World Voices
Magazine
Issue # 26
February 2023
“Poetry is an echo,
asking a shadow to dance.”
~ Carl Sandburg
Phoe Wa
Myanmar
Founder, author, and contributing writer.
Bill Ward
USA
Founder, author, and editor/publisher.
Salim Yakubu Akko
Gombe, Nigeria
Nigerian Representative
Author, writer, essayist, and speaker.
Poetry, essays, short stories
send to
worldvoicesmagazine@gmail.com
Or visit our website to see our entire library of issues …
https://worldvoicesmagazine.com
Name Title Pg
Sean Eales Love the Logic 4
Sean Eales After the Last Breath 5
William P. Riddle Take Care 6-7
Salim Yakubu Akko My Journey Into Medical
College
8-12
Usama Abdullahi The Light Darkens 13
Muhammad Abubakar The Bell 14
Abdulrauf Olajide Olamide
The Broken Porcelain 15
Nweke Benard
Okechukwu
Horseless Trip to the Cities of
Flood
16-17
Arikewusola Abdul Awal Paper Bird 18-19
Ibrahim Saleh Mainah Set Them Free 20
Ubali Ibrahim Hashimu My Jewel 21
Ojo Olumide Emmanuel A Reflection On Greif-Based
Poems
22-25
Mahmoodah Oyeleye Night Around This Area Is
Peaceful
26-28
Vivian Omah If Only 29
Robert Hall Martin Paradox of Being Human 30-31
Soko Rejoice Yohana Barbaric Cultures 32-33
Love the logic.
This is a little poem about logic and love.
Logic shot the pretty dove
because food is more important than aesthetic love.
A little agape love goes a long way, I can love humans
in any season.
A lot of logic is a machine of reason,
some humans I simply don’t like.
Why? Because they always want to be right.
I know I am wrong and that’s fine with me.
I have logic, agape love, and limitless reason.
Also, water and food in any season.
© Sean (Niemand) Eales. 12/1/23.
After the Last Breath.
I boldly went to the heavenly throne.
In an odd light, God sat alone.
I demanded to know, “what was the go”?
How did this perfect plan go so wrong?
From the stories on earth, you control all.
So why did it go south and not north?
My eyes adjusted to the odd light.
It was then I realized, there was no one in sight.
Confused as to what to do, and strangely tired of standing.
I sat upon the throne, as any human would too.
What happened next is hard to explain.
As when I recall it in my memory.
Its starts to drive my meat brain insane.
Infinite information twists through my mind.
As my eyes seek the truth.
About energy, matter, and spacetime.
A ride that words can’t define
My mind in every instant of time.
Lost and found all in the same moment.
Existences essential comp
© Sean Eales (Niemand)
https://www.seetheinsane.com/
Since sharing an excerpt from my journey into the medical
college a few weeks on my wall and in some other relevant
groups, I received a plethora of messages from enthusiastic
readers to continue letting them know this fierce story that
consumes the most of me. I call it “consuming” as it reminds
me of the manifold, indelible memories I have been going
through on my way to medical college.
A slew number of people say medical school is not for
anyone, yes, it's not, but I have this strong optimism that I am
not part of the “everyone” they say whenever a discussion of
this kind arises. My mom has always been part of this journey
with her relentless support. She calls me “Dr. Salim” and this
makes me more glued to this dream. Even if not for the sake
of this burning dream, I would, in a jet-like power keep
nurturing it for the sake of this name.
So, as aforementioned in the maiden portion of the journey,
the 2022 JAMB was parading like soldiers training for war,
and I had to prepare myself. It was just 3 months to the exam
when I realized the urgent need for the preparation against it
to make the story have an upturned face; to have it undergo
complete metamorphosis. I had to leave my very hometown,
Akko, for tutorials in Gombe, despite the winding wind and a
kind of nameless cold. It was during the ASUU strike, so, the
schools were all closed. That made it easier for me to have
the time perfectly balanced.
On the course of the JAMB struggles, I met Muhammad
Ibrahim , Hassan Abdullahi Hassan, and Ashir A Imam, as I
mentioned in the first part of the story. We were all aspiring
for Medicine and Surgery. Surprisingly, we were all aspiring
for Gombe state University. So, we found it more
collaborative in doing group discussions and attending
tutorial classes.
