It was dark and quiet
Seldom, if sun rises at the moment
Fracas at the market
Sun has lose it sight


Birds showing what they’ve got
Plainly from the gut
Sonorously without faults
On the Iroko tree near our hut


When a boy stares
At the moon
When the gorgeous stars
Changes a hopeless man’s mood


Princess Adetoun made for me
A call ought not to be missed
Out of this planet I mean
Shall one resist Her Highness appeal


Several thoughts accommodated my heart
Just that night
Boldness engulfed my earth
But the call remained hid


Dinner with the King

Dinner with the King

For I’m not handsome
Lively and gregarious like some
Compared to Saul
My boldness was for that night and that’s all


From head to toe
Joy found my mournful soul
“You’ll eat with her in one bowl”
A guard whispered in low tone


Humbly I sat
And the princess told me I’m like her heart
Though being to the north and south
Yet, I transcend her heights


Like the honey’s taste on a sour paste
Was our soul after the delicious taste
We fell in bed with uneasy haste
We wrote it a memorable date




OMOTOSO, SEYI OLABISI was born on 19th Feb. 1996. I hail from Ikire the land of Dodo, Osun state. I attended Holy Cross Catholic Primary School, Ikire. Having graduated, I was admitted to  Saint Augustine’s Commercial Grammar School where I was elected as the Social prefect boy of my set. I was then one of the competitors group, a group said to be the community of the intellectuals. Having succeeded in the secondary school, I opted to study Medicine in the great citadel of knowledge; The Lagos State University, Ojo which was successful but to a different course, Physics.




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March’s Match for Jonathan the Buharist


At the end of the scheming month

Seal your quick speaking mouth

Call me no Seer or Prophet

For I am but an ensnared Poet


Though they sign an accord

I do not see peace as a chord

Tying us to the feat of the future

But a broken feet to be sutured


Call me the minstrel of Doom

I can only laugh at your gloom

For the bride shall be without a groom

Like the scattered sons of a broom


It would not be free and fair

For this to be free of fear

For man shall match man

And month shall match March


Jonathan the Buharist

Jonathan the Buharist

Expectations shall be dashed

Just as Hopes shall be ashed

Like the remnant of a cremated corpse

The wind shall blow ashes from its cups


You hate the sound of Jonathan

You say he is a nonchalant charlatan

And you love the wind of Change

You say it blows away your rage

Harvest your fears

And prepare your tears

For your heart shall be pierced

As change-victory would be scarce


What nonsense have I said?

Oh, what sense have I made?

Saying the Charlatan may laugh last?

Or Change would grow weary?

No, Not at all!


Just like John the Baptist

We have our Jonathan the Buharist


POSTSCRIPT: A word for the profound, as the foolish things of these present times confounds the wise.


 Tijani Oluwamayowa.


About the Author of March’s Match for Jonathan the Buharist

Tijani is a poet, witty speaker, and award-winning Journalist. He was awarded most outstanding Pressman at University of Ibadan for 2013 and 2014.

As a public speaker, Tijani became arguably the finest speaker on any Nigerian campus, following his win at the Nigerian Championship of Public Speaking (Abuja 2013).

follow @Oluwamayowa_TJ




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Now I can tell where you have been for days

When I was striving to survive and stand

And help my children in the barren land

A forsaken home for unwanted preys


I can tell where you have been my dear head

When burning rivers were taking over

And drowning the last hopes of our Mother

Planning to make each one a walking dead


Oh you blind father Nature sent me to

Cold heart and dirty hands covered with chains

Not pure blood but stained instead from your veins

Tainting horizons to make red their blue


To my King

To my King

You have been growing bigger on your throne

Feeding your shrines with milk honey and wine

Comforting your position with their shine

Just to be a king where there is no crown


You have there bloodsucking the Lady

Leading her offspring left while you went right

You took all candles and set them look for light

Poor father of mine, greedy like crazy


Now I can also tell where you will be

Exactly where you have chosen to be

In a place of wounds and insanity

The only place for you, hell’s custody


Not that you will be wiped away by death

You shall not enjoy that sweet privilege

You shall not even taste the sharpen edge

Of the knife you used to point at my breath


You will walk freely along the garden

Where happy people dance and celebrate

Where there are no wings that you can frustrate

Where you are an ordinary pattern.


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.






What’s left but exhausted minds
That parade in shirts and gowns
Shrugging shoulders that tongues have laid on
Like gods that have lost their omniscience
To futile voyages

Over the tombs of the living
They drop wreathes
Sending our spirits on exile
What’s left?
But dumb strangers with tongues pierced
By fingers on throne’s apparel

These songs are of arsenal voices
Hibernating the sages
With ornamental cuffs and artillery
To rest their wizened grey hairs on mute

What's Left

What’s Left

What’s left but mere carcasses
Painting colours in space
Red, the choking air
In grievance, the crump of air we pursue
Like chippings of gravel
We chew the intoxicated air
And still groan for more

The soil has lost its virginity
To the heels of scavenging feet
Fire, the rage in her eyes
What’s left of me?
But the melancholy of tomorrow

Awa Chigozie


About the Author of What’s Left

Awa Chigozie is a Nigerian. A student and resident of Abia State in Nigeria. He is a prolific writer whose keen interest is in poetry and fictional works. He has poems which have been published in anthologies and other media. He describes his works as a mirror to man’s act. Presently working towards releasing his first poetry collection.




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