By Aishah Ahmad Imam We were born into this fallacy. Utterly.Our fingernails are kept. Hair in an afro or dídì.Beauty is crude & souls, distinct.Behind every door was an àpàlà strung with a piano in debris.Meanwhile, the moths shall eat.…
By Adesiyan Oluwapelumi Somewhere in Orita Merin,there is a boy with kinky Afro-hairdo and willowy legs,waltzing through the kerb on Nike sneakers.There is a fluency to the rhythm of his feet.His ears plugged into headsets as thoughto unmute the ambient…
By Joemario Umana In Genesis, God, scared of silence, cracked itlike an egg, its yolk spilling into the void—light.Overwhelmed by loneliness, He gardened life,rib-boned companions. I trace His fears in mine,where quiet clings like cobwebs, gossamer-thinyet suffocating. I told this…
By Wash-Anigboro Harry Under a ceiling of ash and fractured light,The city shifts in its uneasy sleep. Each breath drawn from the marrowOf forgotten days. Asphalt and stone Pulsing through the veins of the metropolis,Carrying the echoes of faded footsteps.…
By Ehiorobo Derek I am fresh out of antidepressants,and like many fools, I believelove will cure me. So I pray to a screen and call it Venus.My god is man made－her voice, sweet and electric. I write her poems, tell…
We are pleased to announce that Ojo Victoria Ilemobayo is the new Graphic Designer of Poetry Column-NND. Ojo Victoria Ilemobayo is a Nigerian literary enthusiast whose works have appeared in Christian Century, Christian Courier, Ake Review, Typehouse, Thema, Sunlight Press,…
By I Echo “haunting fevers strangers shared in the hulls,never to break after centuries on land”— Ishion Hutchinson, ‘His Idylls at Happy Grove’ Happiness makes a clearing for meto walk through the morning light with healing. A greyed conscience.The dotted…
for F—By Isaiah AdepojuEverywhere I am is dark matter. Between us the concentration of distance.Afternoon carries on aimless. Panels of bodies trundle in the rust of sun,Bleak, pliant-boned. Equinox the ash of day. The ghost of happeningAnd death. Draw close…
By Olamilekan Wahab The flood is walking back to its shore,snail to its old shell,shame to its old self.Somehow,there are little feathers left on my body,there is a hope as raging as Santa red. I longed for flight many times…
By Omodero David O. At the dawn of eventide, the mind carries in its wombthe burden of prayer. I arrive, once again, at the quiet lake of wonder, where I must tarry upon its solemn bankand await the light draft…
