BANSI III | ANATOMY OF BOYS, MEN AND OTHERS
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BANSI III | ANATOMY OF BOYS, MEN AND OTHERS
© March 2021
Boys Are Not Stones III ANATOMY OF BOYS, MEN AND OTHERS
ISBN: 978-978-58560-2-6
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the permission of the publisher.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected]
Published in Nigeria by:
Aba, Abia State, Nigeria. Tel: (+234)7064982214 http://poemifypublishers.com/
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ANATOMY OF BOYS, MEN AND OTHERS
Edited By: Jaachi Anyatonwu, Jamiu Ahmed, John Chizoba Vincent, Ebubechukwu Nwagbo & Opia-Enwemuche Maxwell Onyemaechi
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TABLE OF CONTENTS FLAWED GOD: BOYS ARE NOT STONES, A FOREWORD _____ 8 INTRODUCTION: BOYS ARE NOT STONES ANTHOLOGY III __ 11 BECAUSE I AM JOHN CHIZOBA VINCENT ______14 WRONG SIGNALS ______19 BURNING OCEAN ______21 FOR BOYS WHO KNOW THEY ARE ______24 THESE BOYS YOU CALL STONES ARE NOT (A LESSON FOR ALL) ______26 DEATH WAS HERE ______33 I'LL DIE FOR YOU ______34 THE CONFIGURATION OF STAYING AFLOAT ______36 FOR THE BOY CHILD WHO WEARS A RAINBOW FULL OF STORIES ______37 THE WAR WAS MEANT FOR YOU ______39 BECAUSE WE ARE BOYS ______40 WHEN EVIL BECOMES TRADITION ______42 HE IS JUST A BOY ______45 BOYS DON’T CRY ______47 BY BEING HUMAN ______49 THE PLATE BOY ______51
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FOR BOYS ______53 OF BOYS & MEN DREAMING OF NAMES ______54 CATHARSIS ______55 A SEPTEMBER TO REMEMBER ______57 A BOY IS A COUNTRY ______67 A LION NEED NOT DIE ON THE ARMS OF SAMSON ______68 THE BOY ______70 BUTTERFLY BOYS ______72 BUSY BODIES ______75 ON SUCH DAYS ______77 GIRLS' STUFF AND MEN'S THINGS ______83 WE HAVE BEEN BOYS ______85 SHAME ON HER ______87 MAN ______88 GIRLS {GET} TOGETHER IS NOT A BOY'S PARTY ______89 JEZEBELS ______91 NIGHTS THAT DROWN THE SOUL ______92 MAN'S PLIGHT ______93 TO THE BOYS WE PUT IN CAGES ______95 FOR BOYS WHO RETURNED HOME AS BREAKING NEWS ___ 97
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CHANGING THE NARRATIVE; THE SILENCE OF THE BOY CHILD ______101 BOYS ARE NOT STONES ______103 MASCULINITY ______104 FOR BOYS WHO TURNED TO ASHES ______105 FROM BOY TO MAN: THE MAKING ______106 BOYS ARE NOT STONES ______108 WE ARE BODIES IN READINESS TO CHEW BOMBS ______115 SHARDS ______117 WHEN BROKENNESS CLAIMS A BOY ______123 THE WISH FOR FEWER DAYS ______125 WE BURY SADNESS IN OUR SMILES ______132 WHITE LIE ______134 DEAD INSIDE ______135 FOR THE BOY CHILD: I AM BECAUSE YOU ARE ______137 THE PRAYER OF A POOR BOY ______141 EMPOWER THE BOYCHILD ______143 SUNRISE CAME LATE ______151 DEAD MEN / HOW TO LIVE ______153 POEM IN WHICH YOU ARE ______155 THE BOY CRIES ______156
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ECHOES ______159 TIMS ______161 HOW TO BREATHE LIKE A BOY IN A COFFIN ______164 BOYS WHO BURN FROM INSIDE ______172 SELF-PORTRAIT OF A BOY WITH TINY JOYSTICK ______174 I AM THAT WRETCHED SON ______176 A REVIEW OF LAGBAJA BY PERUZZI AND ITS SIGNIFICANCE ON FALSE ACCUSATION AGAINST MEN ______178 FOR BOYS WHOSE EYES ARE OCEAN'S BANK ______183 A GOD FROM THE MIDDLE WORLD ______184 MONSTARNATION ______186 HOW TO NAME A BOY ______187 BOYS ARE NOT STONES ______189 BECOMING MEN ______190 YOU’RE HUMAN ______193 THE OTHER SIDE OF A PAMPERED TALE ______195 HOW TO CREATE A BOY ______196 THE PORTRAIT BOY DARES TO DANCE ______197 FOR BOYS WHO BEG FOR AN OUNCE OF SMILE ______199 BOYS ARE CHAMELEONS OF UNPLEASANT THINGS ______201
OTHER BOOKS BY POEMIFY PUBLISHERS ______204
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FLAWED GOD: BOYS ARE NOT STONES, A FOREWORD
The male child in an African home is as a diamond, an heir - the definition of permanence. And this is where the pressure begins. He is born into idealistic responsibilities thrust on him by a culture that keeps passing on the mythical baton of misery. This cruel cycle is what Anatomy of Boys, Men and Others set out to break. Ironically, the boy child is clay. Expectations mould him. Abuse breaks him. Societal storms discard him. His perceived strength is a weakness — his extravagant ego, his undoing. A boy is a flawed god! He is constantly trying to fit into pigeonholes and illusive casts— trying to become, impress. Sadly, he keeps failing the identity test. He is lost and the noise in his head will not wane. He keeps groping for self but the light keeps eluding. You would probably think of this anthology as a broken record but the curators are dedicated to telling stories the world is not ready to listen to — and they are dogged about it. Aren’t the things we talk about regularly the things we are passionate about, perhaps to the point of obsession?
