AK KONCEPTS

  2020 Ain't no crystal stair It entails thorns and splinters  Which exhibits the anger  That dwells in a man Submerged in a sea of insecurities Strangled by shrewd little minds Stabbed while on furlough  A withered flower fading away It's denizens were left to float In the pool of their own tears Like a gravestone without  An epitaph As we step into a new year We pray songs of victory blare Like sounds of chains dropping  Off a slave ZeeAslam

 Oga Panel Beater Twale baba o, oga panel beater I be hear say ur hand de transport pipu go hospita Even as e be say engineering na ur discipline U get one kain talent for face-disfiguring Oga panel I be even hear say u be painta Say with blood,u fit paint woman face wella Say like soaked garri U fit increase fat for person bodi <script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-9394274132319072" crossorigin="anonymous"></script> <ins class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-format="fluid" data-ad-layout-key="-ew-1c-3l-g+lo" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9394274132319072" data-ad-slot="1731218212"></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> Oga Panel I be hear say u de box pass Bash Ali Martial art and every fighting skills na all u sabi Say where u de dem no...

 A torrential rain outside upscale east side bar keeping us inside where umbrellas in our drinks mock us afraid to get wet. Facile nothings said rejuvenated movie cliches till we’re drunk enough  to transpose what we hate with each new kiss. Tactical cuts both sides self inflict I just ask that she leave no marks. As we leave the bar  in a blur we find her house. “We’re alone one with the universe “ she sighs. We’re too drunk for anything to work it doesn’t. So we smoke cigarettes filterless and dry as our few jokes. While outside the rain lies as always it’s cures all thirst. Rp Verlaine lives and writes in New York City.  He has an MFA in creative writing from City College.  He taught in New York Public schools for many years.  Retired from teaching, he continues to write and do photography in New York. He had a volume of poetry- Damaged by Dames & Drinking published in 2017 and another – Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers in 2018. A set of th...

 I saw a rat scuttle under a paving stone In front of 7-11. He was slithy and grey. The squirrel lives in the open, airborne A trapeze artist skittering on a telephone wire Into dark leaves. The rat lives underground amid Filth and muck, feces and waterworks. He is A creature of the demon-world. We hate him for that For living in the lower circles. I see Roadkill, soi kill, sun-whitened, flattened husks of frogs And rats like shadow forms of the atomized in Hiroshima.  <script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-9394274132319072" crossorigin="anonymous"></script> <ins class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-format="fluid" data-ad-layout-key="-ew-1c-3l-g+lo" data-ad-client="ca-pub-9394274132319072" data-ad-slot="1731218212"></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).pus...

  (For Late Joseph Yohanna) The heart of a broken boy  Is now woefully sagging again And Mama’s old rue breasts  Thirst sour melancholy again. Our hearts are heavy; tough luck,  Distress are now wholeheartedly laughing  At us, for a gloomy morning breeze  Has dawn its dawning on us again. I sat legs crossed with folded hands On Mama’s old raffia mat beside mama Sucked in distress, grieving, weeping,  Staring at the fine, lovely picture of the fresh pumpkin. I sat there with my left skinny hand  Waging my bony jaw, tears dropping, Mourning the lost of the fresh pumpkin  In our sag broken homestead. Perhaps, I should mourn no more For the fresh uprooted pumpkin  Is up there joyfully dining with the peace  Of heaven while we mourn down here. Daniel Singfuri Yohanna is a young prolific writer residing in Ahoada East, Rivers State, Nigeria. He is currently serving there as a Corp Member. His works have appeared in numerous magazines, and...

  My face is always deadpan You cannot know the half of what I go through The emotions ravaging my heart The thoughts fighting in my head Fighting for expression Longing for release My face must be deadpan I cannot express the hurt inside I’ll be labelled weak ,you see I am a full blooded African woman I cannot, must not be anything but strong I’ll be cautioned ‘ To control myself!’ I must keep up with this dead pan mask For your good and mine I observe all societal niceties I smile when appropriate And frown when needed I cannot allow people to hear The very loud noises in my head I must be deadpan I must be strong The pressure threatening to submerge me Must be submerged by me No one must see it No one must know it It appears my life is great It appears I have it all But,I know I’m loosing my marbles I am going crazy But I must keep pretending I must keep being dead pan Solape Adetutu Adeyemi is a creative writer, blogger(  lifewithtutu.blogspot.com ) and poet. She has publi...