We all had the materials for the studies. The day I bought mine, my mom
was very amazed at the weight of the books when she held them. In
brevity, this is the list of the books:
For Physics:
1. New School Physics
2. Exam Focus Physics
3. JAMB Past Questions for Physics(1978-2019)
For Chemistry:
1. New School Chemistry
2. Comprehensive Chemistry
3. Exam Focus Chemistry
4. JAMB Past Questions for Chemistry(1978-2019)
For Biology:
1. Modern Biology
2. Exam Focus Biology
3. JAMB Past Questions for Biology(1978-2019)
For Use of English:
1. Exam Focus English
2. Past Questions for English (1978-2019
Besides that, we both subscribed for Myschool App (N1,000)and Scholarly
(1,500) where we studied all the JAMB past questions using the
applications on our phones. However, many of the past questions there
(98%) were the ones in the printed Past Questions sold at the markets.
Starting with Muhammad Ibrahim, he wrote his first JAMB (s) and had a
score of 233. He didn't have a befitting O'level, so, he had to lose his hard-
earned 233 to the wind. So, stead of staying at home, he preferred to go
for a diploma where he had an ND certificate in Dentistry. He graduated in
2021 and rewrote JAMB, but the score was low; very low when compared
with the former score. It was 140. I think if you could vividly remember, I
made mention of the 2021 JAMB's ever massive failure. So, he didn't apply
for any admission considering the score. That's how we met on the
journey. He later scored 323 in the 2022 JAMB. That was, infact, the best
JAMB score in the whole Gombe state, if not northeastern Nigeria at large.
A great miracle, right? Remember, he scored 140 in the year before his 323.
However, I was not highly surprised having known him. He was arrogant
when it came to pursuing dreams. He hardly missed a class since the
beginning of our JAMB tutorial. He had countless numbers of fasting, just for
the JAMB. A lot was slaughtered in the name of him scales JAMB in a horse-
like speed. Nights, too, were days for him. He said, “Salim, if not now, so
when?”. He was really a true account of an MBBS aspirant. He got admitted
to study Medicine and Surgery (MBBS) a few weeks, 3 weeks, precisely at the
prestigious Gombe State University.
The second lad, Hassan Abdullahi Hassan, was my classmate in high school,
GSSS Gombe. He was the timekeeper, and I was the ICT prefect of our set,
2020. I accidentally met Hassan along Ashir A Imam on my way. They were
both in the Gombe State University School of Basic Remedial Studies (SBRS).
Hassan couldn't write JAMB immediately after our graduation due to some
unforeseen scenarios known to him, alone. It was his debut JAMB
experience. Hassan was very sound and a good student. In our preparation
period, you hardly would see him coming late. I think that's why he was
selected the school timekeeper during our high school. Immediately after the
release of the results by the JAMB body, I gave a call to inform him. He
couldn't express his joy over the news that Muhammad, as we funnily called
each other “Dr”, has scored 323. So, he couldn't wait to check his despite the
uncontrollable palpitations in his heart. He scored 221. That made him
extremely happy as the cutoff mark, as aforementioned, was 200 for MBBS.
On the other hand, Ashir A Imam wasn't writing the JAMB for the first time.
He attended a college and had a certificate in Science Laboratory Technology
(SLT). He wrote the 2021 JAMB and had a score of 222 but couldn’t get
admission due to some problems he encountered. So, he registered for the
GSU SBRS, though from Adamawa state. He stayed in Gombe and attended
classes. We attended the tutorial classes together, and he would later, along
with Hassan, go to their lectures at the SBRS. Ashir, too, scaled with 200
marks exact in the 2022 JAMB.
Then, finally, came my turn to check for my JAMB result. I could hear nothing
but horses of terror galloping in my heart. Everything stopped. The world,
too, did. It just reminded me of the time I would write the JAMB in the exam
hall. Something funny happened. I started with the Use of English, and the
first 1-5 questions were asked from a passage I read.
Having read the passage in the 1978 Use of English past questions, upon
seeing the passage, my heart started beating in such a terrific way. I was
both nervous and happy. My adrenaline was at its peak. You know that
feeling when you see something which you exactly know in an
unexpected place. I just saw my hands shaking and lost my consciousness.
I couldn't click the keys on the keyboard. I couldn't read the passage at all.
I lowered my head, had some seconds settling my mood, prayed and
looked at those beside me......
(To be continued)
Salim Yakubu Akko,
Gombe, Gombe state.