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Boys Are Not Stones series have become an avenue to speak of the fears, doubts and manias of the male gender—they are open doors to explore the mysteries of their makeup. The boy is a tale of neglect, rejection, abandonment and silence—and this anthology is set to amplify these liabilities, sort through the confusion, the displaced identities and misplaced values. Like Ajibade Abdullahi Adewale says in his essay, the silence of the boy child is a danger to society. And to bolster his point, that the male child is not a symbol of perfection, Jaachi Anyatonwu paints the image of a boy crumbling under the weight of appearances: i know boys who go to the gym, build bodies, but their souls are shards floating in the mercy of winds [Jaachi Anyatonwu, For Boys Who Know They Are
Beneath the bones and muscles that seem to have formed our delineation of maleness is a softness that is rarely talked about. Yes, masculinity is celebrated for strength but a boy feels too. And to quote from one of the poems in the collection, The boy is strong, made of flesh, a body that feels The boy isn’t made of mahogany [Finum Isaac, The Boy]
There is a longing in the boy child, a longing to be loved. A longing that is not satisfied. Thus, he runs back into himself. He
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thinks he’s not normal, he thinks his cravings are weird. He shrinks back into himself—that’s his coping mechanism, his survival strategy. There is a city in my body, one who hasn't sighted a vehicle of love. I grow large with desires & shrink after, at the unrealistic realism of my cravings. [Emmanuel Ojeikhodion, When Brokenness Claims a Body]
However, in embracing and being expressive of his vulnerabilities, the boy child has gradually become less competitive as Enyi Christiana Chijioke notes in her short essay about finding balance, paying equal attention to children of both genders. For me, this propels a thought, disruptive but true—as much as both genders are complementary beings, there will always be a need for one to be strong when the other is down. I will wrap up this brief introduction to this amazing body of work with Christian Odinaka’s idea of achieving balance in nurturing the male child: Show him pictures of war; and a girl.
Jide Badmus Author, Paradox of Little Fires
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INTRODUCTION: BOYS ARE NOT STONES ANTHOLOGY III
Dear Friends and Readers, It’s a privilege to be working with you on a non-profit initiative that is committed to a cause. And that cause at “Boys Are Not Stones Initiative” is you —boys, men and others. We thank you for following us over the years and trusting us with your experiences and stories. We will continue to project them and we invite you as always, to invite others to join us. This is because we believe that responsible boys and men are everybody’s responsibility. Even as their irresponsibility affects us all. I know you have heard that hundreds of boys were kidnapped in Katsina State? Now we are saying "bring back our boys" too, just as we have been saying "bring back our girls". The truth is, everyone needs bringing back and everyone has to help bring back the other. So instead of fight, and build walls between boys, men and others, let us build bridges and hold out supportive hands to one another. It's been three years thus far, but “Boys Are Not Stones Initiative” is far from becoming what we desire it to be. This does not mean
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that we do not appreciate how far we have gone. But we wish we could go further. • We had hoped to work with therapists, sociologists and counsellors who will help with the broken boys, men and others. • We had hoped to publish this anthology in a hard copy form. • We had hoped to take the message and orientation to the streets —to those who cannot access or read this publication. • We had hoped to get individuals and brands to support us. We believe that with your support, we will achieve these and more. Remember, whatever we do for the boys, we do it for men, women, girls and everyone. We do it for ourselves; for humanity. Happy reading! As we read, may our hearts burn within us, and may this burning bring the desired result. We hope to talk about happy boys soon!
