Mama Naija | A Fantastic Poem by Chris Fridae
Only years before, she was a giant among her peers, Now life spears her to drown her in tears. Just last year, mama got married again. It wasn’t her choice, her children’s choice who she dates. She’s had several marriages before her teen. So He left peacefully for a Papa to come in Not all of us loved Papa at first. Most of us still don’t. Emeka wanted to leave. Yusuf wanted to stay, Kolade didn’t care. And for Okon, well, that one didn’t have a say. “He plans to make mama a widow” “If only he stays at home, he is always visiting his friends” All my brothers—mama’s many children—had something to say. Mama’s babies would lie staring at her sagging breasts. For Papa has sucked everything he could yet Mama waits, Waits hoping Papa returns with the change He’d promised. Hoping that Little Ekpeyong eats at home or…
IT’S ABOUT THAT TIME
Victoria Victor is a talented poet from the English and Literary Studies department at the university of Calabar.
Feelings Unknown
Sometimes I wonder Do they care like I do? Do they notice my absence? Do they remember me when they pray? If I was taken away from this world… Would the tears be real? Would the tributes come from their hearts? Would they miss me? And then I ponder some more Do they know how much I care? Do they know what they mean to me? Do they know how often I pray for them? If they were taken away from this world… Do they know how much I’d weep? Do they know how much that would hurt me? Do they know how much I’d miss them? By Nten Mpama
THE WRITER’S FRUSTRATION
I’m restless… I want to write! I pick up my pen,I pick up my paper But there are no words! Everything is in disarray. Where have the words flown to? Why can’t I write? What’s happening to me? I’m losing it! Nothing seems to be working No muse is effective Everything is muddled up in my head It’s like this: I scream, I write a little I scream some more and then I tear up the paper Arghh!! It’s exhausting! I’m exhausted!! By Nten Mpama
“I KNOW Boys(SELF LOVE)”
I know boys who are trying to blend into the social norm Like squeezing to fit into their skinny jeans I know boys who are low self esteemed,less dignity and alcoholically obsessed I know boys that ponder if they’re handsome and six packed enough to suit in I know boys who are fleeing arrows fro. the bows of their skin Playing sports with grim;it’s never easy to accept that our bodies are defective and faultful But when do we draw the line? When the ink hits our skin Isn’t it the same thing as dying Because we’re so obsessed with fashion and style Some men just have more guts than others The funny thing is men like us don’t slay Belts below the waist,still wanting to be macho at the morgue Still proceeding to ink in tattoos Still praying that the mortician finds us sultry and appealing We might as…
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
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…
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
Dear Lecturer
Dear lecturer This is a message from a wounded heart Whose white walls have been stained by the black paints of your actions Whose tear bleeding heart you squeezed the very day you trespassed the gates of my skin You ventured into my paradise of pleasure I was insecure As I let the quest for an A grade degrade my status from glorious to sinful Here i lay A bare black baked body which you boldly not only defiled but devoured I watered thy money bags with streams of fresh new coins but i guess that wasn’t enough The 30pieces of silver that lieth beneath my gene was that which your Judas eyes longed for With every kiss on the nape of my neck An alert that my worth was about to be debited by an unworthy customer A confirmation that my apple fruit was about to be tasted by…
Life Behind the Pen
Sometimes i get afraid of being called a poet Because i feel am way below standard I feel my words are yet literally sterilized enough to fit into the category of poetry Sometimes the pen feels so heavy like a Weightlift Paper seems hard like template and ink redundant to spill out I google for words and inspiration from the poetic world but then i remember my literal subscription of consistency is expired Sometimes i write in pages and i end up trashing them because i know i could better The weather sometimes becomes a determinant for a flawless or flawed piece Being a word smith stimulates the brain to a 24hrs in action How they term me mad a moment they see a pen glued to the tip of my ears They say am synonymous to a carpenter How am always lost fidgeting my phone once a line drops…
There’s Got to Be More
We are tired of the status quo There has got to be more to life than Us Us Us School School School Work Work Work There has got to be more to life than our eyes can meet We are tired of contemplating what People would Say Say Say We would rather think of what God God God Has to say And do what’s Right Right Right Life is too big to be all and only about our selfish interests.