Man is Still A Child: Poem by Ohikhuare Isuku

After nearly three scores
of his joyous birth,
the man is still a child,
creeping,
crawling with kibbled limbs
And useless feet.

The lords drain his blood
while their minstrels
beat the drum of their pride,
swaddled with coats
sewn with tanned flesh.

Three scores raise dust
scattered around the sky,
yet childishness
rides the man like a thoroughbred;
urine and feces strew
his tattered clothes,
hollow cheeks bulge out
like calabash,
hair lay useless like hay

Even now,
these monsters have dared
to tear off his flesh
as food
since his blood
is dry like a pond
In the middle of harmattan.  

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Watch Video of Late Lt Col M, Abu-Ali When He Was Promoted Last Year For His Gallantry

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Inconsistency in Nigerian University Admission: If God Does Not Punish Adamu Adamu, Buhari Won't

Mallam Adamu Adamu's tyranny and lack of coordination did not start when he pulled the darkness over admission process in Nigerian Universities. It actually started few months after his appointment as education minister, when he unlawfully sacked thirteen vice-chancellors the previous administration had supervised their appointments. This was one of the revenge missions of the ministry, to obliterate the mechanisms put in place by the previous administration - which has been baptized as corrupt overtly.

I raise no eyebrow against anti-graft war, especially if it is geared towards purging the already putrefying public systems. But this war must be done within the tenet of the constitution of the federal republic of Nigeria. So the sacking of thirteen vice-chancellors by the over zealous minister was unusual if the law is read with precision and clear judgement. Yet, even when many associations such as NANS charged against this injustice - to truncate the internal democracy of the governing councils of these institutions of higher learning - Mallam Adamu Adamu was too proud to renege on his dubious action worthy of hanging. Worst still, there was no formal statement from the presidency condemning the action of the minister; a situation which lent substance to the fact that the presidency was in total harmony with the move by the minister. In fact, the mater plan was drafted by the presidency while the minister was only sent as an executioner.

Armed and bloated with the success of his most recent escapade, Mallam Adamu Adamu has again stabbed tertiary institutions hard. This time around, he did not lay onslaught on thirteen or less, rather, he has taken all of them by surprise. Earlier this year, using JAMB and NUC as his agents, Adamu Adamu abruptly announced the end of Post UTME for Universities in the country. Surprisingly, there was no solid plan in place to substitute for the structure which had already been uprooted.

This action of the Minister has raised doubts about his managerial capability, and even to a large extent his claim to the Accountancy Certificate he prides from Ahmadu Bello University. Had he been punctual in class, he would have been taught a lesson or two which border on the importance of Contingency Plan.

Now with the indecision rocking admission process since the need of fresh students came up - from the firm decision that JAMB would henceforth offer admission based on some ridiculous benchmarks to the shameful fall of that plan - Nigerian Universities have been swaying here and there like a ball on a wavy sea. Some of these institutions (for the sake of their academic calendars)  have even commenced new session despite the fact that fresh year students are no where to be found.

With all this mess stuck around the honorable minister, the presidency is silent again. It is very obvious that he would go free and spotless a second time.

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I Am Not A Poet: Poem by Christian Ovbas Isuku

Though I am not a poet
But is of truth that we are no longer
mother nature's pet 
Hitherto harmless flowers now
turning thorns
Piercing flesh maliciously into
wounds of worms

Under the last shady tree I sit
Contemplating what the young sun
holds far in the east
Or should I just climb up and have
fun along the tree?
Though I am not a poet.

I am blessed philosopher
Because I tap my last strength and power
Seeking answers once met for the
gods
Or am I now a cursed philosopher
with swords
Of bitter truth earthed in arrears?
Of truth with 'malevolent' , sour-cold
taste of vinegar
Lincoln was my legendary icon
Well, I am not a poet.

Like a little brother watching porn
I am beclouded with fear amidst
pleasure
Life sounding hope-reassured horn
What can I say is our fate, after all
these earthly enclosures are burst
open by our last calm breath?
Well, I was a big fan of Einstein
So, I am not a poet.