January 25, 2023
THE LIGHT DARKENS
The light darkens
The sun is at war with the moon
Forcing it to be dim
While the stars fail to show up
The crazy wind blows
It blows heavier than it used to be
At the extreme,
It exposes the innocent fowl’s ass
The light darkens where it should be bright
Now, we no longer enjoy sufficient light
We're abandoned to our sorrowful fate
Doomsday is the appropriate word
We no longer breathe in peace today
We sorrily gobble the spoiled air
That keeps our rosy lips and lungs blurred
And which eventually shortens © Usama Abdullahi
Usama Abdullahi is a young
Nigerian poet and writer.
Photo credit to Zoltan Tasi couretsy
of Unsplash licensing agreement.
The Bell
Amidst the tales of the wind,
Which nobody knows from where
It comes and where it goes,
Lays the tale of the ringing bell.
In the vastitude candle field;
The candlelight dances,
The roses sway their hips
In honor of the passerby wind,
Telling the tales of the far and near;
Telling the tale of the ringing bell.
The night steps in,
Holding the moon and stars;
Whispers to the wind:
“What about the tale of the ringing bell?”
“It's neither a birthday-bell, nor obsequy,
School or church, neither.
It's the ringing bell of the birds,
Beginning to sing the songs of sultriness;
Resting in the nest of love. It's a wedding bell.”
Replies the wind.
© Muhammad Abubakar
Muhammad Abubakar is a poet, essayist, and a
short storyteller, he writes about education, politics
and other issues more especially the youthful
concerned ones. He is a good education and good
youth advocate, who wants to see the great future
Nigerian with full of skilled and educated youth. He is a
guest contributor in Applied Worldwide. He was 2020
winner of poetry contest of CCGSU First Anniversary
contest. He was shortlisted for 2021 Bill Ward Prize for
Emerging Writers.
THE BROKEN PORCELAIN
the words muted joy in my ears
when i heard the broken porcelain
and my heart's sky clouded with fears.
my dewy eyes were void of tears
yet, in my veins, walked the pain.
the words muted joy in my ears.
i remembered his time of cheers,
my cheeks were drenched by sorrow's rain
and my heart's sky clouded with fears.
my, father was the best of dears
but when i heard he crossed life's lane
the words muted joy in my ears.
as our rite, with snow-white wears,
he was shrouded, laid in earth's plane
and my heart's sky clouded with fears.
i pray in the grave, he met, with, care.
"death has cut dad's jugular vein":
the words muted Joy in my ears
and my heart's sky clouded with fears.
© Abdulrauf Olajide Olamide
Abdulrauf Olajide Olamide is a young poet from Nigeria. He writes
about nature, love, pain, and the ‘evens and the odds’ happenings
in his country, Nigeria. His hobby is reading and writing. His works
have been published in World Voices Magazine, ("I BREATHE FOR
YOU“). He is a social person and lively to relate with. He chooses
poetry and falls in love with her.
Horseless Trip to the Cities of Flood
Nweke Benard Okechukwu
the day i became conscious of waters
was passing through children’s stages
of a ghetto gymnasium.
a boy, whose grave i cannot remember,
skydived into a river whose stone blades
were sharper than scalpels,
skipped seven times, like stirred water ripples,
mistaken for connoisseur gymnast.
there, they say water is life.
they say water has no enemies. but,
there’s something about the way what
we hold so dear turns to betrayal &
names us between anguish & fate.
October leaves no waters in heaven &
our hearts skip & skip in Anambra—now
christened from the light of the nation
to the flood of the nation where we cup
our hands, our palms against drowning
bibles. where mansions do not make it
to the shape of abandoned farmhouses.
& too, i don’t know the asphalt of Lokoja
or Yenagoa, but i hear the history of arc
resurfaces there & every man turns
every mIle into Noah, carving boats out
of the old wooden doors,
as if craftmanship depends on emergencies.
as if we must name our homes after Mount
Ararat to save them from submergence.
let’s assume March ushers us into
centuries of drought & we carry our
prayer mat to the hilltop,
casting across supplications for rains.
& now it comes, the conditions of floods,
do we call it heavenly abundance or
a baby whose sickness is heftier than birth euphoria?
today, i make peace with mermaids & Icarus
whose descendant stroke
ablution without foaming sponges.
this is not a prayer or commandment,
but deliver us from floods
before our daily bread.
Nweke Benard Okechukwu is a Nigerian
poet and the winner of the Neptune
Prime 2022 poetry prize. He's an
undergraduate at Nnamdi Azikiwe
University, Awka. His works have appeared
and or are forthcoming in West Trade
Review, Querencia Press LLC 2022
anthology, Kalahari Review, Rogue Agent,
and elsewhere.
© Nweke Benard Okechukwu
Paper Bird
(To Father)
Tell me,
Is this the beginning of another end?
