by KREATIVE DIADEM | Oct 1, 2015 | NIGERIAN POEMS, POEMS
TELL THEM TO REMEMBER THIS COUNTRY
& if at all the world wants to write about me
Tell them to remember this country: Its broken body.
The sketches of tears that litter everywhere.
& if at all the world craves to sing my name
Tell them to echo the names of boys covered
with leaves. Tell them to scribble the names of girls
raped till their thighs bled, till their cries
vanished in the wind of silence.
& if at all the world carves me a plaque
Remember to tell them about unbuilt monuments
for people devoured by earthquake, people left
with shattered hearts, people buried like
dead dogs, like the bits of a broken glass.
Happy Independence Day to Nigeria.
Source: www.oanweb.org
Remember to tell them about lives limping in
the fire that leaks the rusty roof of this country.
& if at all my song tickles your ears
Remember the woman next door,
the one clutching the photograph of her
bombed son. Remember the man waiting to
explore a dumpster for wastes.
Remember this country and its fate,
its history full of lengthy dirges.
& if at all tomorrow comes with laughter
breaking the tunnels of our throats
Remember the poet that
remembers this country.
P.S.: This is for a sober reflection as the most populous black nation in the world, Nigeria celebrates 55 years of Independence.
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.
by KREATIVE DIADEM | Sep 23, 2015 | POEMS
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
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.
by KREATIVE DIADEM | Sep 17, 2015 | POEMS
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
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.
by KREATIVE DIADEM | Sep 14, 2015 | POEMS
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 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.
by KREATIVE DIADEM | Sep 9, 2015 | POEMS
♠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
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.
by KREATIVE DIADEM | Aug 29, 2015 | POEMS
DRUMS, DRUMS…
Drums, drums,
Play drums not violins,
Play drums not keys,
They asked me to play drums…
And I started playing drums
Though I grew up amid violins and keys,
Though I used to dance around cement trees…
Drums, drums,
Play drums they shouted
If you want our ears to listen,
And our very eyes to see,
And our fat hands to give…
And I started playing drums
Though I grew up with pride and will…
Drums, drums… I played
From dawn to dusk and from dusk to dawn,
Drums… I played like I never thought
The soft and silky hands of mine would ever do,
Drums, drums… I played
So that the future from its coming centuries
Could remember the cradle of the spring
Climbing the mountain restlessly…
Drums, drums… I played
Until my hands became strong enough
To fight elephants and hippos…
Drums… I played
Until I forgot the sweetness of violins…
Drums… I played
Until I lost my keys…
The African drummer and his drum!
Drums… I played,
Oh Lord! Drums… I played
Not so passionately that I could close my eyes,
But so blindly that I would shut my eyes!
And shut my ears!
Drums… I played,
And drums shut my whole life!
Drums, drums,
Play drums not violins,
Play drums not keys,
They asked me to play drums,
And I started playing drums…
But they weren’t listening,
They weren’t looking at me,
They weren’t even there!
I realized when I opened wide my eyes
That I was all alone,
Half naked in the midst of the bush!
Drums, drums… I played
So much that my water ran dry,
And the winds and the times
Had drawn deep lines in my face…
There I was rooted in the past,
While they were relishing a stainless future!
Drums… I played,
Yes I played like a fool!
While they were giving their own sons
Violins and keys of the purest air…
Here I am… seeking the way to their songs
As the bush is covering and drowning me
Like a mere drop in the hidden river of a forsaken place…
Drums, drums… I played
For they said so.
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.
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