Now the sun brings darkness
everyday
And the cloud cries down steamy
rain
Our earth now frowns at us through
flower
Or is Isuku becoming cynical?
Though I was Aristotle's grand pet
But certainly not a poet!

Christian Ovbas Isuku is a guest blogger who has since had passion for philosophy and political criticism. He graduated from Ambrose Alli University, Ekpoma, Edo state, Nigeria in 2014. 

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November Smile: Poem by Ohikhuare Isuku

When I saw the crescent moon
Lying on the grayish sky,
It was November smile
Which smeared across
Its tiny face…

Across its golden face
Near the western vale
In the midst of the
Evening breeze.

The stars were distant,
The sky perfectly clear,
The blessings of this dry month
Have embraced the winds -
This quiet air we breathe.

And when next harmattan comes,
Tell its hazy winds,
Yuletide is nigh!

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Africa: Poem by David Diop

POET'S BIOGRAPHY: David Diop [1927-1960 ] was born in Bordeaux, France, Diop is often considered one of the most promising French West African poets. His short life's work often involved his longing for Africa and his empathy for those fighting against the French colonization of the mainland. His work shows a hatred for the oppressors and the aforementioned empathy for the oppressed.

Africa my Africa

Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs

Africa of whom my grandmother sings

On the banks of the distant river

I have never known you

But your blood flows in my veins

Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields

The blood of your sweat

The sweat of your work

The work of your slavery

Africa, tell me Africa

Is this your back that is unbent

This back that never breaks under the weight of humiliation

This back trembling with red scars

And saying no to the whip under the midday sun

But a grave voice answers me

Impetuous child that tree, young and strong

That tree over there

Splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers

That is your Africa springing up anew

springing up patiently, obstinately

Whose fruit bit by bit acquires

The bitter taste of liberty.

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We Have Come Home: Poem by Lenrie Peters

POET'S BIOGRAPHY

Lenrie Peters was born (1st September 1932) Lenrie Leopold Wilfred Peters in Gambia to a Sierra Leonean Creole of West Indian or black American origin and a Gambian Creole mother of Sierra Leonean Creole origins. He schooled in Sierra Leone where he gained his Higher School certificates and then went on to a BSc. from Trinity College, Cambridge. He was awarded a Medical and Surgery diploma from Cambridge in 1959 and then he worked for the BBC on their Africa programmes from 1955 to 1968.
At Cambridge, Peters baptised himself in Pan-Africanist politics and became the president of the African Students’ Union. He also started work on his only novel, The Second Round, which he later published in 1965. Among other medical and professional associations including the Commonwealth Writers Prize Selection Committee 1996 and the Africa Region of the Commonwealth Prize for fiction, judge 1995, he served as the head of the West African Examinations Council from 1985 to 1991.
Peters is considered one of the most original voices of modern African poetry. He is a member of the African founding generation writing in English and has shown extensive pan-Africanism in his three volumes of poetry although his single novel received critique as being more British, accusing of African cultural decline and less African overall. His poetry was mixed with medical terms sometimes and his later works were angrier at the state of Africa than his first volume of poetry.
Peters passed away in 2009.

We Have Come Home
We have come home
From the bloodless wars
With sunken hearts
Our booths full of pride-
From the true massacre of the soul
When we have asked
‘What does it cost
To be loved and left alone’
We have come home
Bringing the pledge
Which is written in rainbow colours
Across the sky-for burial
But is not the time
To lay wreaths
For yesterday’s crimes,
Night threatens
Time dissolves
And there is no acquaintance
With tomorrow
The gurgling drums
Echo the stars
The forest howls
And between the trees
The dark sun appears.
We have come home
When the dawn falters
Singing songs of other lands
The death march
Violating our ears
Knowing all our loves and tears
Determined by the spinning coin
We have come home
To the green foothills
To drink from the cup
Of warm and mellow birdsong
‘To the hot beaches
Where the boats go out to sea
Threshing the ocean’s harvest
And the hovering, plunging
Gliding gulls shower kisses on the waves
We have come home
Where through the lightening flash
And the thundering rain
The famine the drought,
The sudden spirit
Lingers on the road
Supporting the tortured remnants
of the flesh
That spirit which asks no favour
of the world
But to have dignity.

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