WHAT MY MOTHER KNOWS

WHAT MY MOTHER KNOWS

WHAT MY MOTHER KNOWS

The texture of darkness.
The scent of my father whenever
he leaves home at dawn with anger
rioting in his stomach.

The shape of hunger. Our bellies on days

when my father deserts us like a haunted house.

African mother. Source: www.babymamahood.com

African mother. Source: www.babymamahood.com

Our eyes full of hollows on nights when our palms

quiver as we gather around my mother, watching her
mumble voiceless aches.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rasaq Malik is a graduate of the University of Ibadan, Ibadan, Nigeria. His poems have appeared in Connotation Press, Heart Online Journal, Jalada, Saraba, Sentinel, African Writers, New Black Magazine, Kalahari Review, and elsewhere. He believes writing is an act of healing, an art that transcends the world, that survives every death.
THE CALL OF THE CROW

THE CALL OF THE CROW

THE CALL OF THE CROW

I did not know what to write, I had always searched for the right story everywhere in mind. Then my mother woke me up. It was midnight and the whole village was sleeping.

“Listen…” she whispered to my ear, and I waited for her to talk; she did not.

I thought my ear was not cleaned enough, so I cleaned it again and I waited, and still my mother said no word. I used to be impatient when it came about listening, but my mother’s smile could turn a burning heart into an enchanted garden. Yes, my mother’s smile could.

“Keep calm…” she whispered with that same smile.

I tried but there was that thought; my girlfriend would come for a visit tomorrow, so I kept picturing the lovely day we would spend together. My paper was still white and empty, and the night would end.

“Keep calmer…” again did she whispered.

I thought of a mighty sun that would wipe out the face of my girlfriend and leave an empty room. The room got emptied, and the sun was so mighty that no other image could set a foot in. I was sweating, because of the effort I had to make to fight the first word that would make my story.

“Calmer and calmer…” tenderly she whispered.

I was getting too tired, for the right word was not coming. Then I heard a crow from a distance.  “A crow… I thought, what is a crow doing there at this time of the night?” The lonely crow kept calling, no fellow replied. “Is the crow calling?” I asked myself, without thinking of it; I was still waiting for my mother to talk to me. She did not, only the voice of the crow flew in the darkness.

The voice of the crow

Then I saw the sunlight growing weaker. A little wind caressed my body and dried it and relaxed my mind, I felt a warm hand touching my wrist; when everything go in a deep darkness in my mind, I heard the voice of the crow closer, no longer calling with that dreadful voice, but telling a story with sweetness and harmony.

“I’m inspired!” I screamed with my heart, and my softened wrist started to write the words that where silently coming along.

I knew I had the right story, and that is how I got inspired. It was not the most beautiful story on earth, but it was a perfect one. I looked for my mother in the bed, and I could find her nowhere. My mother was out, not trying to manage a sleepless night; my mother was in her grave managing a sleepless life. And only my writings would take her to Peace.

RAY NDEBI

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

My name is Théodore René Ndebi, born in Cameroon. I graduated in Banking Management. But what really makes me proud and happy is WRITING !!!!! I started writing around 1990. I write the most I can.

I mostly write for children’s future. As a child, I had always dreamt of a world where poor children and orphans could be happy as well. I have many unpublished collections in French: Chaque Jour Un Poème, Rêve D’un Soir, La Missive Du Petit Prince, Suis-Je Assez Bien Pour Toi… I’m also author of unpublished novels in French (Cierge Noir, Plus Violent Que L’amour, Les Fruits De La Tempête…). My first published novel; THE LAST GHOST/Son Of Struggle got published in 2013 by AuthorhouseUK; it appears in the LOS Angeles Times Festival Of Books Catalogue 2014 Page 8. Available online @ Amazon, Kindle, AuthorhouseUK, Barnes & Noble, Indie. I wrote numerous award winning texts. I am a Book Reviewer and Translator. I am a member of OneAfricanChild since 2013 and Co-Founder of Le Salon Du Livre Yaounde-Cameroon. You can check my works on: authorrayndebi.wordpress.com.Ray Ndebi on Facebook, @RTNdebi on Twitter, Facebook Page My Soul & Mon Ame.

 

I NEARLY WROTE YOU A POEM

I NEARLY WROTE YOU A POEM

I NEARLY WROTE A POEM FOR YOU

I nearly wrote you a poem

About how my eyes did the seeing

And how my heart did the falling

My brain is busy wishing

Leaving my eyes to do the crying.

I nearly wrote you a poem

Never knew my heart could beat this fast

While my brain juggled with the die you cast

And thought of possibilities so vast

While my stomach moans the compulsory fast

I tried to write you a poem

In which I really cursed cupid

For being so stupid

And making me so livid

For the hurt in my heart which he did.

I tried to write you a poem

In which I extolled your virtues and sang your praise

And hoped that in a matter of days

You would agree to change your wicked ways

And reset my poor heart to its normal pace

emmanuel poem

To think that I nearly wrote you a poem

With disorganized lines and no structure

To explain that my heart needs a suture

Maybe you need to see the puncture

I suffered when I saw your live picture

To think that I nearly wrote you a poem

In which I am the one in love

And you are the one tantalizing me with love

Never thought I could fall in love

With one who would torment me with love

But, I have written you a poem

In which I climbed up the mountain of logic

Leaving this cursed valley of emotion and magic

Self-deceiving myself that all I need is logic

To save me from a fall so tragic.

