to cleave a cicada
By Emmanuel Mgbabor you pull each nylon wing as you would unhinge a star from the sky’s dress. & for the first time, you watch a thing discolour in your palm. & i love you for this bravery, for the…
poetry column-nnd
Nostos
By Muhammed Olowonjoyin in the end, we’re all constructs of things that couldn’t kill us. and what we are left with when their knives fail are fears to pillage our chests on days when we watch the disasters our dreams…
Lethargy
By Adesiyan Oluwapelumi I am sick of being okay. Term it my ingratitude. I confess, grace is the sharpest item I have ever touched. Go ahead, call me peeled skin, euphemise my sorrow. Say to my face, mercy tutors the…
Nightfall as a Portrait of Life
By Olalekan Daniel Kehinde Dusk floods my eyes with life, plants me in a zephyr, as nightingales parcel out songs mango leaves trip onto the dancefloor for. The shadow of a cat, cold contours run after the rats scouting for…
What I remember of my country
By Adamu Yahuza Abdullahi I don’t know how not to nurture silence. Every time I write, I am reminded that my country is a broken branch of an olive tree that hangs in the ruin of the wind. Today, the…
The Dead Way of Seeing Things
By Chinecherem Enujioke On this beach, there is no one. The footprints say too much. About the past. Things that remain unsaid but heard. Voices reaching to join the hallelujah from the church atop the hill. I raise the sand…
Anatomy of Dirge
By Osieka Osinimu Alao A chancel of songs looped in reverse is a pointer at damnation. Who keeps stealing the crucifix, cremated verses settling as ash upon a tapestry of stray tongues? At least if we are going to die,…
Self-Portrait as a Poem Forgotten in my Father’s Breast Pocket
By Okoronkwo Chisom My grandfather told my father that he could be anything he wanted, so he chiseled his body to look like rain. He fell in droplets into a tank of an abstract noun — a name that lacks…
Rainstorm in Lafenwa
By Saheed Sunday there are different voices at the centre of what holds láfeńwá up. the first time we held our heads over the demarcation between this home and the rest of the city, we witnessed faith crawling into versions…
Cenotaph
By Bayo Aderoju Something about wanting to be the head of a headless mob like the young activist who has never read Jeyifo, who said: Frantz Fanon is a wretched name. Some are preaching positive asphyxiation of some of the…