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World Voices MagazineMay 2024Issue #40

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Salim Yakubu Akko

Author Title Page(s)News Article In The News 5Bob Martin In The Depths Of Despair, I Lament 6-7Shitta Faruq Adémólá An Exodus Resulting Into Butterflies Building Mountains8-9Abdulbasit OluwanisholaThe Quiet World 10-11Bob Martin The Road You Walk 12ObukataFinding Metaphors For Boys Littered In My Country13Nyiyongu Shawona The Whisper 14-16Aderibigbe Ruquayyah AdemamoleEvery Time, Like That 17Bennie Alan Hope 18-19David Ali The Shortcut 20-23Salim Yakubu Akko The Latent Truth About Life From the Second Law of Thermodynamics in Physics24-25Fasasi Kidwan Portraiture 26-27Abdulmajid Gambo DanbabaImole 28-29John Ebute What A Rainbow Signifies To A Troubled Soul 30-31William P. Riddle Upon Our Earth 32-33Daniel Aôndona The Shapeless Me 34-36Back Cover 38

Nigeria recently became the first country to roll out a new vaccine (called Men5CV) recommended by the World Health Organization (WHO), which protects people against five strains of meningococcus bacteria.The Conversation Africa asked Idris Mohammed, a professor of infectious diseases and immunology and former board chair of Nigeria’s National Programme on Immunisation, to explain the new vaccine and its likely impact.What is meningitis?Meningitis is the inflammation of the tissues surrounding the brain and spinal cord, usually caused by infection. It can be fatal. Meningitis can be caused by several species of bacteria, viruses, fungi and parasites.The highest global burden is seen with bacterial meningitis. Around one in six people who get this type of meningitis die. One in five have severe complications. Read more here … Nigeria is pioneering a new vaccine to fight meningitis - why this matters (theconversation.com)In The News

IN THE DEPTHS OF DESPAIR, I LAMENTIf Chef José Andrés' words ring true,Israel's actions were a sorrowful screw.Seven WCK workers, their lives taken,A heinous act, a world awakened."Why would they do such a thing?" I cry,A question that whispers through my sorrowful sighHumanitarian efforts met with disdain,Workers and NGOs, their efforts in vain.No gates opened to welcome the aid,A plea ignored; a world betrayed.Perhaps they fear these aid workers' plight,In their way, disrupting the fight.Or maybe they seek to apply pressure,Exacerbating crises, a cruel, cruel measure.In this tragedy, a haunting truth,Palestinians "othered," denied their youth.Withholding food from the starving, so dire,Withholding medical aid, fueling the fire.Such actions, I say, fit my bold definition,Of terrorism, a cruel and brutal imposition.A world torn apart by hatred and greed,A lamentation for those in famine’s need.But amidst the darkness, a glimmer of hope,The voices rising, refusing to cope.In this lamenting poem, let it be known,That love and compassion are not overthrown. © Bob Martin

These dedicated individuals were part of a humanitarian effort to alleviate the dire situation in Gaza, where food scarcity has become a weapon of war. Their commitment to feeding people, and their impact on countless lives will be forever remembered and cherished.

An Exodus Resulting Into Butterflies Building MountainsMy heart occupied new constellations, wrapped in a duvet of sorrow.Remember when you talked to us of silence, that, breaking its barriers is conquering giants in a war. Well, maybe you forgot you wereAlso, going to carry your own silence with pride.One thing I've ever regretted was your demise. Father, that day you went and never returned,The flowers fell and never rose, the trees birthed unripe fruits —Signs of a period where sorrow would unravel, and grief would build itself in our chests.Happiness is a stranger. Like the sky, it keeps moving away each time we near it.We miss you, Dad. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi rojiun”. This is what the Imam recited that day your corpse was brought home, wrapped in a white cloth. I wondered if it meant, “May your soul rest in peace”.Or “He is too young to die”.Or “May you find the light amidst the darkness of the grave”.But forty days after your death, mum gathered the courage to tell me it meant, “We will all die, that earth is a temporal space for us to live in”.I wondered why it was your turn to die. Or how does it feel when your joySlips off your palms like wet leaves?Dad, in this poem, I am forcing my tears not to drop.I am gathering clays to mold my courage, because each time i remember you,I feel like running into an underground to pour my sorrows in. © Shitta Faruq Adémólá

Shitta Faruq Adémólá is a young poet and writer as well as a graduate of English and French at Federal College of Education Abeokuta. He's the author of two poetry books and has works published/forthcoming in LOLWE, Harbour Review, Jalada Africa and elsewhere. He tweets @shittafaruqade1

The Quiet WorldAfter Jeffrey McDanielTonight, I voyage to the world my father lives. To not awake the ghosts, I only wearmy smile, few drops of tears and lockmyself from their Neptune breeze.I can hear some transient sounds, jaggy steps.But, a word from my mouth will be a visato my world—I stone. A snowy silhouettebegets my father and I glacier. I'm glad to seemy father again, even, as snow. I portraymy eyes to him saying read: how are you?have you adapted to this Neptune world,or is loneliness the other name of this place?

