Photo Credit: Pinterest.com Obsidian Psalms of the Lost Voice There is a silence into which the world cannot intrude —Rumi darkness, you see, is a lost nuance at night, in deep shadows, you spot ancient edicts, a voice, a lost voice calls out, whirring and faithless, beyond clicking Hades’ gate, but the voice comes no closer, you […]
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Photo Credit: Freepik.com Midnight Is The Carnival Of A Dead Man Until G-boy pleaded with Kpakogi to help him with an urgent task, Kpakogi had been a menial labourer in Bacita. He loaded sacks of grain for traders with his wheelbarrow on market days and earned a living. He also worked as a bricklayer, packing
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Photo Credit: Pexels Tribute for E. The day you chose to shut yourself off like a TV screen fading to black until all that’s left is deafening, cutting off the world’s voice as you watched from a muted distance, they wondered why their concerns, pressed into you, didn’t reach you— didn’t open you like a locked door. They questioned what they missed, like students unfolding their answer sheets to find every mark a mistake. They watched you lie still in that coffin, motionless, like the box that held you, and their thoughts wandered through every pain you must have tucked away, like the hem of the shirt you’re wearing now inside that casket. I am one of them, and I wonder if I still have the right to call myself your friend. I wonder why I was so blind—how I never noticed that even with all the light you gave, like a lantern in the night, you were burning out inside. We only see what we allow ourselves to, I think, because I can’t say you were hiding. That light must have been your call for help, but help only comes when the color turns dark. I recently read a line in a poem that compared the pale stain of a moth’s wing to blood on a murder weapon. Your light, now etched on me, leaves a guilt I cannot erase. Friend, I promise I won’t waste my tears— none of them will bring you back to life. I won’t ask how you are, because I know what your answer would be. I just hope that wherever you are now, you are held in warmth and light,
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Photo Credit: Fineartamerica.com Memories on the Wall The rickety keke bus came to a halt, and the passengers alighted one after the other. I looked out the window, scanning the whole vicinity as I waited for the bus to clear out. Onitsha, the city of my childhood, the ever-bustling city with its everlasting putrid scent.
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No One Wants to Write an Elegy The disposition of the gravelike an openmouth.Cut is the stalkthat might have grown fullystraight. We trampledew-wet grasses finely latticed with day-oldspider webs. No onewants to write an elegy.The cruelty of sweet-smellingearth, the wet thump as it splashesoff the shovels. And already there is nothing left to see. As
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