Every morning, I see your bloodshot eyes
aiming at the lekeleke¹ birds in the sky.
What–in them–could have trussed you:
The immaculate garbs, or perhaps,
where were they flocking?
The Sybil augured for us: I was born for escapades.
I had buried with mother some litanies–
which cracked her tomb open &
sprouted as white tulips with cuppy buds,
buds that serve mother some leban from the moon.
I melt my soul into ink, engraving my
body into a paper bird &
composed myself in the rhythm of your dreams.
Tell me,
Why was I unfledged under the soft
whistling flute of the zephyr?
Why are my wings claiming the sky
through a sigh from the cyclone?
I flew after the lekeleke(s) & they
perched on a divine sea, turned
ripples to rosaries & I did so, too.
Arikewusola Abdul Awal
They murmured some rubicund
verses burned some water in their
Hearts, & I did so, too.
They flawlessly flapped their wings
& flew away; I didn't. I couldn't.
Tell me,
How scorching can a longing be,
for a paper bird like me that's
unraveled his father's dreams,
to find its wings drenched in the
stream?
Haven't I been vaticinated:
I won't get lost & I won't die?
Here I lie burning with longing,
Hoping the tempest would
piggyback me home.
Tell me,
Is this the end of another beginning?
____
_
¹ lekeleke: Cattle egret.
Arikewusola Abdul Awal writes from
Oyo state. His poems have appeared on ila
magazine, willi wash, Teen Lit journals,
Literary Yard, including anthologies and
elsewhere.
© Arikewusola Abdul Awal
Set Them Free
Even when nature jacked my room,
I stepped out hoping nature could yet welcome me
I was never told the stories of the demon
not to talk of showing the way to the devil.
A man's life is a journey to finding his religion,
I was told, it could be on your palms
or under your chin, I learned
Here I am, licking, and moaning to the sensation
of what I believed to be my religion;
It's between her thighs
hidden away from the eyes of men
But a prophet spews divine words, leads lost souls to light
Once I led a lost soul to my religion, to light
I believed a dying man on the path to light,
the end of his journey would be paradise
I smashed his head open, fed the vultures the life out of his brain
I refused to call it jealousy
I called it prophetic love
Lead one to light
Then send him to paradise
Again and again
I did it once then twice
Then it became a way of life
I'm a prophet, but the gods didn't send me
This is not me being the devil I never met
This is not me being evil
This is me setting souls free
Ibrahim Saleh Mainah hails from Gombe state. He is the author
of "Memoirs of a Dreamer", Northeast Winner, 2019 Wole Soyinka
essay competition, 2nd runner-up Nigerian prize for teen authors.
M Y J E W E L
You're the poetry I study
In you, I find myself busy
Getting to know you wasn’t easy
It's as hard as reaching the sky
You're the book I flip through
In you, I find comfort & solace
A truly human being I become
For you enlarge my mind.
You're the music I always harken to
In you, I find myself in the elysian field
A field of complete bliss & Cockaigne
It's as sweet as the seventh paradise.
© Ubali Ibrahim Hashimu
Ubali Ibrahim Hashimu is a writer and
poet as well as a graduate of Biology from
Yobe State University, Nigeria. He has had
several publications in media outlets.
Reflection on Grief-Based Poems: A Litmus Test
on Contemporary Nigerian Poets.
An essay by
Ojo Olumide Emmanuel
The subject of grief has become a recurring motif within the Nigerian poetic
space with more writers delving into confessional poetry by utilizing the
notion of memory; conjuring absence into the present. At different times in
the history of Nigeria, poets or writers, in general, have been preoccupied
with a range of themes from the cultural clash of colonialism to the euphoria
of independence, the dashed hope that came with an independent Nigeria,
and then the days of civil war, military rule and the military-democratic rule
of the present day.
The idea of grief poetry is not an issue of this generation of writers. During
the military era especially towards the end of the 90s and early 2000, we have
several protest poems which are more of a fightback tool against the
repression and the inhumanity of the then successive military regimes. It was
a social reaction meant to draw the ears of the regime and recreate order for
a seemingly chaotic country. Writers at that time added activism-artivism to
their craft. Gabriel Okara in an interview unequivocally stated that writers
express their ideal society, the kind they would like to live in and sometimes
they forecast what the society in which they live will become in the future.
In this present time, there is a shift from this order to a dispelling of emotion.
While these poets desire something better or hope, the poems are more of
testaments of the times we are in and the events that accompany them than a
protest for change. The subject of grief has also led some young writers to
depression and suicide while others have also found their art as a coping
mechanism to remain alive.