I believe all you did in my world are returning as fresh food. And he answers me as fireflies, with a crimson silky face and rose's scent.Before the last minute to my awakening, I smooch out, I miss you from my lips. And, on my bed, I become water.© Abdulbasit OluwanisholaAbdulbasit Oluwanishola, SWAN V, is a young Nigerian poet and essayist who writes from Ilorin, Kwara State. He's studying Agriculture in Usmanu Dafodiyo University Sokoto. He is the winner of the PCU Eid Celebration on-the-spot poetry contest 2023. He is shortlisted in the Dawn Project Writing Contest 2023. His works are up/forthcoming on A Long House, Kalahari Review, Poetry Column, Ninshãr Arts, World Voices Magazine, Invisible City and elsewhere. He tweets @OO1810107.

In the woods of life, where paths diverge,Each step a tale, each turn a verge.Memories bloom, like flowers in spring,Each moment lived, each song to sing.Burdened shoulders,Once bowed with strain,Now carry wisdom.A lasting gain.The Road You WalkSuffering’s touch, though bitter and cold,Ignites the fire, makes spirit bold.Walk on, weary traveler,With learned grace,For every trial, leaves its trace.The road you’ve walked, a memory vast,Yet, in its wake, a legacy cast. © Bob Martinwww.awiseandhappylife.com

FINDING METAPHORS FOR BOYS LITTERED IN MY COUNTRY Here, metaphors for boys, is your environment. Say, shadows, say water, or like the boys in Cross River, sailors. Call a boy according to the fragments of your environment living in him. As long as trouble does not trail your word to his body, it is a good metaphor. Every day I hear my uncle call me Ame & I see my brothers shape into things they never dreamt of encapsulating them. They say water flows till it is barricaded by bottles. My brothers’ bodies flow till this society bottles them into shapes. When my brother’s bodies possess me, May this society not find me. Amen. © Victor ObukataVictor Obukata is a Nigerian teen writer who writes prose and poetry. He is a Christian and a lover of literature.

It was raining when Godiya returned. The masquerade flowers were dancing from side to side as the fierce wind propelled them. Everyone was indoors when she walked back drenched. It was the shrill sound of Godiya's door that made me pull the curtain aside to have a look. She had been away for three years, three months, three weeks, three days and maybe three hours. It seemed she had calculated it. I was the only one who knew when she left and was also the only one that knew that she had returned.The Whispera short story byNyiyongu Samuel Shawon

Godiya was no longer herself and nothing about her was familiar anymore. Her eyes were glazed and unfocused. Her few words were throaty. Even children knew that there was every need to tread cautiously around her.Two days after her return, Godiya's house was full of visitors. Each came to collect what she owed them. Like the others, I was there to collect the 5000-naira Godiya collected from me the morning she left.Despite the calm nature she maintained, and the unanswered questions surrounding her return, it dawned on me that Godiya was up to something. An air of uncertainty hung around her! A feeling of looming doom - inexplicable and disastrous crept in. There was always something about the look in her eyes that made many to stare at her anytime they met. The first person to point this out was her father who was set to marry Khadija. It was Khadija that had visited Godiya the night before the morning she left. On the morning of the wedding, Godiya was the first to be seated. Her flowing gown and make-up were fitting. As Khadija and Godiya's father danced into the church through the central aisle, Godiya walked to them and called Khadija aside. When they were out of earshot, Khadija opened her handbag and asked the bride to peer in then she whispered into her ear. Godiya walked to her father and did the same.Khadija returned to her groom while Godiya returned to her seat. Strangely, the couple asked for the wedding to be called off. Before

we would know, a fight had broken out between Khadija and Godiya's father. They looked like sworn enemies ready to kill each other. The wedding was called-off as they wished. No one knew what Godiya had shown them and whispered into their ears. Even those that enquired were never told. All of us who had come to her for the things she owed us stopped coming after she asked us to peer into her handbag and whispered into our ears."Do you want to peer into Godiya's handbag and receive a whisper?" become a slang among people. No one knew where she had travelled to.No one wanted to know more about her.No one said what they had seen in her handbag and what she had whispered into ears.For months since her return, people have been asking to know what was in Godiya's bag and what she has been whispering into people's ears.If I were they, I would not seek to know. If they knew, they would not seek to know. © Nyiyongu Samuel Shawon Nyiyongu Samuel Shawon hails from the Benue valley in Nigeria. He loves teaching kids and writing children's storybooks. He also loves writing stories that dance gracefully between reality and fiction. He lives in Jalingo and is presently a Fellow of “Teach For Nigeria” in Abeokuta”