Ebubechukwu Bruno Nwagbo For BOYS ARE NOT STONES INITIATIVE
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ANATOMY OF BOYS, MEN AND OTHERS
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BECAUSE I AM JOHN CHIZOBA VINCENT John Chizoba Vincent
Last night, I remembered Chinua Achebe’s words that; as a funeral ram, a man must take whatever beating that comes his way. He must not open his mouth, only the silent tremors of pains down its body must tell of its suffering. What comfort does a dead man derive from the knowledge that his murderers are happy with his death? What comfort?
In May 2015, I was depressed. I lost everything I was, and there was no hope to hold on to. There was no friend to talk to, no brother that could stand, look into my eyes and tell me to be braver than I was. There was no sister to stand between my depressed state and my sanity; I was long gone. Mother was far from me, I could not call her because I thought she would not have any solution to my problems. Father was dead. I was all alone hustling and praying for grace. I could remember that I had called my mother before then, in 2010. I had asked her to sit down beside me, she did. I looked her straight into the eyes and asked her “Why did you give birth to me in this family?”
She looked at me and put her face down. I saw the tears in her eyes fall to the ground and the ground shakes in agony. She groaned inwardly, stood up from her seat and walked into the room. She didn’t say anything to me, she just walked into the room— agonized. Mother never said anything about that question until five years later in 2015 when she called me and said “I had no choice; God decided that you come to my family. Even when
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I decided to stop giving birth, you came. I had no choice but to keep you alive.”
After that call, she didn’t pick my call for the whole day. Later, my brother called and told me that my mother was still angry at me. He asked me why I dared to ask her such a question. I could not explain the reason to him, I could not. This contributed to my depressed state of mind in 2015. I lost my mind trying to find out who I was, trying to lay down the fate of my life into the restitutions of my kind. I counted everything; I counted from the past to the present and from the present to the past and knew I had no strategy to make it from where I was. I decided to take my life.
Now, I have a better reason to smile and make my laughter reverberate all over the world, whenever I want. I have a better reason to let out tears whenever I am hurt or I feel like letting out tears from my eyes. I have what it takes to soar higher than the eagles. I have my destiny perfectly carved in my palms. I have the right to let go and the right to make stay those things I want to let stay in my life. I have the right to stand tall, decree and pass judgment over those things I don’t want to see in my life. I have every right to be who I want to be, not minding what is at stake at the moment. Life has taught me how to push and pushing means I’m not giving up on my quest to become whom I dream of becoming. I have every right to be human; to be forgiven when I err, to be scolded, to be beaten, to be abused, to be a victim of any circumstances. Because we are all human of breast milk from the same bone marrow. It doesn’t matter whether you’re pink, white, brown, black or chocolate, the fact remains that we are all humans.
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Anything can happen to us. Many things can happen to us. We can be broken sometimes, we can be disheartened sometimes, and we can be kind sometimes. We can be weird and wild, but the difference is this —our fates. Some other time, what happens to another person may not happen to us, not because we are not on the same planet with them, but because destinies differ. The fate of each one of us is different. Being John Chizoba Vincent does not make me a perfect being, it doesn’t make me a superhuman. It doesn’t make me a god over others. It doesn’t make me braver than other people. I am just me, trying to represent who I was made to be— me. I am just me trying to love who I was made to love — me. I may fail to live up to what you expect of me, I may fail you in many ways but that does not stop me from being who I was made to be —John Chizoba Vincent.
Banking on my past mistakes to judge my presence might be the fault you will end up creating.
Because I am John Chizoba Vincent does not mean I know better than you. It does not mean I am more handsome than you are. It does not mean resting my arrow on the bow of another. I have my shortcomings. I have been bereaved. I have been hurt by those I call my own. I have seen many things that spread their hands and opened their mouth speedily to swallow me. My instinct keeps me going.
Sometimes I wonder the kind of person I am, but I find no answer to my questions. I question everything: from those nieces who pass me on the way without greeting me, to those with whom I
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wake up on the same bed, who look into my eyes and pass without saying "hi". I question the clock in the room, that being that keeps watching over us. It sees to our going out and to our coming in, it has watched our days of sorrow, tears, laughter, joy, fortunes and misfortunes. It has seen our days of little beginnings and the days we come home with laughter spread all over our faces. We don’t care much about it, but it reminds us how to number our days and make merry when we ought to, without looking behind.
