RATED EIGHTEEN by Olusegun Ogunmola

RATED EIGHTEEN by Olusegun Ogunmola

RATED EIGHTEEN (Remain a Child)

by Olusegun Ogunmola

I may taste the connubial meal,
Subtly dished in a LED screen;
I may force the orgasmic thrill,
Once I am ripe— only eighteen?
My lips may be blackened by tar
And my breath odorized by nicotine;
(I may even brush my teeth with Star®)
Since I’m already eighteen?
These blue scenes are too strong—
For my eyes which are still green,
But, though rated XXX— triply wrong—
They should be right once I’m eighteen?
Hangovers will rob me of my sleep,
Cancer will rip off my lungs within;
Ladies my mind will naked strip,
Because I dared to be really eighteen?
Innocence is surely not for men,
(Boys should shy away from sin);
Purity is really not for women,
Chastity is for girls under-eighteen.
Better I remain a child as touching evil,
Better I remain a child and stay clean;
Better I never ripen enough for this age’s people,
For here, sin is proudly rated eighteen!


‘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.

ON DAYS SUCH AS TODAY  by Elujulo Oluwatobiloba

ON DAYS SUCH AS TODAY by Elujulo Oluwatobiloba


by Elujulo Oluwatobiloba

On a day such as today
When it rains as though it would never stop
And then stops as though it never rained.
We laugh and we talk
Wasn’t it the other day we saw the girls
Playing and talking and laughing
Doing their best to play and talk all they could
Like they knew just how short time could be
Like they knew what we also now know
That soon, the rains will come again
And in that moment, I paused
They reminded me so much of us
Back then when our chests were flat
Just before we were made to know
That time in this world is not measured by
Days when it rains and when it doesn’t.
Then I look at you
This day as it rains
As you continue your narrative
about how the blue- black battered eye became yours
And it occurs that we still don’t know what measures time in this world
I stand up wiping the dust off my dress
“Nnamdi will soon be home”
We both understand what I did not say.


Oluwatobiloba is a Law Student at the University of Ibadan. She is a daughter, a sister, a friend, a colleague and many other things. She loves watching Nickelodeon while sitting on a brown couch at home. She knows she is deeply loved by God and that gives her the courage to face life. She believes if she was not reading Law, she would be reading English. She loves people and their stories.

THE DYSLEXIA CREED by ‘Bukola Ibirogba

THE DYSLEXIA CREED by ‘Bukola Ibirogba


by ‘Bukola Ibirogba

I am dyslexic     

     It is neither a walk in the park, nor a picnic

This is what the world says I am.

In my heart however is deep calm.

I refuse to be ashamed

For this, I cannot be blamed.

I refuse to be overcome by words,

I have strived to be free from its cords.

Letters, dancing alphabets,

The harder it gets

To learn anything except new languages,

Forgotten instructions and muddled images.

I refuse to be defeated by not

Knowing which is left or right,

Or not telling which is dark or light,

Which is before and after,

Is it the first or the last chapter?

Cognition, recognition, recollection,

Are not the brands of motivation,

That help me grow, understand,

Learn, be fulfilled or boldly stand.


I am dyslexic,

It is neither a stroll in the park or a sweet picnic,

That is what the doctor told me at the clinic,

Please, remember that my inability is in fact an ability

To see the world differently,

To touch lives differently, but more intimately,

To change situations more constructively,

My eyes see the wonder in the world,

Even when others have their senses dulled.

The perched flies, the shining sun, the blooming flowers,

Sandcastles, even the mighty towers,

All the wonders of creation,

Things that make great a nation.

My greatest gift; my imagination.

I refuse to be ashamed,

For it, I cannot be blamed!

I am not defeated,

Despite the failures, repeated,

I stand tall amidst all pains

Of being different, and I reap the gains

Of uniqueness and distinctiveness.


I am dyslexic,

I accept who I am,

In my head is quiet and calm,

I refuse to be ashamed,

Yes, I cannot be blamed!

I am the definition of creativity.

My head filled now with dreams of what could be reality,

My mind is such a wonder to behold,

My hands building legacies to hold

On to, for generations yet unborn.

Einstein, Whoopi, Da Vinci, Beethoven.

Dyslexic; all they could have been,

As their teachers vowed; was a waste to the world,

A shame to education, wisdom and knowledge.