Every Time, Like ThatI hate to begin another sad poem but this brittle bodycarries the weight of fear & failure perched on its shoulderslike trusted Allies of its nights, it returned home with drowned eyes,drunk from a pity party of dejection.I am in a strange land surrounded by strange bodies I'm forced to embrace bodies seeping out disdain & horrorbut I lurked around them still because I fear warmth leaving my bodyor setting out in the dark with myself to myself.This is not my home, here I thread nimbly, or my feet conceive scarsby shards of broken bodies swimming in the misery of the walkways.Scars that plunge deep into my subconscious whereI tie myself up with strings of self crisis.My dad visits in my dream & slips in Adventure of a lifetime by cold play& it says everything I want is a dream awaybut my dreams drowned in my pillow most nights;I see them slipping off one by one and he'd always say to embrace everything that comes with everything& that's how I'd run past the hurdles.Every time, like that. © Aderibigbe Ruqayyah Adedamola Aderibigbe Ruqayyah Adedamola (she is a Muslim, poet, freelance writer. She loves meditations and taking late evening strolls to clear her head and observe her surroundings. Twitter@RuqayyahAderib1, Facebook: Adedamola Aderibigbe.

“irenic” - aimed at peaceHopeI hope to live an irenic* life,Not the life of a parasite.I want to be a saver of lives.I hope this dream comes to pass.When Pandora opened her box,She gave us hope in this life.Hope that I can’t live without.The Earth is neither cold or hot,So, my dreams must come to pass,My limit is above the sky.I hope to be among the stars.I hope for a full means of right,I hope to master my science and art.Let no one stand in my path.I hope my dreams will come to pass. © Bennie S. AlanBennie Alan is a writer, author, from Monrovia, Liberia.Some of his works include “Chronicles Of Dark Days” Co-authored with Mamadee GV Kanneh

https://simplebooklet.com/chroniclesofdarkdaysYou may read it here …

The Shortcut A short story On the day we met, the weather was neither hot nor cold. There was no eclipse, no rain, not even a cloud to give the hint of an abnormal day. I was humming a song, enjoying the cool evening breeze as I walked to a barbing salon to get a haircut, when I noticed her sitting on a log. Even from a far distance, I knew she was beautiful. I wondered why such a pretty damsel would be sitting alone in such a secluded place by that time. But I concluded that she must be waiting for someone. I shrugged and kept walking. About an hour later, I strolled back, taking the same road I had taken earlier. It wasn't the main road, just a short cut to the commercial area. But since I was new in the area, I wanted to know more places. Lo and behold, she was still sitting there, looking as if she hadn't moved since I last saw her. I thought of continuing my way, but my curiosity got the better of me. I walked up to her and said hello. She didn't reply."Pretty damsel, what're you doing here all alone?" I asked, sincerely curious. I couldn't see her face clearly because it was partly covered by her shoulder-length wig. She coughed, startling me. But she didn't say anything. I looked around and as usual, there was no one within sight, as usual. I was totally alone with her."Are you okay? Do you need help?" I asked again. This time, she moved. She moved slowly, almost as if she was struggling to decide whether to do what she was about to do or not. I waited, impatient but determined to satisfy my curiosity. After what seemed like ages, she looked up at me and gave me the honour of looking at the most charming face I'd ever seen. I could feel the scent of her surreal beauty like air all over me. I breathed it without delay and felt it's warmth seep deep into my body. I began to shiver.