And in the poem I wrote

I decided to let you go

Severing brutally the lines of communication

Replacing my heart with nothingness

Hoping logic would save me from a love that makes me weep.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Some would prefer to argue out their points, others try instituting their positions. I, Ibekwe Immaculate Emma would just prefer to pen it down in words. I love dancing, cooking, writing and reading. A Graduate of The University of Ibadan, I sincerely believe the sky is limitless and my potentials, endless. So should Yours be too.
THE CREATURES OF ELÉDÙMARÈ

THE CREATURES OF ELÉDÙMARÈ

THE CREATURES OF ELÉDÙMARÈ

Amputated windowpanes, never would close
Retreat I must into the sovereignty of the insecticide-treated net
Cellules within cellules
Sinister atmosphere
The night of the angels of doom.
Like the night of the killing of the Egyptian firstborns
The caliginous atmosphere is pregnant with mourning
Oh! My soul longs for the coming of the next morning.

 

Sound of spontaneous claps from the people of Ilé-ifè
Moans of affliction and tears of the ancient mammalians
Paint a horrendous picture of invading aliens.

 

A nightmare of terror
Darkness with horrendous horror
Forceful tenants swarming on legal occupants
Including the gods and idols of our forefathers.

 

The trust of the skin is betrayed by the night
As it welcomes these strangers into our world
Flying aliens from the grave of Sir Obafemi Awolowo.
The wonderful creatures of Eledumare

The wonderful creatures of Eledumare

The tenebrous darkness from on high
The deafening whispers of the night
All together make an awful sight.
Haunted day-to-day, darkness in every cellule
Royal bodies swaddled like Egyptian mummies
All looking silly like bloody dummies.
One more, two more, three ànkárá wrappers
The aso-òfì that spans from the feet to the face
I hate to say are nothing but a redundant waste.
Mosquito-proof garments in this part of the planet
Only arsenal for the night’s onslaught
Impotent defence of treasured dark and mullatto skins against flying aliens.
The imminent war of the night
Conjure the mind with an evil impression
Must I weep again for oppression?
Lost in the shadows of time
The sun refuses to lend its light
My God, what a night!

 

The metal pot is adorned
With dainty potato spud
But the strangers only feed on blood.
I wish to trade my tender skin for the mottled shell of Ìjàpá Tìrókò
And I envy the snake that sheds its skin
Monstrous red spots on my youthful chin
A souvenir from the bites of the flying beast.
The acrid odour of the mosquito repellants
Its charm like a hallucinogen.
An ultimate act of perfidy.
The stranger hums the songs of horror
In search of another noble victim
And buries its diabolical proboscis to suck blood like an evil colossus.
Mógbe o! Which kin creature be this?!
Streaks of the morning light
Daybreak creeps on brutalized skins of the people
Aftermath of the winged terrorists attack
Princes stuttering out of cellules
Dulling effects of previous night’s fiasco
Our elders say, “Only a mosquito would make a nice man slap his neighbor on the cheek.”
The Ifá Priest says they are the curse of the gods on every citizen
Mosquito — the dread of every indigene.
Cunning as a lustful damsel
Swift as the mountain gazelle
Riddle of the Elders
Unsolved mysteries of Sherlock Holmes
Creatures of Elédùmarè they are.

OLUTAYO JOY OWOJUYIGBE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OLUTAYO JOY OWOJUYIGBE is a 500L medical student of the University College Hospital, Ibadan. She believes in immortality via writing and loves to write about mysteries. She is currently working on her first novel.
A SILENT VOID

A SILENT VOID

♠A SILENT VOID ♠

Voidness pervades my empty soul
Sadness drums for my legs  to dance
The endless longing for your presence
Sings melodious dirges to my heart

I stand at this troubled crossroad looking down the path you took
Will you ever come back?
To the waiting embrace of my caring arms
Shielding you away from those biting rays.
Memories rain sorrow on my being
And endless thoughts of you crumble my wills.

Silent void

Silent void

I was a prisoner
Trapped in the barricaded walls of your arms
And I was happy, for you filled my life
With the silent touching of your smile…
Not long, Death came and pushed me out of there
And I was left with emptiness
Because I have emptied my life in you.

The pallbearers, carried my joy shoulder high
To an eternal chasm
Now, I am free, living for nothing
And I was left with emptiness
And I was left with a silent void.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Oredola Ibrahim, the winner of Inspiring Brilliance Foundation National Poetry Award 2012, believes in poetry as a tool for self discovery and ultimately, a potential tool for national transformation. His poetry delves into popular themes like politics, love and inspiration. Oredola Ibrahim is the convener of WhatsApp Poetry Contest, a periodic competition organized on the platform of “The Penclan Initiative” (www.penclan.com). He is a campus journalist, a student-entrepreneur and a web designer. He’s currently a student of the University of Ibadan. He tweets @platolaw and can be reached via asiaquad@gmail.com.

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