Over others, their gifts, their hands gave them a greater edge,

Their minds, their creativity; became legacies to hold,

Onto for dyslexic generations yet unborn to be proud and bold.

They refused to be defined by their inability,

Their disability which was in fact; an ability.

                                 To turn the world around differently,

And change the status quo, greatly.


I am dyslexic,

I am assured that it is neither a frolic in the park or a romantic picnic,

It is far beyond if I am Western or if I am ethnic.

I refuse to be ashamed,

I definitely cannot be blamed

So, I refuse to be defined by not,

Knowing the difference between cold and hot,

Or left and right,

My intellect, brawn, will and might,

Directed now more realistically,

Towards blessing lives differently,

Changing things more creatively.

I am you,

A part of the fortunate few,

The ones who get to see each day through eyes born anew,

The lucky ones for whom great ideas come like the morning dew.

Dyslexia is what gave me my name,

It is what will grant me my fame.

I am all that the textbooks named

I know I should never be blamed.

I am dyslexic, proud and unashamed.







Bukola wants to live in a world filled with delicious food, constant power supply, amazing people, beautiful music and interesting books that are carved out of the stereotypic academic setting.
As a recent law graduate, five years of legal presentations, research and assignments at the University of Ibadan, have taught her how to put her thoughts into words and express her imagination in writing. She is a part-time sound engineer, artist and a regular contributor to Kreative Diadem; a creative writing website. She is also a social media enthusiast.
When Bukola is not writing, saving the world in her daydreams or having series of conversations with God, you can find her singing along to Bethel Music, Lucky Dube, Nathaniel Bassey or Omawumi.

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.

THE PAST by Eberenna Utobo

THE PAST by Eberenna Utobo


by Eberenna Utobo


…if your ears would close,

and your thoughts listened…

…for that which lies behind

…still lies as beautiful


…oh, the thoughts of the thirteen

…blossoming with fruits at thirty

….of the perfection to build from thirteen

…and it would ripe at thirty.


…in your tender palms,

…you could grasp the sun

…your slender feet on ground

…you could walk with the gods.


…Heroes of the future

…where the voices in your head

…you believed in the future

…for you made YOU the head.


…your hands were your lovers

…they fabricated your desires

…your dreams excitedly hovers

…you are on top as you desire


…so little results, your tender efforts

…yet so potential, so big

…for your mind is that of a maker

…then, in time, the world you’ll bless.




…you looked up at Him

…with great hope and resolve.

…you had no doubt in Him

…your plans has His markings involved.


…the pits and potholes of life

…a thing of fiction to you.

…keenly, your mind designs life.

…the life appealing to you.


…then, then, you were twenty-one

…the gap and weed came.

…then, then you lose ’em one by one

…the model you once became.


…your eyes see a little ahead

…yet so dark so fruitless.

…you drift, waiting to be led

…yet no hand came, so hopeless.


…chaos, disapointed, lost

…morning, afternoon, night.

…that light only a glow in thought

…rarely, rarely in the night.


…hey, child, you left something behind.

…for far ahead you would need him.

….hey, son, you left YOU behind.

…for far ahead would love him.





…listen to your tender past

…you created you in the past.

…you employed your mind in the past

…your future you’d build with the past.


…the pits and potholes of life

…a thing of fiction to you.

…keenly, your mind designs life.

…the life appealing to you.


Graduated from the department of Electrical and Electronic Engineering FUTO, Utobo Eberenna T., nicknamed Cowboy, developed an unusual flair for writing. The writer is an ardent lover of Electrical and Electronic world, and yet has a powerful imagination that he loves to put down in writing.

His articles have been published in magazines and he was the Editor in Chief for the Peacock 2nd edition; a magazine of the Electrical and Electronic Department, FUTO. Having written a good number of short stories and very few poems, this is the first of his write up that is published in a professional website.

He is a thinker, a doer and loves to read. For him, writing is a thing of the soul. It is a way of letting the soul speak through the pen, listening to the inner mind and letting it pour out its mysteries through the ink. He believes in the divinity of the human soul and its infinite intelligence. He can draw inspiration from everything around him and is a person that has the ability to see beyond what the eyes is gazing upon.

He is a social person, funny and wonderful person to have a deep and open conversation with.

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