She placed her hands on mine and opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. She seemed to be struggling to speak. I thought she was afraid so I told her, "Can we move away from this place, go somewhere safer?" She shook her head. I was confused. "I can't hear you, what're you trying to say?" She struggled even harder, but no words came out. But I didn't have to be able to read sign language to know one word she was trying to mutter: help.I ran home. I ran without looking back. I was so afraid that I didn't tell anyone what happened. At night, nightmares deprived me of sleep. With each scared waking, I grew more feverish and paler, until my aunt barged into room. She'd heard me screaming. She tried to control the fever with cold wraps and painkillers, but it didn't work. I was so afraid of dying that I knew I had to tell her what happened. I took my aunt and her husband to the place where I met the girl. But I stopped dead on my tracks a short distance from the place. Because now, under the morning light, I could see clearly what it really was - a graveyard. No one needed to tell me what had happened. That I hadn't only seen a ghost, but she'd also touched me.In my culture, there's a believe that when an innocent person is murdered, he or she is given the chance to pick a mortal who'd take vengeance on his or her behalf. This was to make sure that the murdered person didn't go beyond seeking justice and into collective vengeance. My aunt solemly believed that that was what happened, that the soul of that girl had chosen me to take vengeance for her. I couldn't remain in my aunt's house for fear. I could not understand why she'd choose me since I didn't know her and had no idea what to do. I fled, remnants of fever and fright clinging to me. I moved to a far city to stay with an old friend, hoping to put the experience behind me. My friend's name was Akute, and we'd known

each other since childhood. The moment I stepped into the compound where he lived, the first thing I saw was an obituary notice with the deceased's photograph on it. "Who's this?" I asked Akute, pausing to hear him answer. He scratched his head, looked around and whispered, "that's my girlfriend. She passed away recently. Food poisoning". What he didn't tell me, but which I heard from his neighbours was that she'd died after eating food that he gave her. That she'd told her friend, just before she passed away, that she was pregnant with Akute's child, but he didn't want her to keep it. . I ignored it all and tried to settle in. Until one day, when a gentle knock on the door woke us up at an odd hour. I peeped out of the window; afraid I'd see armed robbers, but there were none. It was just a visitor. A pretty damsel. One I had seen before. On the obituary notice. And at the graveyard.David Ali is new on the writing scene and is currently experimenting with romance which is one of his favorite genres. He is a fan of Telenovela and believes that life is meant to be savoured every moment. David is Gbagyi from Abuja where he lives and works.© David Ali

The Latent Truth About Life From the Second Law of Thermodynamics in Physics There are so many things around man that appear to be common, simply viewed just like any other thing ordinary, but deep down lies a planet of latent gold, craved by all, but only a fraction of people have the natural astronomical telescope to view and understand them beyond what the eye sees or what the world reads in the pages of books. One of these commonly seen, but perhaps interpreted via a different lens, is the Physics' Second Law of Thermodynamics. The law simply states that the disorderliness of a closed system tends to increase over time or remains constant, but never decreases.

Salim Yakubu Akko, Faculty of Medical Sciences,Gombe State University.It is human innate nature to want to be successful with little or no effort at all. What the law is indirectly telling you, as a man, the degree of your disorderliness, or simply your tendency of not succeeding in life, increases always or remains constant, but never decreases so long you to fold your hands bare-chested, doing nothing, waiting for a random force to take you to a level higher. The fact that even many chemical reactions require energy input to speed up, it can be said that success most at times does not occur purely natural. Even if it does, which without doubt happens in blue moon, one that is fought for, certain, should be chosen and then the covenant life has made for the determined souls will be fulfilled. Just like one's personal room will deteriorate and become increasingly uninhabitable by the day like owls' opera if one fails to make conscious effort to tidy it up, so also will one behold one's dreams and aspirations burn to ashes due to this continuity of disorderliness, and life slowly takes one to the knees, unless great efforts are put to strengthen things up. Writer, author, essayist and the Nigerian Representative and Project Managerfor World Voices Magazine.

PORTRAITUREfor ShukuratSome days, I follow trails of winds, renaming your absence; Others, I gather the remains of your leaving into a portrait—trying to capture what part of you is left to sing joy. This is how I fold happiness into my skin. How my body secedes itself from the predilection of florid grief. Once at a sermon, a man asked, Isn’t ittrue that birthing is an ephemera in death?—the question mark, a sickle knifing through his mouth to reveal his purple dreams & halve blooming grief—a requiem of strange & dead things begging to be spared: exit wounds becoming scars, hiding behind the mirage of healing. Say, what is healing ifnot a mirage? What is leaving if not how to sharpen grief& give it a new body to pierce?

here, in this song, a dirge is walking inwardly toward tongues: Mother’s voice reeling silence in the bathtublike a moorhen devoid of her nest. & I’m walking into this song, into this body to rename my grief into joy.Fasasi Ridwan, Swan I, is currently a final year student of Faculty of Agriculture, UDUS. His works are published on synchronized chaos, Kalahari Review, SprinNg, Afrihill press and D’lit Review. He was shortlisted for the SprinNg Annual Poetry Contest ’23 and Splendor of Dawn Poetry Contest ’23. He was also the 3rd runner up for the SOBAFEST Poetry Slam '23 He tweets @Ibn_Yusha44.© Fasasi Ridwan

