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Hey babe, Where are you? I’m sitting on the moon Please cut me some slice of the sky, I’m so tired, I can’t come up this hour. The sky is cold; you need a hot meal. Oh, please make me one. You need to turn on the stove for me to cook. But I’m so tired. You don’t seem hungry. Do you? Burr… Okay. How do I do that? Start from the lobes of my...

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The Digital Shrine: A Poem The digital shrine has an altar where the worshipping and slaughtering of humans take turns. It is sacred today and bloody tomorrow as humans are reverenced today and blotted out the next. Like a cow’s plight, when you reach the maturity of mistakes, the ardent worshippers will ardently draw up their swords to slaughter at a lick. When you pick salt over sugar against their law, you are either hanged...

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A Flicker of Hope (The Ninth Month Reminder) When the roof of your expectation is covered in the emptiness of withered dreams fallen from your years of labour instead of the thuddings of the ripened fruit; When you thought green leaves meant big fruits only to find budding dreams breaking from the enduring branch of actualisation to meet death on the ground; When dry woods remind you of a dry nation soon to be burnt down together...

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  People whose placement in seats spells out s.e.r.v.i.c.e not subjugation; hose understanding of positions lies in the country’s motto: unity and faith, peace and progress, where unity beats instigation of violence and stir faith in her citizens, resulting in the wholeness that brings progress. People who uproot the weed of greed when saddled with the responsibility of multiplicity and distribution of the nation’s wealth. People who carry on their lips, words of inclusion, fairness...

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It was another headache-exuding gathering of some casual political analysts. My sighing and yawning meant nothing. My dad was invested in the ongoing conversation with his friends. The other day, they were in our house. Two neighbours came knocking because they thought there was a fight. “No, they are just discussing,” I smiled at their curiosity. This time, my dad and I were coming back from his monthly checkup at the hospital. He received a...

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(Dedicated to all men who face the daily struggle of emotional marginalization in the society) Emotional waves welling up in his loins; the torrent so intense, it chokes. He needed safety and refuge; he was told to man up. Wounds and bleeds hidden in the chambers of his heart; blood of pain dripping down his chest to settle under the table of his belly, the DSS and FBIs cannot apprehend the culprit, 911 becomes a...

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The West African Pilot Features   By Favour Chiagozie Ebubechukwu, Staff Reporter & Features Writer   Seated on a wooden chair, there in my house, an evening came by to keep me company. She looked simple but I noticed she had some escorts. They were three in number: a rumbling cloud looking like some fairly used newspaper, a whistling and roaming breeze, and a gang of some chattering trees. They had to wait outside because my...

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AWKA — To mark the 40th anniversary of the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA) which Africa’s greatest raconteur and novelist founded at the University of Nigeria at Nsukka, the Anambra State Government has endowed a one-million naira (N1 million) worth Chinua Achebe Prize for Nigerian Writing. The Prize is to be administered by ANA founded in 1981. The state Commissioner for Information and Public Enlightenment, C. Don Adinuba, made the endowment known in Awka, the...

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The Hill We Climb By Amanda Gorman, January 20, 2021 on the occasion of President Joseph R. Biden’s Inauguration. When day comes we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade? The loss we carry, a sea we must wade We’ve braved the belly of the beast We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace And the norms and notions of what just is Isn’t always just-ice And yet the dawn is ours...

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My love, may I ask this pandemic to return to its abode with the thorns of unwelcome gift–spiked red-eyed bouquet of dreads to caress our land. This visitor shouldn’t impose his will on the holder of deeds, stroking the hair of the young, leaving the old panting until their last breath. Maybe you’ll remember — when this is all gone and forgotten, who slipped out from the darkness of night to find your face alone....

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