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My child
I sat and I watched a couple talking
They spoke as strangers should
I tried to pick out their words
But they came out as nothing could
I looked up and saw the sky
Looked like a white blanket
about to be rolled away
If only I thought as a man
but I am just a girl
A deaf little girl
-By Job Zigu
The drunkard
He pissed his way in
Screening the air with abuse
Unflattering words from his tongue
He swore
He staggered his way in
To an empty house
Terror greeted him at its doorway
Violence encircled him
Dark barren walls scrutinise him
Sins multiplied from the past
He poured
He crushed his way in
Smashing the home with assault
Abusing the air with alcoholic vigour
In his stenchy mood
Mighty blows from his fist he sent
To innocent destiny
Flesh to flesh
Blood to blood
He tore
-By Alfred Faiteli
The frangipani
A faded photograph
I found the other day
Somehow hid
When the past I threw away
I strain my eyes
I see his smile
Unbuttoned shirt
blue, white stripes
To his left
a frangipani tree
Chopped, the week he left
He'd planted it, you see
The photograph lands
In the box of things to burn
I find an old diary
In its pages
pressed frangipani
-By Jay Imali
The biography
Mysterious man, with secrets untold
Carefully and gently, his life I unfold
The scars in his heart, he hid so well
Unspoken pain, he alone could tell
With unsure feet, I retraced his past
Treading cautiously upon sacred paths
With quivering hand, I wrote his life
I relived his memories. The glory, the strife
With unbridled jealousy, I penned passionate words
Of lovers he remembered, I now struggle to forget
Emotional turmoil through the ages
His life, his legacy, written in my pages
He spoke, I wrote. The subject, defined
He paused, I waited. The writer, refined
With deep admiration, wrote I the final chapter
Blurred, the line between writer and character
Read between the lines. A story like none
The writer, the subject. Two, yet one
-By Manayo Bagodu
 
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