1.
I’ve heard that there’s power in the spoken word but there’s longevity in the written word. As such, allow me to bare my soul in this way. It’s been nine days since I left Blues, two months since that incident. With each passing day, I miss you more and…
The rush of instant euphoria pumping through your veins like a flame being thrown into a tunnel laced with gasoline is probably what makes drugs so addictive. The flame of euphoria pumps through every vein of your being, declaring itself superior to any pain you might feel including that of…
Started as breast milk with lullaby
Source cuddled me to sleep when I could hardly
Containing so many minerals like a valley
Filling me, leaving protruding my little belly
Graduating from milk in six months, seemed too early
Now it’s funny but then I hated it badly
Ingesting flakes soaked in artificial…
“Hold on just a little bit longer now…” she repeated after the pastor, her eyes a piercing dart, her grip tough as steel.
Every church has a drama queen. At least one. The drama unit, choir, ushering/protocol or the general congregation, it may be hard to predict as they could…
(This poem is about me as a person trying to redeem myself from the past and restore the vulnerability I’ve left by my late father)
“It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not fail you or forsake you. …
I sat alone, awaiting my verdict. I did not think it would just be me sitting in there, it takes two to tango I thought — perhaps not in this case. I looked around his office, there wasn’t the usual picture frame of the perfect family, or the award for…
We have spent ages of sweat and sores,
exhausted our coins and songs
at rituals and durbars of hopes.
Yet we are stuck on this sad fruition.
We have visited the doorposts of our ancestors
to burn our last fragrances and orisons,
yet our hopes are those tattered kites…
When my mother was pregnant with my nwanne nwanyị nke okenye-Older sister. She was told by her prophet that she was carrying a male child. My parents were thrilled! You see, they had been longing for a male child. A male child would cement my Father’s manhood, His name would…
There’s a popular rhetorical question which asks which one item you’d rescue from your burning home.
My choice would be an autographed and dated A4-framed invitation to attend the 75th birthday of Nelson Mandela. It hangs above my fireplace, alongside sundry bits of Africana and mementoes of exotic lands visited…
Two poems from Ugandan Benedict Hangiriza is a writer from Uganda
The back foreboded the cane.
Wood now man,
man now trunk.
Raw incarnation,
sore trip of the will to
reside in new craniums;
hear a daily knock of memory.
A contraption. …
