AK KONCEPTS

The last time a bird had landed its slimy green stomach processed waste on my head was when I was returning home from a common entrance lesson. I had fallen sick that day, and even after exhausting expensive medication. It was only when I prayed by myself, counting Papa’s wooden rosary that I got healed. Two days after, another bird pooped on my brother. He had died instantly.  That coincidence stuck to my cerebellum, more than a tooth to its gum. So when I was returning from school today to my self-contained apartment, drained with hunger, and bird dropping fell on me, it was with great alacrity I ran to my flat. Hoping it won’t be too late for the beads of grace to save me.  Today, was the first day since the last time it had happened to me that I had not worn the rosary. It was all because of Damilola Gwen, the most beautiful girl in my level. She had said it that she didn’t like boys who wore chains of any sort. I had been eyeing her for so long that I had planned how toda...

Like holocaust, they descend on us. Anarchy grips the world spellbound. Blood and sand our new companion. Children's cries no longer heard. Paths made black by sounding shell. Hell is upon us. No one to protect us. Our friends now our enemies. Our clothes now rags. Our food not good for dogs, yet we eat. Tell me it's not doomsday 'Cause brothers against brothers Home is now resting place for reptiles. Our wounds they lick. Now our bones can be counted. Our successors ravaged by kwashiorkor. All things are falling apart. Our land taken away. Our women they rape. Oh! Why not the sun falls to burn us all? Emeka Etunmu is a postgraduate student of Mass Communication. He once participated in the Nigerian Centenary Quiz competition in 2014, has also, premiered in the stage play "Joy of Professor Abednego Jr" written by Hon. Jerry Alagbaoso in 2018. The poet poems have appeared in several online poetry platforms such as Poemia, Allpoetry, Poemhunter etc. and contributed ...

  when i see rusty keys         i see my father in the middle         of a dilemma he tried to hide forever // trying to escape        from himself with himself as an        accomplice // he forgot he told me stories        of yesteryear when we sat on our disquietude // a lifetime        ago it seems when he snapped his fingers to trap me        into his American Dream.         my father and i—        we are a gasket to humanity but        quick am i to forget        that a word called freedom exists // rusty keys        are a canvas of endurance & my         father is a mastermind of this art. i am so much like my father         but my wiser son calls me a         st...

 I stand at the door of a home That caught the eyes of death. I stand and watch them weep, Over the body of the now deceased. I feel their grief, it mirrors mine. I hear their pleas, it breaks my heart. I look upon their tears and grimace For I was the one who claimed their lost. If only my cold hands could reach, Without collecting yet another soul And bringing more grief to the aggrieved, I would comfort their aching spirits. I watch them instead, sigh a “rest in peace,” Knowing it is a pointless wish, For where the dead go, the Words of the living cannot reach. Gift Esuh is a Nigerian writer who grew up in Lagos, Nigeria where he obtained his basic and secondary school education. He is recent mechanical engineering graduate from the University of Benin and has been writing poetry and short stories since his early teenage years in 2006. He is an avid reader, an ambivert and likes to spend his time trying to understand the world in which he finds himself and this is reflected in h...

  Silence. Gloom. Clashing of cups. Silence Silence seemed the only language mother could speak As we stared at father’s portrait / eyes brewed with tears. No one goes on a journey forgetting home, But what if home has become a den of demons? What if home has served us tragedies / in wooden plates? Silence seemed the only cord / connecting my family members, Maybe silence was the only balm mother needed To soothe the hurt gnashing at her soul. The moon was my mother’s role model, It comes out only at night / just like my mother does At night. Home has become a broken bottle / ebbing out joy Ever since father was murdered in cold blood before our eyes, And our cries for help / became washed into the drain. And now mother’s smiles have become memories. But then, mama in her silence still looks up to the heavens From whence cometh her help. Mama in her silence, still keeps hope alive. Oluwatunmise Esther is a poet and spoken words artiste. She often acts as a compere in literary progr...

They say, the human body is an ocean, A time as this,  I pour my whole self into an empty cup, Not minding how much of me spills on the table of emptiness. I take the form of any shell that holds me. They say, water is colourless A time as this,  I hide my rainbow under a cloudy thought,  To withhold the rain from washing away the memories of friendship. Walls are built against the darts of emotions  which remind us of who we are not, but scared we have become. So, living is to me, a journey of water, of river, of ocean, a journey of unbecoming. Cheta Okam is a Pan African Poet whose thematic  cuts across humanity and existence at large. He views life as Poetry. And this has been his propelling force in the art.   His poetic works are published in some African Anthologies like "Boys Are Not Stones: Country Of Broken Boys II", "Threnody To The Great Son Of Mgborie", amongst others.

  On a tree, I hear jungle drums; speakers of the heart of ancient spirits,silent at the boisterous waves of the West Sea. The innocence of the sea is raped by the barrel of a gun its bank now serve as a burial ground for slaves and the market where women sold garri and beans now turns to a commercial zone of skulls and bones. On the tree, I can see the lappa that kissed the twin milk goddess on my mother's chest exchanged for a string of two cups hung on the shoulder and my Father's goat horn exchanged for a piece of glass. From the top of the tree, I reach out to hold the blue sky for light from the brutal hands of the boisterous waves of the West Sea. Where is the birth of my heritage? Gospel Okoro is currently a student of English and Literary Studies in the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. He is a innate writer of fiction and inspiration work. He seeks to impact the younger generation positively promoting positive changes in his environment. He believes words shape a person ...