Named after the late Publisher of Nigerian NewsDirect, Dr Samuel Folorunsho Ibiyemi, the Folorunsho Editor’s Poetry Prize follows in the tradition of upholding and supporting poetry in Nigeria through its Poetry Column. Only poets published in the Poetry Column in the year under consideration are…
By Michael Okafor I promise you this poem won’t have any laughter.I have squandered all the joy inside me. I am tiredof carrying myself. Most days I pretend to be dead.Nobody knows where this poem ends—this poemthinks it’ll end happily.…
By Flourish Joshua Sneak the amens out of the cathedral, I wantto make love to them for my supplications. The goal, as it should be, is to outwit the wilt,smear joy on the walls of my room, necklace my laughter.…
By Káyọ̀dé The foggy morning splitsmy lower lip, blistersthe flesh that refuses to submit to its whiteness. I slip outof the embrace of my mother’s Ankara—and no blanket warmth rivals its old snug fragrance.I am twenty rivers and hectaresof forests…
By Arikewusola Abdul Awal It begins with love: the flame of misery,wanting to be let loose from a kiss— brown eagerness mistakes a landmine foran orchard and runs into a dance of explosion. Somewhere, a life reachesIts climax in flames.…
By Marvellous Mmesomachi Igwe Bone-white night. Dead world. All about me, a shimmering river of silver, knife-lit lake of quiet. I have opened my eyes into an inferno of colour. Caribbean sky. Broad leaves and their lemon gaze. Of the…
By Aliyu Umar Muhammad The poem can start with him walking backwards into a roomHe takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life— Warsan Shire Little thing,I know how deathgrows in you.I know how life…
By Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi The whole house, like a body, fenced hot with fleshed clothes that refuse to dry.This, itself, is war, the beginning of the end,the derivation of warmth—like the feeling after a burnraged by a fire of ourselves.…
By Isaiah Adepoju Every evening wind-intangible,feral shadows burst open the wallsof the city like hand ploughing dead grass.The hard, inarticulate things memory-familiar, loyal to a fault— prise the city’sboughs and sunders, its Recyclable God,beat against morning & the innocence of…
By Joshua Effiong while the night was still young,i called the stars to bear witness to the distillation of my desires.& the wind to wash away the debris that remained. i’ve become too old forthe body i possess. even my…
