A Cry From the Deep
The stars dangled in the sky, casting silver shadows so that the night air glowed. It was cold. The villagers did not seem to mind. Children littered themselves in the open space: some danced, bathing in the moonlight, their bare feet sending red dust into a frenzy. The calmer ones sat, listening to Mma Obiageli as her words came to life in their timid minds. They would suddenly break out in a chorus at intervals, singing until veins protruded from the sides of their neck. The hunters sat down under the mango tree. They sent sweet melodies from the Udu that diffused into the cold night. They sang epics; tales about the hunter and the hunted. Anuli sat on a stool, at the entrance to her hut, her wrapper sagged around her chest so that the cold air splashed against the top of her breast. She could hear her mother’s…
Short Poem – When I Die
When I die, People will pick up their phones, And begin asking how I died, And yet they never picked up their phones To call me and know how I lived. When I die, There will be those who will look for memories Of the last time we met and spoke, And begin narrating those stories and encounters, But never spoke of them about me when I lived. When I die, There are those friends who will want to know my home, The name of my village so they can bury me, And yet they never bothered to know, When I still lived and danced on this earth. When I die, There will be those who will contribute to my burial, As they seek to be seen to have loved me, And begin creating ways for a fitting send off, And yet they supported me not when I still breathed.…
Poem: Idara
g She cried Make-up smeared Clothes in disarray Incessantly, she cried. He moaned Rhythmically thrusting A “press-up” exercise In ecstacy, he moaned. She fought Nails dug in his flesh Legs kicking wildly For her life, she fought. He hit Hand smashing head Feet hitting her bowel Aggressively, he hit. She died A cracked skull Severed intestines Losing the fight, she died. #SayNoToRape #NoIsNo #RespectWomen #StopPhysicalAbuse By Philomena Akpan
Story: Paint, Ink, Blood
Mayen felt nothing. And it was the worst feeling she had had in a while. No, it was the worst feeling she had had in her life. They was a panging in her stomach but she didn’t feel it as much as she knew it was there. She wanted to die. She deserved to die. She rolled over on the bed dragging a pillow under her. She wouldn’t think about it, she wouldn’t even try to remember it. There wasn’t anything to remember anyway. Her mind had shut down when she went through those doors again. And she wasn’t sure it had come back up. How could she be alive when two children were dead because of her? Because she had believed the devil would change, that things would get better. That was why she had stayed on. And how she had been wrong. She stood up and walked out…
Poem: Mother Tongue
It is amazing how unique every language sounds From the easy to speak to the difficult to pronounce Languages are one of God’s masterpieces Sounding on lips like Angels Kisses The melodies of Francophone The harmonies Anglophone Speaks louder than the microphone Goes farther than the telephone We worship everything coming from Overseas Now we are one of those, Mr. Oyibo oversees His white presence still lingers in our Lingua franca A thousand words cannot express these any franker What is as bad as being lost in your own home? With your identity buried in another’s tomb? It is our responsibility to watch over our personality We are the custodians of our posterity What will we pass over to our offspring? Burgers, Pizzas, and Ice cream? I Scream! Whatever happened to our Ekpang Nkukwo, our Efere Afang Perhaps they got lost in the big bang What will we call our…
Poem: Hell Shall Thy
So here i sit, On a hostel bed carelessly maltreated by its customers As my thoughts begin to get obsessed with the idea The idea of church, religious leaders, doctrines And the infinite list of conditions mailed out by modern day pastors for heavenly citizenship So this is the new world Where streets are littered with an influx of altars Which alter the divine plan and make heaven an almost Mission Impossible Salvation seems an imaginary status unattainable Capable of being bought not gotten Church rows made for bookings like music concerts because it’s strictly VIP— no regular Souls have been fed with paralyzed truth for too long So here lies the potency of my message I’m a lost soul My own actions suffocate me But then I underservingly find my bearing in the compass of mercy The world is barren of the truth We are yet to find love…
Poem: Dear Eve, I Will Wait