While there is an embroidery of meticulous choice of words, revealing
symbols and implicative metaphors enmeshed in compressed, terse lines and
verses, many of these contemporary poets, and up-and-coming ones have
treated the subject of grief in many ways, and many poetry collections and
anthologies using different techniques, perceptions, and literary lenses.
Adedayo Agaraus’s “For Boys Who Went”, Pamilerin Jacob’s “Gospel of
Depression”, Saddiq Dzukogi’s “Your Crib, My Qibla”, Martin Deep’s “A Sheaf
of Whispering Leaves”, Odu Ode’s “Calligraphy of Demon”, Samuel A.
Adeyemi’s “Heaven is a Metaphor” and a host of others are worthy examples.
There may be some reasons why writers write grief poetry, for instance,
personal loss, depression, family issues, societal problems and the socio-
political and economic condition of Nigeria, and so on. When Samuel A.
Adeyemi was asked by Semilore Kilaso in an interview, on the subject of
grief, he stated that “the subject of grief is inexhaustible, and being a
Nigerian is primarily a contributor to it… it is difficult to write about
butterflies and roses when people are dying in the street.” He succinctly
captures this in his poem thus: “You call me poet, I am just nineteen &
elevating GRIEF, all my verses, sibling holding themselves.”
To discuss the subject of grief requires that we understand how different
poets have been able to explore it using the vehicle of language, mood,
tone, and what they seek to achieve with the poem. It is important to
consider the works of some poets as they treat this subject of grief
beginning with Rasaq Malik Gbolahan’s latest poem “Ode to the Sea”
published in Transition Magazine. In the poem, the poet addresses ‘grief’ as
something tangible, like a catalyst instead of being the byproduct of
whatever negative action or the event that has been triggered: /the grief
that startles the waters does not have a name/ like the remains of the dead
after a war…/ and the lines that followed opens the reader into the heart of
the poet, articulating his mood and the emotion behind his poetically
ferried thoughts:/sometimes it appears that there are countless bodies
settling, like sediment, beneath the immeasurable body of the sea/ think of
names buried in the stillness of an evening, the fishermen returning home
with losses to meet dying wives…/ The imageries in the poem are quite
intense, showcasing activities, for instance, the sea, as used in the poem,
does not necessarily speak of a mass of water although it appears so. Water
here, like grief, hides all things. This, the poet establishes: /that water, as
simple as it sounds on our tongues, is a repository of grief…/ the poet ends
the poem thus: /as another news of drowning reaches us whose lives are
cradled in despair, us whose names will dissolve in the water of
forgetfulness when death leads us to the end of the world. / This is because
everything in life ends in grief.
In Saddiq Dzukogi’s poem “Shahada” on page 42 of his book “Your Crib,
My Qibla”, the poet mourns his daughter in a way that makes grief appear
as light as the feathers of a butterfly: /today Baha is not dead- her tears
reveal deep love for him. He prays his daughter’s hand turns the sponge
that would wash his corpse – the rite of passage pressed into her forehead,
a prayer mark from birth – in this dream state he’s dying…/ The tenacity of
this poem is to ignore the triumph of death and grief; to celebrate and
recreate ‘presence’ and the beauty of once being alive even in the deep of
grief. This is a new dimension to the understanding of grief, especially from
a collection with fifty-nine (59) poems mourning a dead child- Baha.
Although the repetition of “Baha is not dead in the collection” may not be of
self-denial, it is a new way to heal as the poet expresses in the closing of the
poem /today Baha is not dead, she is the shield that repeals a surfeit of
darkness from owning his body, an eel out of mud-water.
In Nome Patrick’s “Portrait as a Vagrant Walking through Grief to Meet
God”, the reader is led to a temple where the poet like a confessor,
confesses his grief on the pages of a poem /every year, I grow closer to my
own salvation thinking my shadow on the floor, wall, dancing in the pond is
the feathers I need to touch the horizon. When do we shed the past off our
bodies- a serpent peeling its skin for a new ceremony? A table was set
before me, but instead of bread, instead of wine, the rot of an ache, the
chalice of grief, the spark of a wound in place of a candle, & above, a
chandelier of mockery. every night, on my knees, I go in search of joy, crawl
in God’s threshold like a wounded assassin…/ The palpitations in this poem
are the intense will to break out of grief by shedding off “its skin” and then
bump into joy which the poet hopes he would find in “God”, yet, this journey
of grief begins from the beginning of the poem; /every year, i go horsing the
same path i trudged after realizing my mother’s body will never move off
from its stillness & the grave will remain a closed jaw- a dried/. The
symbolism of the “baobab” in African mythology is of a tree that houses
many spirits and the despairing situation of the poet is that this particular
baobab tree housing his mother’s spirit is “dry” and therefore cannot give up
the body.
