  written in secondary school, I discovered my flair for writing and the joy in it. I live in Nigeria with my family of writers; my parents and three siblings. I am a fifth year medical student in the University of Ibadan. I was born 4th February and I am from Osun state.
 
I like writing because it allows me create a world where things happen how, where and when I want them to. I can decide the past, present and future. I have written many poems, some short stories and I am still working on my first novel, although none has been published.
I believe, as a writer of faith, that someone, somewhere, only  needs to read at least a line of my writing to think, speak and act better.

 

LOVE LESSONS by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

LOVE LESSONS by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

by | Jan 30, 2017 | POEMS

LOVE LESSONS

by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

—01
She learnt about love
from the markings on her mother’s body
and wails of agony that escaped weary lips
on nights when her father returned with staggering legs
and fermented breath.

 

—02
She learnt about love
around tense family dinner tables
where the clanging of fork and plate
filled the void of riotous silence.
—03
She learnt about love
when her mother bundled up curses and regrets
in fancy boxes and left her heart
to the music of another man’s hands.

 

—04
Love for her
is a romance of warring hearts and broken souls
in havens of dispirited devotion,
finding comfort in the arms of strangers.
—05
Ask of her today,
you will see her walking the streets
with divorced thighs, virgin fingers
and a ballooned belly.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kanyinsola Olorunnisola is a poet, essayist and writer of fiction. He writes from Ibadan, Nigeria. His writings border on the themes of unease, racism, colonialism, terror and all things familiar to the black folk. He describes his art as that specialized literary alchemy which aims to extract beauty from the frail commonplaceness of words.

 

His experimental works have appeared or are forthcoming on such platforms as Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, Bombay Review, Lunaris Review, African Writer, Sprinng.org, Authorpedia, Kreative Diadem, Parousia Magazine and Sampad International Journal. He was the 2016 recipient of the Albert Jungers Poetry

MY NIGERIEN FRIEND AND HIS STUBBORN SMILE by Agbaakin Oluwatoyosi

MY NIGERIEN FRIEND AND HIS STUBBORN SMILE by Agbaakin Oluwatoyosi

by | Jan 25, 2017 | POEMS

My Nigerien Friend and his Stubborn Smile

 

So because you're not glued by blood

mere haemo-bond,

you shrug at the news at 8.

You say there are no worried wrinkles

on the forehead of the cute newscaster

who brings bloody news

from Potiksum, only in a jiffy;

about dying babies in overcrowded IDP camps.
 
 
 
 
 

But would you blame her,

Her tear gland is a dry well.

The corporate duress screams

"Shed no tears, show no emotion!"

They say Oprah Winfrey

divorced her own fetters on the desk

of the same corporate duress.
 
 

But I say “shed no tears

to know the pains of these orphans-

tenants under dirty bridges.

You must first enter the parlour of their grief,

and burn in the kitchen of their memories.

You'd see, the only fire there

is that of loved ones

burning with bombs.”
 
 

Don't be fooled

by their clipped mouths,

for when anguish is excessive,

It castrates your tongue.

We're one big family

separated only by our indifference.
 
 

I once stumbled on a new relative:

A Nigerien lass, tugged at me

Her hair curly and shampooed

by extreme sunlight,

her bony finger tore my new Designer shirt;

at first, I was enraged,

but then, that ugly hole led to a map

that led me to a Kingdom of families.
 
 

A raconteur told me

“no child is fatherless.

Are there not too many men

to go round?

But love is enough

to check against the kerfuffle in Chibok,

and the searing screams in broken homes.”
 
…
 

“You do not mend dying homes with bricks

but another bit of love.”

He said.

Home is not only where you go at nights;

it is also the stubborn smile

on my Nigerien friend.

 
 
 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Agbaakin O. Jeremiah, an aspiring poet and campus Editor reads law in University of Ibadan.
His works have graced several anthologies including Briggite Poirson Anthology and are forthcoming onThe Niyi Osundare @70 Anthology, Irawo Anthology,  etc.
His other publications feature (and forthcoming) on Liquid Imagination, Antarctica Journal, Wagon Magazine, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Kalahari Review, Praxis Magazine, African Writer, Sub-Saharan Magazine, Pulse Nigeria and elsewhere.
He was a shortlisted for 2016 Dwarts Poetry Prize.  He also won the maiden edition of Ogidigbo Poetry Contest, University of Ibadan;  and was also a six-time finalist of 2016 Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest.
 
 
 

My Nigerien Friend and his Stubborn Smile

by Agbaakin Oluwatoyosi

IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT by Osho Samuel

IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT by Osho Samuel

by | Dec 22, 2016 | POEMS

My Nigerien Friend and his Stubborn Smile

 

So because you're not glued by blood

mere haemo-bond,

you shrug at the news at 8.

You say there are no worried wrinkles

on the forehead of the cute newscaster

who brings bloody news

from Potiksum, only in a jiffy;

about dying babies in overcrowded IDP camps.
 
 
 
 
 

But would you blame her,

Her tear gland is a dry well.

The corporate duress screams

"Shed no tears, show no emotion!"

They say Oprah Winfrey

divorced her own fetters on the desk

of the same corporate duress.
 
 

But I say “shed no tears

to know the pains of these orphans-

tenants under dirty bridges.

You must first enter the parlour of their grief,

and burn in the kitchen of their memories.

You'd see, the only fire there

is that of loved ones

burning with bombs.”
 
 

Don't be fooled

by their clipped mouths,

for when anguish is excessive,

It castrates your tongue.

We're one big family

separated only by our indifference.
 
 

I once stumbled on a new relative:

A Nigerien lass, tugged at me

Her hair curly and shampooed

by extreme sunlight,

her bony finger tore my new Designer shirt;

at first, I was enraged,

but then, that ugly hole led to a map

that led me to a Kingdom of families.
 
 

A raconteur told me

“no child is fatherless.

Are there not too many men

to go round?

But love is enough

to check against the kerfuffle in Chibok,

and the searing screams in broken homes.”
 
…
 

“You do not mend dying homes with bricks

but another bit of love.”

He said.

Home is not only where you go at nights;

it is also the stubborn smile

on my Nigerien friend.

 
 
 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Agbaakin O. Jeremiah, an aspiring poet and campus Editor reads law in University of Ibadan.
His works have graced several anthologies including Briggite Poirson Anthology and are forthcoming onThe Niyi Osundare @70 Anthology, Irawo Anthology,  etc.
His other publications feature (and forthcoming) on Liquid Imagination, Antarctica Journal, Wagon Magazine, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Kalahari Review, Praxis Magazine, African Writer, Sub-Saharan Magazine, Pulse Nigeria and elsewhere.
He was a shortlisted for 2016 Dwarts Poetry Prize.  He also won the maiden edition of Ogidigbo Poetry Contest, University of Ibadan;  and was also a six-time finalist of 2016 Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest.
 
 
 

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