TERROR TALES AND BLOODBATH by Israel Olaniyan

TERROR TALES AND BLOODBATH by Israel Olaniyan

TERROR TALES AND THE BLOOD BATH

by Israel-Triumph Olaniyan

PRESCRIPT

Rabbi was a young girl of five, and she watched men with knives drawn cut down her Father and mother like meat on the butcher’s slab. Sinzu was on his way home to tell his parents about his new job with Microsoft Technologies when he ran into a band of murderous crusaders. With a clean sweep of his dagger, one of them separated Sinzu’s limbs from his body, while laughing out loud…
These are a few of the ordeals of the many dying in Jos, Benue and the rest of the North-Eastern part of Nigeria.
The sight was gory, stark and insanely cold
Strewn all around were pieces of flesh and bone untold
Blood like raindrops in a jarring thunderstorm
Blast up and beyond into a non-existent form
The gruesome remains of something, hitherto someone
How it seems life has abruptly lost all significance
Inhuman mortals, sociopaths lost in a trance
Calculated insanity and destructive rage
A brazen decimation, a rapacious soul ravage
A surge of terror at ground zero
Pillaged houses and broken homes
Burnt country side and earth devoid of loam
Killers with no conscience, martyrs for a vain cause
Devil incarnates on a killing spree with no pause
Amputated limbs, a compulsory price survivors pay
Are we at war, many seem to ask in pain
Innocent lives lost forever to no gain
When will the reign of terror end?
When shall we grieve and to our wounds tend
If our foe’s ire is unremitting, and our dead innumerable
Shall the impeccant suffer for another’s grudge?
Or the unlucky traveller partakes of a dish he must purge.
Who then shall come to the rescue?
If the helmsman can’t, who will in lieu-?
Save our lives, b’cos death is on a dance rampage
Our brave ‘men’ are on the frontline
The lily-livered in the government at the baseline
Our young have become hostages to treasure
The old of their death so cocksure
And we, though long dead in our hearts live each day
Shall we look up to the Creator?
Or shall our liberty remain with the captor?
Should we stand by helpless and vie?
Watching and waiting our turns to die
Or we cry till the tears are gone from our eyes?
Never! No! Not yet! It is not over I say!
There is not much hope, not even to keep terror at bay
But! We will sit and watch no more
We all must stand to fight even with our sores
This we will do till death’s cold hands withdraw
This we won’t stop till the rage of terror cease.

POSTSCRIPT

In tribute to the many dead, countless bleeding and others suffering the crime of being born in the Nigerian middle-belt and the Northeast. We are in solidarity with you, we are praying for you!
An outcry to reveal the hopeless helplessness of a people being subjected to such horrific ordeals without anything being done about it. Its as though their lives are not worth more than cows.
The debate largely and strangely has been on how to appease the killers, while the death toll has continued to rise. We say a brazen NO to this…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 I am Israel-Triumph Olaniyan. I hail from Ondo State and I am a lawyer who currently resides in Awka, Anambra State, Nigeria. I am a writer, a Poet and a song writer. I am a trained Development Knowledge Facilitator with the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) Community Development Service of the NYSC. I am currently undergoing the one year compulsory National Youth Service at The Office of the Attorney General, Ministry of Justice, Awka. I enjoy reading, playing the guitar, singing and eating. I am a staunch believer in Jesus and a stickler for sound moral values and ethics.

HOW DEAD MEN COME BACK HOME by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

HOW DEAD MEN COME BACK HOME by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

HOW DEAD MEN COME BACK HOME

by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

[for Safia Elhillo, after her collection, “Asmarani”]
We only mourn dead men, so why do
you grieve for a man whose name takes
on a life in your mouth? The way his songs
pour you back into a minstrel in search of a
melody is a story I have lived myself. A singer
died the year I was born & [wo]men poured
from balconies [you know the drill]. He went
by the name Fela Kuti [which means he could
never die]. Unlike you chose halim, I didn’t
choose him. He found his way into my poems,
a reminder that my people lost their way a long
time ago with no remorse whatsoever. Both of
us have found a way to bring them back home
even though we do not know if we are their shade
of preference [does he mean you by “asmarani”?].

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 Kanyinsola Olorunnisola is a poet, essayist & writer of fiction. His work discusses anxiety, brokenness, [in]sanity, existential torment, grief & the black body as a warfront  – things typical happy people write about.  He has an unhealthy obsession with Ziggy Stardust, Lana del Rey, magical realism, James Baldwin, the Beat Generation & Golden Age Hollywood movies.

A lucky fellow, his writings have appeared in Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, Bombay Review, Lunaris Review, African Writer, Sprinng.org, Bird’s Thumb, Gyroscope Review & elsewhere. He is the founder of the SPRINNG Literary Movement.

His chapbook, “In My Country, We’re All Crossdressers” is forthcoming, courtesy of Praxis. He is currently working on his first full-length, “How Dead Men Come Back Home”. Say hello on Twitter/Instagram @K_tops

WHITE EYES by Olusegun Ogunmola

WHITE EYES by Olusegun Ogunmola

WHITE EYES
by Olusegun Ogunmola
With that alluring paired rarity
Housed in new ocular sockets,
You stare at me in normal curiosity
(The sensorimotor stage isn’t past yet).

 

You poke mine in Edenic innocence
(Your circumcision is still rather fresh),
I envy yours— its intimidating whiteness—
My own time they tempt me to refresh.

But white is only beautiful

For as long as it is unstained;

It is red, brown, black, purple…

That aren’t so averse to stain.