Adedayo Agarau’s poem “Exit” explicates grief by utilizing “the concept of
body poetry.” The poet calls the reader to witness the turbulence brewing
inside him since grief is a kind of turmoil: /on being broken like shards of
withered glass, my body repels every music its soul makes… god tells me a
compendium of broken birds are falling from the sky in my eyes, I am a field
blessed with dead boys or memories of them singing to me…/ The irony of
this verse is that logically, glasses do not wither since they are not flowers
and the soul feeds on music rather than make music according to a popular
aphorism, but what would a grieving poet not use to express his emotions?
And then he ends the poem: /because my body is an asylum, you come to
ask if I am a safe place, god tells me to say no, say this city is too
small to house a country or turbulence.
In Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu’s “When Sadness has no Words”, we see a
poet trying to give words to the chaos in her mind /I am at the mercy
of the dark, my head taking flight, my chest holding me in its teeth. all
that is my body is struggling to kill me. I am drowning. I try to
negotiate my way from beneath the waves, which, in a way, is trying
to negotiate my way out of myself./ This poem is deeply personal and
seeks to free itself of ache /I cry to release the heat trapped in my
bones, these bones, both a house, and path. I beg god for help. I try, I
try./ and then she ends the poem: /this thing turning me into a
wound, is this what he had no words for?
In conclusion, grief is hugely personal even if it is for a country. It is
also expressed differently by individuals and language has remained
the tool and vehicle to express, explore and heal from grief. When
Olumide Olaniyan was asked in an interview why young writers in
Nigeria today write grief-based poems and if he thinks it’s a trend that
will fizzle out soon or just a testament to the despair in the country,
he said “the ocean of sorrow across the land is overwhelming. So,
writing about it is one way to put it on everyone’s face and a call for
action. Activism through poetry has always been with us, from the
pre-colonial era to today.” It is therefore relevant to state that grief-
based poetry may never end if grief remains a part of humanity but
the craft of creating literary works exploring the motif will continue to
evolve and masterpieces will continue to appear even if there would
be casualties.
© Ojo Olumide Emmanuel
Ojo Olumide Emmanuel is a Nigerian
Poet, Editor, and Educationist. He is the
Lead-editor of Artnews.com.ng and a
Senior Mentor at the Hill-Top Creative
Arts Foundation. He lives in Minna.
NIGHT AROUND THIS ERA IS PEACEFUL
A short story …
Air. I inhaled sharply, gulping down my nostrils a lungful. I am greedy in this quest
for air, but the children roaming around the stout fences of the ranch pay no heed
to me.
"You do not know the beauty of things that exist not for your hands to clutch, until
they are whisked away" I muttered, in a heavy tone. The kids turned to analyze my
figure, but their gazes didn't stare at me for too long. Their thoughts have been
damned. They think I sit in a state of lunacy. They feel that I am one absurd man,
one they need not bother with.
"Awed, aren't you?" Móremí says, as she pats the bald expanse of my head,
soothing the aged nerves which have been wearied out by too much worrying.
"The world is one huge puzzle," I say, but this gob of phlegm sitting somewhere in
my throat stops me from saying more, as it forces its way out through a noisy bout
of coughs.
She pats my back like one would do to soothe a child, "There, careful". As if
listening to her, the cough stops.
"If this were to be the ugly past, I would have thought that those rickety vehicles
have reared their way in, spewing carbon monoxide your way." She smiled, as her
eyes ventured towards the close branch of the Iroko tree beneath which we were
sitting.
"The weather has done her good," I muse, sharing in her nostalgia.
"The people have done better by her," she replies, and I nod, in synch with her
Mahmoodah Oyeleye is a Sophomore undergraduate
student at Lagos State University, Ojo, Lagos State. She is the
author of Faded Blues, the winning novel of the Nigeria Prize
for Teen Authors 2021 and The Campus Journalism awards
(Authors Category, 2022). She is a member of the Hilltop
Creative Arts Foundation. Her works appear in the Atherton
Review, the Kalahari review, GHLL magazine, and elsewhere.
reasoning. For if the people had been who they used to be, this
conservation center would be in ruins. This Iroko tree was planted whence
Móremí conceived our first child and Jókó has himself seen well into his
third decade on earth. Yet, the Iroko hasn't fallen to its death. The same
goes for the cotton tree around that corner and the kola nut tree just
behind it. The world still owes mother earth several trees, but with trees
towering above every stout fence, wherein compound dwellers water their
roots, I know a day would come when we would owe her no more.
