MAY THE LAND BE TRULY SECULAR by Kamarudeen Mustapha

MAY THE LAND BE TRULY SECULAR by Kamarudeen Mustapha


by Kamarudeen Mustapha

We peel peace layer by layer
Till nothing remains of our sanity
We betray all orderliness at home
Till gloating terror ambushes our
bravest hopes
Then, we start again
We pile terror layer by layer
On pedestals of our bravest hopes
Until we hatch heartless wars
Shrouding us front and black
In our fray for self justification
We have disemboweled the deodorant air
We let loose the flatulent bowel
Of the Mongudu mammoth
Choking us with horrors hovering
All over our space



Only Leah Sharibu has some faith
In the land’s claim to be secular
She told the heart of terror
“I am a Christian and I deserve to live …”



O let her faith suffice her
And may the land be truly secular
Like the God of Peace bides
“No compulsion in religion.”




 Kamarudeen Mustapha writes short stories and poems. He is a teacher based at Ibadan, Nigeria. His poems and short stories have been published in Our Poetry Archive, African and Setu inline magazine. He had also had poems published in few anthologies apart from self-publishing some children story books like Zinari the Golden Boy, Winners Never Quit and The Magic Bird among others.
WHERE I COME FROM by Nome Patrick

WHERE I COME FROM by Nome Patrick


by Nome Patrick

I’m a little flute player who hangs the memories of home in tunes
and let them dangle gently on the neck of meek melodies
So each time I sneak into silent nights to weave a song
I find shards of memories littered everywhere on notes…


I’m from a town where children sleep to wake into beautiful dreams
And their laughter plants hopes in the soil of every clan
Like the light fingers of our gods planting fire in the hearts of the wicked
And throwing them into a bed of skulls and bodies of witches and wizards
Whose death offerings mother earth never accepts, so they are left
to the economy of wild vultures and weird flies.
I’m from a town where parrots lend Old women their tiny voices
So they sit under the spread hands of Ogbono trees to tell tales
of Okonkwo, the Axe of War and Amalinze, the cat that never cries…
To blooming angels and sprouting archangels as fireflies swap
into the body of the night where crickets draw an art of chirps.
So we all sit silently and soar into the hearts of the tale-teller
to pluck didactic leaves from the tree of her wisdom.
I’m from a town where Nightingales lend us sonorous voices
to chant canticles of heroes hovering in spirit lands
And sing folksongs to the widened ears of the night,
Where moon swirls up above our heads, like we could touch it,
And stars wink to the plays of children,
and tear into night discourse of the elders,
and peep into the smiling face of women’s pot soups.


 I’m from a place where small clans are a big family
finding lives in epistles of pastorals and episodes of traditional cultures.


Nome, Chukwuemeka Patrick is a poet, writer, deep thinker and incipient editor who’s crazy about women, children and art (for the mysteries surrounding their natures). He’s a sophomore studying English language and literature in the University of Benin. His works have appeared or forthcoming in magazines like, Kalahari review, Poets in Nigeria(PIN), Parousia magazine, African Writer, Praxis magazine, Kreative Diadem, WRR, Dwartonline, Tuck magazine, Antarctica journal and several others.




I think about life
The peace and the strife
This miserable life
Depressing like a nagging wife

A deadly game
Not for the lame
Unconditional fame
The only aim

The rule is organised crime
Perpetrated time to time
Violence in its prime
Existence sour like lime

Day after day
The clock ticks away
We move closer to a day
After which no other day

Thinking about life. Source: internet images.

Thinking about life. Source: internet images.

When death comes calling
The soul hearkens running
Life’s candle stops burning
To the Lord the soul is returning

At the time of death
Time for the last breathe
So useless is wealth
So unhelpful is health

On the last day
The soul ready to fly away
Close ones hoping it would stay
But the body must return to the clay

O negligent one
Think of all you’ve done
One day you’ll be gone
Like the bullet from a gun.

© 2015 by DURODOLA Folarin




Durodola Folarin Quadri. Born on the first of January 1991. I attended the university of Ibadan as a student of Agricultural and Environmental Engineering. Editor-in-Chief of the departmental press organisation. I like books and one of the best I ever read was Living, Loving and Learning by Professor Felice Leonardo Buscaglia. I enjoy sports and computer games. Poetry gives me succour when I write about how I feel. Most times I write based on real situations because they inspire me more than imagination. I’m quiet and sometimes I’m being labelled as shy, while some simply say I’m an introvert.

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