MELODY OF ANARCHY by Ajani Samuel

MELODY OF ANARCHY by Ajani Samuel

Soldiers on queue ready to board an airplane with a glistening sunset in the horizon

MELODY OF ANARCHY

by Ajani Samuel

Shortlist (Top Seven) of the 2020 Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Contest (Poetry Category)

Our land is Atacama desert for

The past two weeks

Yesterday, I met my brother praying

For rain under our stairs

So last night, it rained.

It rained bullets and gunpowder

On a swarm of youths who wore

The national anthem on their lips.

 

Death robed in the green of military men

It sat with a long fork in a toll

In the throats, lungs

And bowels of men and women who drew

Peace on their jaws.

 

My dinner was served on a plate of

Bloodbathed national flag

So I ate my tears with a sandwich of

Carnage on mat last night.

Thanks to God, Satan woke me

And others with the

Melody of guns at 5:30 am.

 

News at 10 is a song of the dead

Our Government is crashing cymbals

Of anarchy on the streets

The sun refused to glitter today

Perhaps it went to petition our

President to address the nation.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ajani Samuel Victor is a creative writer, (performance) poet and political enthusiast. He was a Semi-finalist at the 2020 Jack Grapes Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for the 2020 Kreative Diadem Annual Writing contest. He is a writer at the Invincible Quill Magazine, his works are/forthcoming on FeralLit Journal, Ethelzine, Eboquills Mag, MadnessMuse Press, Praxis mag, The Hellebore lit mag, FEED litmag and everywhere else. Say hi to him on Twitter @solvic16

IF GOD WAS A NIGERIAN by Othuke Umukoro

IF GOD WAS A NIGERIAN by Othuke Umukoro

IF GOD WAS A NIGERIAN

by Othuke Umukoro

ASUU would strike him
till his sorrow grows a beard.

He would be a Yahoo boy or a pimp or a drug dealer
or an innocent girl in the cold & dark streets of
Italy tendering white men’s amorous dreams
or all of the above.

He would be a potbellied politician
that swallowed (y)our children’s future,
or a snake that swallows dollars
or a rat that chases the big man
out of his office.

They would have slaughtered him, like
Ramadan rams, in Benue or
bandaged him with bombs in Borno.

His children’s life expectancy in the
Niger Delta would be around
9 or 10 (that’s a conservative statistic)
—all they would ever have are: a bowl
of oil spills for breakfast, a plate of
greenhouse emissions for dinner
& grief sandwiched between.

Policemen would f**k him using pure
water satchels as condoms
& afterwards ask for a bribe. 

He would drown crossing the
Mediterranean or sold for peanuts in Libya.

He would yelp & complain on the mad streets of twitter
but will never come out to vote out oppression.

The sun would die in his mouth in Kirikiri
or other eyeless places where those who try to
sing new songs are stripped, chained & tortured.

He would not be in school but on the sidewalk, holding a
blue plastic bowl for your damn pity or under the leprous
stare of the sun cleaning your windshield at a red light.

SARS would shoot him & the government hospital
they will rush him to will not have electricity.

He would be a broke ass poet like me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Othuke Umukoro is a poet & playwright. His demons have appeared, or are forthcoming in The Sunlight Press, Brittle Paper, AfricanWriter, Eunoia Review & elsewhere. His debut play Mortuary Encounters (Swift publishers, 2019) is available here.
When bored, he watches Everybody Hates Chris. He is on Twitter: @othukeumukoro19
THE WONDERS OF IKOGOSI by Adedayo Ademokoya

THE WONDERS OF IKOGOSI by Adedayo Ademokoya

THE WONDERS OF IKOGOSI

by Adedayo Ademokoya

THE WONDERS OF IKOGOSI (For Olaitan Victor)
There they sat, feeling
the living spring that compresses
the fusion of their hearts on the emblem
of gold.
The warm spring
came flowing through the nirvana
of her soul to rev up the rattling
imaginations. Chasm couldn’t
stop the flow.
The cold spring ooze fresh air
simmering passion for the flesh.
The decibels of the heart contorted
to the strong wave. The once
impervious spring conflagrate to
infuse itself to the waiting warm
spring.

 

 

They met at a confluence of silence
congruent desires glued them
to be inseparable
That touch was the coup de grâce
to bring down resistance in a haste

 

 

Yes, it was all but blessings of nature
to etch on the soul forever the burning
flame of them.

 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Adedayo Ademokoya writes to resonate with his inner self. He believes that words shapen the world. When he is not writing, he’s reading or surfing the internet. His works have appeared on Brave Arts Africa, Praxis Magazine, Thought Catalog, The Rising Phoenix Review, Wild Word, Ethos Literary Journal, Indian Periodical, African Writer, Pride Magazine, Tuck Magazine, Parousia Magazine, and other platforms.
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.

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