  The child toddles off alone  down the cobbled twilight lane  while his sister starts to moan  at the blackening window pane. Mother’d said, “You must stay here while I find bread and wood.” The children shivered there in fear until he got too hungry to be good. Mike L. Nichols is a graduate of Idaho State University and a recipient of the Ford Swetnam Poetry Prize. He lives and writes in Eastern Idaho. Look for his poetry in Rogue Agent, Tattoo Highway, Ink&Nebula, Plainsongs Magazine, and elsewhere. Find more at deadgirldancing.net    

  At first it was a tiny thought, Gradually it becomes a tiny dot, Layers upon layers of cotton stretched on each other, Woven in fractions for strength, A representation of culture, Beautiful in the past, present and future, Various patterns adorn it's finished surface, The Egba's pride in their Adire, The Ghanians share the beauty of Kente, What African doesn't value the Ankara, A tale of might and discovery, A representing conquest and bravery, No king as regal as an African in Ankara, Each colour and print with a hidden message, Echoing voices of our ancestors in their thousands, "You are strong and brave", they say, "We surround you in beauty and strength", they chanted, "None is like you our regal one", they bless. Salam Adejoke is a Nigerian Writer, Architect and Poet who loves nature, landscape and interior design. When she's not busy playing Scrabble or trying DIY's, she's painting for fun. She can be reached via Facebook @...

  The thunderbolt of your love strikes my heart, lighting the joy of my world. Look at my eyes with unwavering love, let me sing a love song for you.  The song adorably orchestrated from my heart. Let me sink in the ocean of your love  as fragrance of your body  enslaves my straddle heart. My soul is caged in the boulevards of your love.  I am a sailor in your love, lost in Bermuda Triangle. Save me from death. I am destitute,  starving for an apartment in your heart. Lock me in the envelope of your life, keep me at the axis of your love, and let my love guard your life. I want to be the blood in your veins.  Let me dwell in your soul, reincarnating constant happiness. Aliyu Idris is an entrepreneur, poet,reader,footballer,writer, aspiring linguist, literary enthusiast from Jimeta Yola North Local Government, Adamawa State, Nigeria. He holds NCE from Federal College of Education Yola studied Education and English Language (Double Major), and is a curre...

  UPWRITE NIGERIA (UPWRITE MAGAZINE) CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS UPWRITE Nigeria is calling for volunteers that can work with our existing team in the following departments READERS EDITORS PR CORRESPONDENT  Interested persons should send in their Resume/application to  our mail in a word document with the subject VOLUNTEER (position volunteering for) Application closes 23rd December, 2020 . For more details, contact us:  WhatsApp Twitter Instagram   Facebook

It is  common knowledge that the worldview of a particular group goes to determine the behavioral patterns of any social group. Worldview suggests how people perceive and explain their cosmology. If this is any definition to go by, one would then be committing an error to prejudge the culture of a group of people by the standards of a different cultural group. This, in no small measure,  explains the misconceptions and rift among cultural groups within a multicultural environment as Nigeria.  A critical pointification here, will define a phenomenon that has captured my attention recently : The concept of looking one in the face. The predominant ethnic groups in Nigeria are Yoruba, Igbo and Hausa, but for the sake of what drives my discourse here, my focus will ray on the Yorubas and Igbos. The aforementioned groups occupy different geographical borders; but beyond this, their distinct worldview distances them. One of such worldview, would be the phenomenon of what “lookin...

  She was cheating on him. He had known the first night he heard her whispered voice, he had seen it in her jerky motions, but he had been sceptical, not wanting to read meaning into things. Now though, he was sure. The hour met with the minute and they both kissed 12:00 yet, no sign of her.  There was the car horn. He heard Musa open the gate, and quickly hurried outside, only to stop abruptly on his tracks. His wife was leaning heavily on a young man with a belly nothing like his protruding own. The lean man who was now closer still supporting his wife was saying something, but he couldn't understand what. His gaze was fixed at his hopelessly drunk wife. In all their 23 years of marriage, it was the first time seeing her in such a state. He didn't know what to make of it. His wife now drank to stupor, kept late nights and cheated with boys that could be their son.  When the boy pushed past him to get into his house, his feet moved on their own accord. He stopped the boy...

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 ...

  Lost in the wind is a short story that hover around the lost of lust, pain, confusion and ... Why not read to find out more? The author  Auta Kingsley Dembo  has painted a masterpiece with this book. You just have to have a read. Download  a copy and have a nice read.