 

Those who have learned to hear

Every tick of the clock in a day,

For bread  to eat and raiment to wear,

Don’t have your kind of eyes today.

 

Eyes, which, on days long as months

Befriend smokes from hearths of clay,

Frying garri*, akara**— for peanuts—

Are now fiery as the Lord’s terrible Day.

 

Those who have emptied the library,
Just to earn a number—an alphabet too—
Mere songs in your own nursery—
Don’t own white eyes, I can bet you!
Your father’s are bloodshot with alcohol,
Your mother’s— discoloured by tears;
Your brother’s are dyed red with tramadol,
And your sister’s— tainted by fears.
Your eyes may not be pure forever,
They will be stained willy-nilly;
But let Nature be their own tinter,
Not your wrong; not your folly!

 

* garri: a staple food made from cassava
** akara: the Yoruba name for fried bean cakes

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

‘Segun ‘Mola (Olusegun Ogunmola) is a budding poet, singer, songwriter, and musician. He chooses to see his works as media for baring his mind on various subjects, from the perspective of his faith and convictions. He places much value on “little things”, as he believes that great things more often than not emerge from the seemingly small and insignificant ones. He is inspired primarily by personal vicissitudes, society, and relationships (with God and man). He is a graduate of University of Ilorin, Nigeria, where he studied Health Education.

INTERVIEW TO BE FELA’S NEW ASSISTANT by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

INTERVIEW TO BE FELA’S NEW ASSISTANT by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

INTERVIEW TO BE FELA’S NEW ASSISTANT

by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

—01
your tunes have parted me into broken waters
searching for their own name in the tongue of
Oya, the goddess whose wisdom can pacify
the thirst of a sojourner on a quest for history,
for the lineage of family, for the home of memory

 

—02
we have heard it said time and again
that those who do not leave their houses
never find their homes, for the origin
of my blood is planets and footsteps away
and your tunes, which shattered me into pieces
have brought me back into one cacophonous cohesion
—03
let me be your disciple, your only family,
my friends say I deify you but no one understands
that when you have been broken once by a song,
only the minstrel can make you whole again.

 

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 shortcoming 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

 

NIGERIA, HOW FAR? by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

NIGERIA, HOW FAR? by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

NIGERIA, HOW FAR?

Nigeria, when did your beauty,

Doused in rarity and clement grace,

A feast to the captured eyes of suitors,

A muse to the enthused voices of minstrels,

Become the protagonist of tales told

About remnants in the bowels of yesterday?


Source: www.bellanaija.com

Source: www.bellanaija.com


How did your wild flames of fame,

That burned through the ears of the wind,

Across the silent oceans and restless hills,

Encapsulating the world in feverish awe,

Get quenched by the waters of corruption

Within the infant years of your freedom?


How did your foreseen blinding future,

A halo of distinguishing lights,

With the songs of angels in your eyes

Heralding a glorious tomorrow,

Turn to a perilous reality of gloom

And the plight of a defeated old hag?


I am the child of the night

Borne of the darkness of your bosom,

I am the cry of the earth

Bleeding out shrieks of your damning sins,

I am the crying child, probing, asking,

“Nigeria, how far?”


KD poem plate 5 (1)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 
Kanyinsola Olorunnisola is a bibliophile who believes in the power of literature as a burning sword to tear through the curtains of darkness which becloud the society.  He has been published on several sites and anthologies. He has had the priviledge of clinching a few literary awards in his quest to influence the world through the might of his pen. He is the brain behind the SPRINNG Literary Movement.
THE RULERS OF RULERS by ‘Kunle Adebajo

THE RULERS OF RULERS by ‘Kunle Adebajo

THE RULERS OF RULERS
Many years ago, from the days of yore
We learnt fine tales from fair folklore

Of men who got bored of poultry-farming
And thus made for some thrilling enslaving

They ruled and ruined, they even became gods
Other lads’ sweats were their daily cuds

They lied, saying we are the electorate
When really we have no mandate to elect our fate

They said the people possess the sovereign power
Perhaps what they intended was suffering power
Source: www.bcssgilliescivcs.blogspot.com Photo Credit: Mana Neyastani

Source: www.bcssgilliescivcs.blogspot.com
Photo Credit: Mana Neyastani


They promised us seventh heaven on earth
Only to later appease with ‘life after death’

They oppressed, suppressed and often repressed
Buttons of tyranny they endlessly pressed

They got drunk from the calabash of power
And sunk into shame, high as the Eiffel tower

Seeing as few men molest his virgin land
The Good Lord blessed some men with ken and pen

These arose to battle, they arose to fight
With the pen, they placed next to the tunnel some light

With words, they fed the hungry
And with words, they freed the sundry

They are the tapes of reason, the rulers of rulers
They are the keen ‘Benjamins’ and incubi of ‘Squealers’

They are the daring vanguards of journalism
Wielding placards against the dons of Nazism

Their pens have again lined the clouds with silver
Their quills have caused ‘the gods’ to quit and quiver

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘Kunle Adebajo is a potential colossus at law, honing his skills at the shores of Nigeria’s premier university, University of Ibadan. Sadly the waves of poetry, oratory, writing and generally not minding his business have diverted his attention from the Isle to the endless majesty of the sea. In his trance, he has discovered that there are a thousand roads which lead to the doorstep of justice. He however hopes to retrace his footsteps to the law books soon enough. When he is not writing or preparing for a speech, he fantasises about life as a married man.

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