Imole (light)I've learned thatthis world isa place of distrust, where vultures,disguised as men, hiding their beaksbetween laughter & smiles as they wait for the perfect time to strike The first thing I learned as a child is to loveTo give the all of me To be an "IMOLE"& to move mountains with my words even though betrayals are gifts wrapped with a piece of trust.Sometimes a familysometimes a loversometimes a friend or even from ourselvesMy heart is a garden of benevolent fruitsSometimes they fallfor the days of joy& sometimes forrandom hands to pick I am "IMOLE"a sanctuary I am born to carrylegacies in my hands © Abdulmajid Gambo Danbaba

In African culture, the Yoruba word “Imole”,which means “light”, and holds a much moresignificant meaning.The synergy of old traditionsand contemporary thoughtsfuels the Imole.Today’s youth are custodians of values passed down from previous generations, creating a unique blend of heritage and innovation.Abdulmajid Gambo Danbaba is a poet and performer. He has passion for culture and tourism. He hails from Funtua Local Government of Katsina state.

What a Rainbow Signifies to a Troubled SoulRed: The blood that defied my father’s platelets & against his will , made a circus performance the day he left to exercise his voting rights.Orange: The flames that waltzed on our street & carried off in its arms precious properties as a souvenir of yet another riot.Yellow: The sun, as if drugged by the night, slept through my cousin’s ordeal & death in the hands of kidnappers.Green: Even the vegetation betray us as our gastric systems succumb to the pressure of hunger.Blue: We look up to the sky but our tongues are too parched to temple a supplication.Indigo: The pretty shirt of my sister which turned up stained, the remnant of her existence buried in one Baba’s shrine.Violet: The violent wind that ate the hibiscus off our garden…no, it was a bullet. © John "Penwielder" Ebute

John "Penwielder" Ebute is a Nigerian medical student who's passionate about using the power of the pen to influence and inspire the world. His works have appeared in Arts Lounge Magazine, Joints Anthology and elsewhere.

I can only speculate that the spheres are filled with air, produced by the algae as it spent the winter months on the bottom of the pond. I suspect these air-filled bubbles are acting like miniature hot air balloons to lift the algae back to the surface for the summer. To me, they represent one of the unknown worlds I find fascinating. They also provided the inspiration for my poem. I often capture images with my camera that I did not see with my eyes.

The Shapeless MeAlphabets cluster together, making words,Making verses_ and I become a persona in thePortrait of this poem. I become a boy_ housing theThe name of God on my tongue. I become a boy_Losing everything that was once mine;My voice, my name, my strength, my courage, myHappiness, my ambitions. I become a boy_Cringing away from hope, away from faith, andAway from life. You want to know how a boy likeS

Me faces to the world? First, he begins by replacingHis heart with a rock, and then metal, so it doesn'tCrack, so it someday does not begin to shatter, toScatter into pieces. He then rebuilds his brain,His mind with pillars stronger than the ones createdBy God. He begins to swallow pain in order to growHis endurance before his humanity begins to roarAblaze, to roast, to burn down to ashes.Then, he practices how to die in his country, how toBear the strokes of life, how to carry a thousandScars without breaking into tears, cause teardropsAre said to be synonymous to anything in lifeThat symbolizes a boy's weakness. Cowardliness.And his ability to shy away from danger is one ofThem. They say, a boy must learn the survival mode,He must learn how to be a bearer of burdens_ yet, Deserves no applauses for surviving a battle he ranAway from. Say, he only deserves rosesOn his tombstone after lying dead in a battlefield.(That is the only way to portray yourself as a hero)Like to say, a hero is not the boy who dodges

An enemy's bullet. But a hero is the boyWhose body swallows an enemy's bullet, spillsOut a river, a sea, an ocean of blood, and dies alone.Now, here I am, a portrait of me as anythingYou can describe. A boy, gradually losing everythingThat is mine. A boy, afraid of tomorrow. A boy,Afraid of time. A boy, afraid of what reality holdsFor him in the survival mode. A boy, who carriesHis tale in broken pieces, whose life is shapeless. © Daniel Aôndona Daniel Aôndona is a Nigerian writer and a member of Hilltop Creative Arts Foundation. He can be reached on Facebook@ Daniel Aôndona, Instagram@ daniel_aondona

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