Published in


The Ghost City

chronicling the end of an Era — Sierra Leone’s story


I stood there speechless
calmer and wasting, waiting.
As the cars moved up and down
I could never compare it to the usual when we used to fight
and step on each other — and sometimes insults rained.

I cried inwardly
This city I once knew;
Crowded — packed streets
But now laid in ruin
Impoverished by its own woes.

I raised my head
Right across the street — bars and clubs emptied
Months back, we hardly heard the next music
Today, I could hear them all.

Is this our vote?
Is it our hope for change?
I again listened but no one ever tried to help me
In my silence, I bent my head lower and lower.

We voted in joy!
Now we are in tears
anger and wrath raining
Our voted votes here vetted themselves in doubles
We are now buried in our fancied lot
With new happenings consumed in lost hopes
Our hopes of change melting in solid strikes and riots.

We are swirling; amazingly
Yet we are bursting.
Some vocal voices are heard from distances
Others, blaring in the silence
Fear or no fear, we are all doomed.

We voted to our own regret
It is now our part not to cry but to save us:
run our tears not in drums but in bravery to free ourselves
Not to mourn our loss but to save our future
Now we must act — acting for another change
Cautioned in self bravery, fashioned in carefulness
We are our own solution to the carnage beneath us.



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M Sahr Nouwah- The Hunter’s Grandson

M Sahr Nouwah- The Hunter’s Grandson


Using poetry and storytelling to challenge issues affecting women and children within modern society, focusing on human development and fighting poverty.