*When We Go Home*

John F. Buoye 2017

WHEN WE GO HOME
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Miles of dust in the ears
Cornet’s unleashed dogs pursues the hound’s soul
To the home of the aged and forgotten
Engines, tyres and smoke
All dancing to the journey’s rhythm:
On my way home
The battering sound of incessant bátà
Bleeds the heart of all city blood
Pure as a dove’s gall he shall be After the rites of promise rekindling
Have again been passed.

Eyes brighter than the noon’s sun
Lips in a hurry to bless
Ecstatic arms to the hug
The bastard city child was welcome home
As though his father
Had taken his mother wife.

HEAVENS TOUCHED

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HEAVENS TOUCHED… by John Buoye 

At the midnight’s toll

The sixth priest pressed through the curious circle

Of men, women, children and the unborn

With heavy screams of spiritual lips

He stormed ancestral heavens

Forcing them all down

Butt-naked, towel loosely hung

Our fathers and mothers came down

 

Two nights ago

The owls did not stare

The nightingale chewed its song

The prince was murdered

And the king hung himself

After gutting fire on all he had

Child and blessings alike.

Women’s tears flowed as rivers

Wives became endless rivers themselves.

 

The drums have burst forth

With powerful gin for the ancestral souls

 

Our gifts of yams and oil

Should with loud voices cry

Out of your fat bellies.

Answer us now!

 

OH MOTHER AFRICA

#akinenvisions Oh Mother Africa

akinenvisions

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Oh Mother Africa
You left us with the question why?
Why did you turn deaf ears to our
over kicking heart beats?
Why did you leave us with a curse,
telling us it’s a blessing?
Why can’t you see your children
swimming to the deep hollows of
pain and suffering?
Oh why did you make us feel, we are still cautious of our
movement?.
oh My Africa!………..
We are sinking, thinking we are
diving towards the deceitful shinning
fossils in the deep hollow.

Oh Mother Africa!
are we suffering of your sins?
Your sin of adultery.
The adulterous act you had with
the cunny white gorgeous stranger.
What did you tell him about us?
Lies about us being slaves and worthless?!
Why did you batter with your crown?
You wanted a mirror to view
Your beauty.
But you had a diamond to project
your greatness.
Oh see your mascot of…

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MURDERHOOD

#murderhood
By Righthand

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Trampled upon
Her lips was painted red,
No lipstick can be this thick!
She wants freedom.

He seized her by the neck
Her sharpness is but a tool
Her will is tramped upon, freely.

She bathes in the sea of his ruthlessness and anger
His will her deed
Her silver Innocence stained with red paint.

She is knife, daughter of life and death
Evidence of his wickedness;
The trampled upon.

MY STORY: A STRAND OF MANY FACES

BY KARIOLA MUSTAPHA

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Isn’t it funny how day after day nothing changes, but when one looks back, everything is different?

Once a baby, later a young boy, now a young man, waiting to be a real man. The bona-fide of my true self.

Capturing a life of over two decades, I believe this article will not suffice, neither will a memoir agree to my details in entirety. Only a part of the thriller can  rightly be known either.

But without leaving you with much ado, I shall acquaint you with my writing story. Succinctly and scholarly!

Privileged to be born third of six children with silver spoons, in the hinterland of Nigeria, Ibadan in the 90s. I had my primary education on the level of being conveyed to school on board, only to later recognise that private school wasn’t a must. I disembarked from the rank of those lucky kids, joined the ‘legegis’ rank; worse local aura. These were moments when I’ve lost the ‘silver spoon’.

In 1996, Christ Church Mapo School II, Elekuro Ibadan then became my new citadel of learning for primary education. Nothing remarkable, save the day I was seriously dealt with for losing all the free text books given to me by the government; which were supposed to be returned, with my entire school bag.

No account of excellence, needless a moment of recognition or award. Sober moments, sober me! But really it may not have made any difference if I had not gone to any primary school in the first place. Come to think of it, I have no real good time memory of cognitive impartation upon me. No, not one!

As the system was then, nothing kept me from promotion. I proceeded from one class to another yet without a clue of what it was. And by 2002 I graduated from the school.

Yes, I remembered I wrote an examination called Common Entrance, and after it ‘sha’ I proceeded to Aperin Boys’ High School, Orita Aperin, Elekuro, Ibadan. Clueless me, I cluelessly spent a term and then proceeded to Boys’ Academy, Lagos Island, Lagos.

The wave of change that surfaced here stemmed from what was clearly a bye-product of my salvation experience.

In 2004, I gave my life to Christ at the Deeper Life Conference Centre, Youth Camp. Then came the long Junior Secondary School Vacation. During that period, I learnt it was un-Christian to cheat in examinations. This fine-tuned the cognitive part of me. I learnt to study and sit examinations without cheating. In the same period I was the vice-President of the YCF (Young Christian Fellowship). Yet somewhat too late to make up, I graduated in 2008 with solid five F9s; solid in the sense that Mathematics and English Language were inclusive.

Making up these o-levels in the subsequent years was a sprawling undulating task, yet without compromise I made it. But not without having to go through the high school for another round of three years, though not formal, then I entered the University of Benin.

Precedent to that time, one of the moments that triggered the ability to write in me was an event I watched on the television 5 years ago. In 2010, I was
a teacher in a primary school in Lagos Island. During one of my free time I paced to one of the classes where we had television. While watching, on the programme, a governor had died and his son who looked about the same age with the primary school students I was teaching that time was asked to come give an opening speech, which the boy did very well. Like Moses captivated by the burning bush, such was the riveting I had owing to that event.

At that time, besides that I was a teacher I couldn’t face a crowd needless writing an essay. But I subsequently decided that my background would not bring my back to the ground. The result of the following decision is herein evident. (I read and found the need to write; I met people at random to give me topics to write about of whom Abdul Oluwaseyi Daniel- a friend who’s now a graduate of OAU was one)

Now coming to the crux of the matter, as a student of Inquisition (Philosophy) at the University of Benin, I wrote my first book (In the realm of intelligence you can achieve the unachievable) though it was not published. Yet many who had access to it acknowledged the intellectual drudgery employed in its claims.

But now, having featured on not less than nine national news papers in Nigeria, published on Opinions and Letters; having written for organisations as-well-as individuals on formal and informal styles, I think considering my almost moribund educational background, my writing story should cause a change in you. You can write if you can read too.

Yet mind you, “there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you” Maya Angelou. And know quite well that time spent in reading is in turn a radical tool for writing. Start with you story, read you life and write. 

When I analyse how me ‘read go’ have beating all odds to feature  among the rank of writers I owe it all to God who caused a change upon salvation. And I’m proud and happy a writer.

Hilarity: my ‘read go’ name. One day, while I was in secondary school, someone asked me at home; if I wanted to tell somebody not to stop reading, how would I do it?”. Lo and behold dull me said ‘read go’ and that gave me that name.

Kariola Mustapha