African Literature and Lifestyle in One Pot
Did I ever tell you Why I love the sunset I see a plethora of colors on you The orange sparkles on your wrinkles The yellow smudge on your teeth It is same as sunrise I have watched it on you Glowing softly on your…
I want to write about grief i I want to write about grief, about my mother who whittles her bones into crackers to feed us on hungry nights, about my father who turned into a wind in Sahara through the fangs of death, about my…
In the end there is a dying old man on a springy bed, a half-full cup of water, a dead clock, a threadbare blanket, a half-finished bowl of akamu, water marks on a pale blue wall, a phone that will not ring. Before this: a…
My mother’s hut is worth speaking of, So perfect and peerless, Many a times and oft, You know not the wave that draws you to her bosom. The grass looks lush and lusty as- I held on to this staff and papa’s green laced bag-…
Dear Ronke, Cuddle me tonight, for last night my mat tried, but not as lovely as yours stroking my back with timid palms. Cradle me today, for I missed your silk palms, caressing my skin gently right under your arms. Sit with me tonight, and…
On the days we clung to our mother’s bosom for the fear of being captured by vultures, you released your child – an heir as a sacrifice on the altar of freedom You walked through the most dreaded path into the vulture’s nest to…
Tell Africa, it’s time to wake up The yellow-skinned boy with hair like the white man’s chalk Is an albino Not an ingredient in the native doctor’s concoction Nkechi who lives down the street Is a beautiful girl with dreams Not just the little person…
Maybe we do not know how to write love poems for our fathers because language repels, holds us by the hand & leads us to the mere sheerness of a violent memory. Maybe a father is never an island but a bridge. Where a bridge…
{In memory of Chadwick Boseman} This rivulet and rivulet of salty drops flowing down my cheeks, blotting the calligraphy of the memories of the nights we sat on greenery at the heart of town under a lone moon, arms entwined like string…
The biology practical class came to an end and I heaved a sigh of relief. My classmates and I spent three hours in the laboratory studying the distribution of stomata in the upper and lower surface of leaves and the rate of respiration in flower…