DEAR EVE(I WILL WAIT) Dear Eve., I know we haven’t met yet but At night the organs of my thoughts bed wet with fear Every morning i mourn With torn robes of my heart And ashes covering the scalp of my skull i wonder Why teens like us bury ourselves in a casket of false love Six feet beneath the grounds of lies,deceit and immaturity Telling ourselves that we’re old enough for love Only to repeatedly betray our consciences Until we find out that love and lust are just two different words that make two different sentences Now, I must confess Like CHRIST I’ve been tempted With photocopies of you who try to imitate you But yet rejected by the gatekeepers of my heart because they want tour original But i, I choose to wait for you To eclipse my eyes to the false you’s that invade the temple of…
Short Story: Gone
My bag is packed, she says in her mind, but I can hear her loud and clear. The most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid my turquoise eyes upon ever since I was a cub. I love you and I don’t want you to leave, but you just have to, I say to her in my mind. She packs her hair into a bun and ties it round with a black scarf—I love black. I love her —but she can’t hear me. I wish she could feel the rhythm of my heartbeats, the way I can feel hers right now. Boom.. Boom boom.. Boom.. Boom Boom, It goes and I love the sound of it. Each time we cuddle during the cold rainy nights, her heart beats just once every five minutes. She used to feel safe with me. I was once her angel’s wings. “I’m ready to leave now.” She…
Short Story: Gray
I looked at her for as long as I can remember. Beautiful box braids I wish I could afford to make for myself. Her finger nails were polished royal blue with little black stars spotting them. Her eyebrows weren’t at all looking like those other fake-professionally-touched brows, they were touched quite alright, but they looked natural. She wore a lipstick the color of nude. Her lower lips had a rather extravagant smiley-curve-rich-beauty about them—I thought. Her eyes, the colour of her eyes were gray. I looked at them over and over again to make sure I wasn’t wrong. I looked at them until she caught me looking at her. I gave a sheepish smile. She knew me so she smiled back. Gray eyes, I thought. Gray that reminded me that if I envied her more, whilst in church, my soul would no longer be white. I’d be gray. Mirabelle Morah.
Run Away, Love
It takes a heart to love, stay away from it until you’re ready, he said. I think he forgot to add, that it also takes a heart to be torn to pieces, run away from it until you’re sure you’re ready. I always told her that I wanted to love her the right way, the way the good Lord would approve of. Who was I kidding? She didn’t want that kind of love, she wanted the other love, the one that came with fireflies in the belly; blushes; stutters; kisses. It didn’t take long for me to get entrapped in this lost love called lust. O Boi you don hit jackpot o, they would tell me, I feigned disgust, I secretly loved to hear it but I knew I was wrong. I was a church boy, I’m trying to be that again, and I knew our love wasn’t what He…
The Hard Life
Some days #200 was hard enough for him to get. #200 could be his transportation fare, meal and even entertainment for an entire day. Life wasn’t a bed of roses for him. By age seventeen he was already being the man of the house. Working, feeding his siblings and giving his father some money. Now, they were asking for #200 again, #200 to register for a course at the university. Where was he going to get it from? Money didn’t fall like manna for him. He secretly shed tears everyday. Wishing he could have the things most of his course mates had but were never content with. Things like having someone to pay his fees, coming back to meals at home, having enough money to buy books; things like having a mother to console him in moments when all hope seemed lost. Mirabelle Morah
What’s The Best Thing In The World
What’s the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Love, when, so, you’re loved again. What’s the best thing in the world? –Something out of it, I think. -Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Torn
As I lay on my bed I wonder if you miss me. I wonder if you wake up sad in the morning with thoughts of me and go to bed looking at my picture, just like I do. I wonder if you care about me like I do. A few weeks ago you said I meant so much to you, today I wonder if I still do. You haven’t called to say hello, to find out if I’m dead yet or if I’m still on the life support you left me on. I’m trying to let you go but the thoughts of you keep coming back to me like moth to a flame. Mirabelle Morah