JESSE by Michelle Nnanyelugo

JESSE by Michelle Nnanyelugo


by Michelle Nnanyelugo

I peered into the sitting room from the gallery where I stood with the lights beaming a smile at the stucco on the wall.

With a fling, I let go of my brother engrossed in a deep slumber, watching his brain pop out of his small skull. Milky particles mixed with blood and water. The air reeked of the malodour from his bowels.

The wall belched, echoing Jesse’s name. He was just two, my only brother whom mother bore in her old age. They were inseparable.

A tiny voice in my head pushed me to throw him. I had nursed this thought for a long time that I decided to vent my spleen.

By the time I caught a glimpse of mama, her blurry eyes clouded with tears, sunken cheekbones, and pale look, with trembly knees that could barely carry her, she had slumped.

Source: From the Rebel Issue (October 2019)


MICHELLE NNANYELUGO. With a flair for speaking, Michelle dabbles in spoken word artistry and podcasting. Poised to reinstate people’s mindsets by causing a paradigm shift, she is a thought therapist. Currently breaking out of her confines, she has a lot running through her mind, hence scribbles for a living. When she is not volunteering, she is either observing or exploring. A wanderlust who believes we can live in a better world, if only we contribute our quota to humanity. 

STRIDES OF MUSIC by Lucky Labaya

STRIDES OF MUSIC by Lucky Labaya


by Lucky Labaya 

That music should

pace as slow as possible.


That what should sail

into ears are stroked strings

of a guitar.

That haste in it means defiance

rides on its meter—


That if it hurries: it isn’t

of the rising dust of stamping feet.

That it isn’t good

for where cartilage narrows.



crawls out of some lips is: so

long it thuds hard and it is

impatient enough to pace

hurriedly, it needn’t be given

a listen.


What about the ones

that now broaden their cheeks from

years of bowing heads after

NF’s tune found its way

into their headphones?


What would have been of

them when they did make yeah

a refrain that overrode their thoughts

as they kept facing the ceiling while

toasting a dice on the floor,

contemplating what a single

squeal could do.

Source: From the Rebel Issue (October 2019)


LUCKY LUBAYA is a poet and fiction writer who writes from Zambia. He pens poems to have a better understanding of the world and to smear different emotions on paper and his word app. If not writing, he spends his time taking a reasonable stroll and finding delight in stuff that fits being art.

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