My darkest moments are those leading to my success,a hesitation where I question – do I deserve this?where my ambition drains like a time lapse in reverseand I set out to seek a great perhaps through verse. Notes tuck themselves back into books,passages fold themselves into memoriesmy tongue reabsorbs every spoken wordwhich precipitates into a…
The Express Song
Broadcast live on your screens Away from tea gas Inhaled on our behalf By Journalists and citizens, Professors clamour Claiming deprived salaries . On our screens we view Fist fights on Parliament Floors And we ask Will our Democracy Grow? We ought to know This is not a permanent flaw When words flow We Only…
Looking Forward
Hanging on small dreams the year folds itself in the tired sunset like a mimosa leaf It murmurs and screams new names old promises lies retold at this same place where songs are set on the loose in unplumbed laughter and tears we lay wreaths of frustration with no other option but to see hope…
My son Nok
You turn your head away‘he is my son,’ I say‘he was taken out of my grip’, I sayHe learnt how to shoot with a gun. He shot from village to villageenemies we all becamelapena leaves couldn’t hide uswe were handed blankets, beans and poshointernally displaced we became. Then I heard he was dead.‘he is my…
Effie Nkrumah “Benumah”
Her name is Effie Nkrumah but she is better known simply as Benumah, her pen name. She is a multifaceted artist – she is a writer, a poet, an actress and a director – and works in the Academia. Benumah tells AfroWomenPoetry that she started consciously writing in 2011: “I needed a way to get…
I Don’t Ever Want To Get Married
– I don’t ever wanna get married. Waking up every morning and seeing mama’s face being painted with high resonant slaps from dad’s palms hurt my soul. He’d wrap his hands around her neck in pursuit to take her life ; heaven knows he beat the hell out of her. – My dad doesn’t eat…
Forget (Arua) Remember (Pakwac)
Forget how the rolling hills stopped rolling and began unfolding into flatlands. You have left the badlands. Forget how the sky opened and left behind skyscrapers and scraped knees bleeding into pavement and how blood paved your way into estrangement. Your scraped skin already belonged to the streets and the wounds flowering on your body…
But How Can I Be Me?
I am not who I want to be The only person in my way is me The lives of the ‘amour propre’ I see But how can I be me? I don’t want to die an arm candy I really want to be happy Happiness without being sappy But how can I be me? But…
Mother’s Touch
In the village compound which was cleanly swept and tidy, a compound not easily accessible by road, a group of old women sat huddled together. Sticks and pipes jutted out of their mouths which occasionally moved in unison. A sigh here and a look to the sky there. Some sat with their chins in their…
Unmarried
Mama says I atemy husbands.Seasoned themwith my saltyattitude andcooked them ina black pot onthe night of thewaning moon. She claims thatmy saggy beastsare an attestationto my disgraceas a womanand my mortarisn’t fit forpounding groundnuts. My body is afictional tale, sheboldly says.I’m not fit tolay on the groundthat holds thesemen of ourancestors.My complaintsunder the sunare equivalent…