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When we invited writers for this Issue, submissions of any theme or genre were welcomed, but especially so for works that explore the concept of journeys through the lenses of travels and tours―what it means to travel, to seek out new places. To write a story or a poem or an essay, writes Garth Greenwell, is to make a claim about what we find beautiful, about what moves us, to reveal a vision of the world, which the writers in this Issue have done with their work.
(Downloads - 156)
I’m pleased to say that it felt like home journeying to the birth of this book. Of course home is where the “art” is. This chapbook contains 20 poems scribed from the very core of my heart.
“Dancing With The Tides” sends a message or talks about the need to being in equilibrium with the happenings in the world and not to be too attached to one specifically.
(Downloads - 79)
Abebi
Cries of a baby
Tears of Iya Abebi
Evil some people call life
Isn’t it darkness that brought her to life?
At birth she takes a sweet full
Colostrum it is called
Nigeria, I call Abebi
Iya, I call her forefathers
Abebi did not grow like others
When a father drinks the milk,
of the child
Doesn’t the child’s belly get bigger?
Abebi did not take in
Enough milk while growing,
even though, filled with milk and honey
Abebi is now weaned on garri
Isn’t it funny how everything becomes urgent only when you have little time to do them? Think about it. That last project you stayed up all night to complete, only because you had a deadline to beat the next day. Having just two years to live feels the exact same...
The prophet has just finished tapping their foreheads. They have been slain in the spirit. The one girl confesses to being a lesbian and that the other girl also receiving a similar treatment is her partner. We watch on; nothing runs out of them, no sprites or demons...
Even though it was raining cats and dogs outside, he still heard the knocking on his door. That's how loud and insistent the person was. He tried to take a look at who it was through the peephole but it was too dark to make anything or anyone out. Nobody visited him...
They tossed them out of moving cars And quenched them with ease like cigars, Like water sachets with reckless abandon They cared not to notice or mention Our ideas, our passion and dreams And would not listen to the voice of reason. They did not consider the future...
He gave me an evil look. It was down the road to Suleja; through green and yellow corn fields. The shimmering sun cast her smile upon Zuma rock lighting up those two deep holes. Her shadow looked more beautiful than ever. I was lost in wonder. How blessed it would be...
The Irony of Hope There are many stories untold. Because of the power they hold. These tales are truths suppressed. That it may never free the oppressed. Lies painted beautiful, appeasing like libation. Citizens filled with pain and dereliction. They're left with...
Tell Nonso That We Are Looking For Him Her lips are moving; Her face is wet. The oil lamp is on the table. She can smell smoke in the air. Her hand quakes over the paper, spilling words. Some live, others are impaled by straight lines. There are many lines,...
Love Is The Religion They know love is the Religion. They know love is the ammunition for false affiliation. They despised its acclamation and joyfully embraced abomination. They understood love is an acceleration but they chose to align with affliction. They know...
Nomadic eyes Our skins seemed like sincere apologies of burnt victims A lifetime of not crying Tainted wombs that birthed fatherless royalties Kids who spend their lives searching for homes in isolated streets Deaf to her voice calling them back They are foreign to...
A city’s push towards modernization creates a problem - a backlash on the urban poor who struggle daily to eke out a living. Asmau Baba straddles rather impatiently her fourteen-month old daughter to her back as she stands guard over a large basket of unripe plantain...