After all, we depend lesser on wood for many more things than we did, in
what seems the two centuries before now. The kids have forgotten the
scent of pulp or paper; however, your tongues might wish to call it. Their
fingers click away on the surface of these gadgets, as they define learning in
new words. It seems now, that every generation breathes a different air,
and that this world seems to have so many spaces in it for us all.
I am one insecure old man. I like to see hell in everything, but Móremí has
so much light in her, so much belief in this electric era and for her sake, I
pretend that I enjoy every bit of it. Her optimism has nonetheless proved
me wrong, being that electric vehicles do not seem to be the hell I must
have imagined. At least the streets offer us many a choice to breathe. Lung
cancer is simply what you are willing to buy, not what society tosses at you
since cigarettes have been made available for only extremely chilly
weathers and recycling has developed tendrils that shall push it forward.
Here, I see the definition of nothing is useless.
Sitting on my aged, three-legged chair, underneath the shade of one of our
Iroko trees, I still paint, but with charcoal, on the slate plates that Móremí
bought for me. Together we admire the result of every hour. We muse over
each painting like we did as prom sweethearts, but now, we are falling in
love all over again. We do not wear fashion on our heels any longer, but
peace is shared in these small kisses escaping our nimble teeth, as we await
the rain. As young couples, we had made memories in the rain, wreathed
by the scent of a wet world, of puddles.
That was then. Now, young lovers have not the luxury of puddle walks. The
road is covered in tarmac. We have little to fear as far as erosions and
floods are concerned since the soil has been thickly geared with protection.
All we get to savor is the health in rainwater. Bad habits die hard after all. I
still place a pail directly beneath the sky, trying to fetch rainwater. I just
cannot fight the urge to taste it, to have it hug my tongue in its sacredness.
Our evenings are eventful. We sit, Móremí and I, in the adjoining
dining room. Every dinner is candle-lit. What matters most is not the
beauty of the delicacies served to us in the same plate, but what lies
beyond the floor-to-ceiling window. We never draw the blinds. We
stare in synch at blue, divine water as it rides on. The Lagos lagoon
sits before us in its unstoppable might; clean and protected. The
preceding years did not allow it its freedom, but now it is fenced by
many laws. No one can maltreat it anymore, by throwing waste and
refuse in it because of the comeuppances attached. Every day, it
blooms into a different beauty. We have not gotten enough of its
beauty, my camera testifies.
Night around this era is peaceful. I shall not freeze in the depth of
conditioned air or be teased by the air from a ceiling fan. Air visits
me freely. I do not get to pay for my night's peace. Hugging the love
of my life, I find my haven at home. Except on those days, it comes at
me to nitpick, to be a cranky old man, I am at peace. Whence it is my
turn to kiss the soil goodbye, my heart would freely let go of my
grandchildren to the beauty of this healthy world. I can trust that the
world would treat them well in this tamed state of its health. What
more shall these grey hairs ask for?
~ Mahmoodah Oyeleye
Lagos Lagoon
If Only
If only, I can see through the future from now,
I will keep my view in a closed jar,
Never to let in my past jargon.
If only, I could travel back to my yesteryears,
There are decisions I made ignorantly,
That I would love to unmake intentionally.
If only, I saw today from yesterday,
I wouldn't have danced to love's beat.
Nor given my all for a bet, not even for a bit.
If only, i could revisit my past for just a second .
I would tender a sincere apology for being a toddler.
If only, I listened to the dirge of his stony heart,
Not the rhythm of his love's beat
How beautiful my love string would be.
If only, I didn't fall for his sugarcoated love lyrics,
Having to let go wouldn't have lingered.
If only I listened to mama, I ignored without aim.
Like a moth drawn to a flame,
But who is to blame?
I knew not i was aiming for destruction.
Now I am swimming in frustration.
If only, I knew those sweet words were mere springs on a rock.
I shouldn't be wallowing in this dark route.
Nor lost in this lonely street of perpetual shame and regret.
With this innocent seed in me, lamenting
“IF ONLY”
© Vivian Omah
Viviam Omah is a Nigerian creative writer from Delta state.
TParadox of Being Human
We are mere mortals,
imperfect and flawed,
Yet we strive for perfection,
so divine and broad.
