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Waves

There was chaos.  All around the boy was chaos. But it was a welcomed chaos. Because now, they were no longer captives.  The ship was rocked by the waves of the turbulent waters and the screams of the captors. Here and there, small fires were burning under

THE PORTRAIT OF A LANDSCAPE

This is a portrait without an easel, a painting without a canvas, floating freely in the seat of memory, unfettered by the constraints of reality. It is emblazoned in my mind, a haunting creation of an artist’s craving. It sits in the seat of my consciousness, this portrait

Don't Cry series

Don’t Cry #1 of 17

Where had things gone so wrong? Where was that fork in the road that he had taken a wrong turn on? How did it all come to this? Segun thought about these questions as he drove to the office.

Pen To Paper

Pen to paper, I’ve lost the words  To tell  To say  To describe  This abstract feeling that comes   When I know that I really don’t  Know anything at all;  When I look at beauty and all I see  Is sadness.  When I look at the

My Father’s Children

My Father’s Children  My father’s children were fools,  The spectacle of my village people.  We danced naked under the first rains  Savoring the sweet smell of the cloud’s tears  On the dry parched skin of the village floor.  Our little feet stomped on the muddy

Iska

Darkness used to be cold, but now warmth is all I feel  In this enclosed shell of mine.  Madness used to drive me on, but now calmness is all I feel  I think it’s a sign, I might go, soon.  I was used to asking

No Redemption In Hell

Survival, they say, is the first impulse, the first faculty in this side of hell. This is the picture of a heavily lit labor room, of a boy with moist as his first clothing, of a boy who refused to cry at birth. The watchword: “Survival is

Cast Iron

 “So… you came…” my father said to me.  I shrugged. “They called. I answered,” was my curt reply.  My father—dead father looked at me from his casket, his once ebony skin the colour of faded parchment… no doubt thanks to the cool temperature from the mortuary

Belie

Belie  *sniff* *sniff*  Do you smell that?  *sniiiiiff*  That… that metallic ting in the air. It’s a little coppery, isn’t it?  Oh you smell it now, don’t you? Good.  It’s your handiwork. You did it. You should be proud, you know.  What, you aren’t proud? Oh… you’re actually terrified? Hahaha, you’re kidding