Our thoughts so complex,
our emotions so real,
Our existence a mixture
of joy and of zeal.
We long for connection,
yet fear being known,
We seek out wisdom,
yet cling to what's shown.
We desire freedom,
yet crave safety and peace,
A paradox of desires,
that will never cease.
We marvel at beauty,
and cherish its art,
Yet we revel in destruction,
tearing our world apart.
We profess love for our fellow man,
Yet we wage war,
with greed in our hand.
So many contradictions,
that make us so strange,
A species so gifted,
yet bound in chains.
The paradox of being human,
a mystery untold,
A puzzle yet to be solved,
a story untold.
But in this paradox
lies a beauty unique,
A complexity
From which we truly speak.
For in embracing
our flaws and our fears,
We find our true selves,
and wipe away tears.
So, embrace the paradox,
embrace the strife,
And discover the beauty,
The essence of life.
© Robert Hall Martin
Soko Rejoice Yohana
Story Writer and Essayist
From Jos, Nigeria.
BARBARIC CULTURES
A short story …
I was thirteen. Sweet beautiful thirteen. I dreamt dreams and
fantasized a beautiful tomorrow.
During the nights, I would play hide and seek with my peers at the
village square. We would dance to the rhythmic songs made by the
village flutist and the drummers. I was a good dancer, the best among
my peers.
"The spirit of dancing runs in the family. I was the best dancer during my
time," my mother had once boasted.
Childhood was so beautiful until that night. The night I wished I was
never born. The night I cursed the womb that bore me!
I had eaten dinner and was set to go to the village square for the
evening dance rehearsals. I was chosen to lead the village dance troupe
for a dancing competition. The moon was full and shone brightly. The
insects sang melodiously. Chants and songs could be heard from the
village square which was some distance away. I was about leaving when
my mother stopped me. My father sat at her side.
"My daughter," my father started. "Your husband Lhemti would be
here in a week for your hand. All marital rites have been concluded. He
would come to take you home. Your mother told me you've seen the
visitor."
Father had the final say. His word was law and I dared not break it. Not
even my mother. Lhemti, my father's friend who frequented our home
became my husband. Mother told me I had been betrothed to him at
birth. He was a wealthy merchant and my betrothal to him gave my
family access to his wealth. I was married to him amidst friends and
not-well-wishers! I was devastated. I died a little, and totally on the
wedding night.
I had barely slept for two hours when the door slowly opened.
Lhemti stood with hands akimbo. Silently he drew closer to the bed
and with each close step unwrapped the covering around his waist.
"Hope you'd be worth the money I spent," he said as he squatted on
the bed. Fear took over me. I tried to resist him as he forcefully
removed the covering around my waist, but I couldn't. He pulled my
legs and spread them apart. I screamed in anguish as his tumescent
mold of flesh forcefully found its way into my sanctuary tearing it
apart. I lay dead. Dead to myself. Dead to the World. No one came to
my rescue.
"You're a sweet little thing. My money wasn't in vain after all,"
Lehmti would say once in a while as he performed his dastardly act,
thrusting harder and harder. It felt like the walls of my vagina were
being ripped apart.
"It is a man's world. Whatever he wants to be done, however, and
whenever he wants it done, do it... He's the head... Your master...your
lord... Our culture and traditions teach us so; hence it can't be wrong.
His word is law...do you hear me? Are you listening?" My mother's
voice reverberated in the dark morose room where an unworthy
worshipper defiled my temple till it bled and its gateway was
completely destroyed.
Weeks after, I kept awaking on a wet bed. Not wet from the blood spills
of the first night. I had become sick. The doctor called it vesicovaginal
fistula and it was a taboo as no one had suffered it in my village. For
six weeks I lived in isolation. In pains. The village head passed a
death sentence for my ailment.
As the villagers led me to the village square to be stoned to death, I
made no resistance nor turned away. I did not cover my face against
the insults or the spittle they threw. My parents pleaded with my
cause, but no one took gave them a listening ear.
As the stones hurled at me triggered the pain, death beckoned
smilingly. I smiled back because only in death would I find
consolation. I didn't pray to my ancestors for succor. If my
forefathers were the makers of these customs and traditions, they
too will subject my spirit to the same ill-treatment.
So, I prayed to the spirits of those who were victims of barbaric
cultures and traditions. And as I prayed, I felt my spirit leave my
body and then sudden darkness.
Oblivion.
© Soko Rejoice Yohana
Morgan Freeman