I watch the whirling ceiling fan with questionable looks but it does its job without even minding me. Hell called and I answered. I have been to hell before; it was cold to my heart, to my body, my spirit. Hell is cold, I have been there. I have faced many lions and I have conquered them.
Sometimes I feel like giving up. I feel like dying, but death is so boring, it is worth not giving my life to. Moreover, death became afraid of me the last time we met.
Being John Chizoba Vincent has left scaring scars in my heart that will be there forever, even after I’m gone. I have learnt to be more of myself than another because John Chizoba Vincent has special features than any other created being on earth. No one can be like me and I can’t be like any other person. Because I am John Chizoba Vincent, I have no reason to be intimidated by the vices that may stand against my fate.
John Chizoba Vincent is not a superhuman, I make mistakes like others, I have fears in me, I am bold and not tamed by the carnal
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words of those who can kill the soul but not the body. I live because I am John Chizoba Vincent.
John Chizoba Vincent becomes the names of three people who deliberately see through each other. Sometimes, they are at war with each other and at times, they are the ties that never got broken. They: Them: Us: We represent Boys and their Anatomies, Men and their vulnerabilities, and Humans and their imperfections. Between them are rosy track roads that are rough and tough. They live in a lonely room in Lagos, Nigeria. They have been published widely in online magazines and offline magazines. They are the founder of Philm Republic Pictures and Founder, Boys Are Not Stones Initiative; an organization that upholds the love for the Boy Child.
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WRONG SIGNALS Semilore Kilaso "nawa oh, why you come dey do like woman?" where you come from, a boy is gay if he smiles brightly or posts a picture of himself in the sun with a caption: “sun-kissed, brown for the glow.” so you know not to wear happiness or bright-coloured clothes, lest they think you’re a flower waiting to be plucked. all your life, you have heard reconstructions of sentences shaming you for not being manly. they say it is because you sit with your thin legs crossed and talk in a sultry voice. or perhaps it is because your chin is a phone seeking wi-fi connection in a mall — your beard strands refusing to connect. when people look at you long enough, you know their exact thoughts or their iteration. their radar picks the wrong signals, like the girl who said she cannot date you, because she fears she would crush your frail body if she goes on top & a man like you don’t know how to please a woman. now you know not to touch a woman or look into her eyes because they say: "every man is a potential rapist." you know not to cry or feel. Page 19 of 210
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you know not to do all these things because you’re not a woman. you’re a man. you’re stone.
Semilore Kilaso (she/her) is a Nigerian writer who loves to collect photographs of humans, architecture, wildlife, and landscape. When she is not playing Scrabble or reading books, she is reading lines from architectural drawings. Her works have been featured in Culturalweekly, Entropy Magazine, The Radical Art Review, Nantygreens, Boys Are Not Stone Anthology II and elsewhere. You can reach her on Twitter @ooreola.
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BURNING OCEAN Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan
This life is a canon of pretence for men. I'm not the only one in this, my father's tongue holds a spot beneath it, where pride occupies a big parcel. I rest on his shoulders, to carry the leftovers of the things his head could not carry. He believes that the croaky sounds of a toad at night are not lullabies, so I interpret his snoring at nights as a pathway through which the precipitates of heavy feelings that burn oceans within his eyes are puffed out. I envisage a lot of things about my father, sometimes I travel through his symmetry to see those broken albums he hung on the racks of his heart; the broken parts of his body he shoved beneath his flesh and the memories that print pains in the fonts of the unresolved labyrinth within his lonely places. Masculinity is an exaggerated texture, it looks tough on the exterior, I felt the core and noticed how fragile men can be.
Becoming a man is not a trip with a full stop, it's a confluence of ellipses. Many things about him are not told in full. I noticed how my father left his heart unkempt, I saw how he feigned our worries as his prime concern when his tummy rumbled in the starvation of love and pity. Name yourself after famous rocks till cracks hide inside of your body, till you become unaware of how you grow out of needing pity or mercy. This pretence is not just for us and my father, it extends among the boundaries of men into the hub of boys who will become the men of tomorrow. This pretence and pride are masculinity. It is the heritage of men from society.
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My heart is a hamlet where tourists come to rest when the city becomes too noisy for them. It is a place where travellers ease themselves before continuing their journey. I picture my future as a feast of an arbitrary escapade. Many pilgrims are on their way here, they're coming to see for themselves the way my body turns into a night that folds every burn into its pocket as shadows. I stopped believing in romance, followed the route of healing my wounds through self-love but the act of this healing is even more excruciating than nurturing the wounds. These travellers are, here again, the portal of my heart has thrown itself open. I host burning flames atop the oceans of my body while cloaking my pains behind the shades of masculinity.
Griefs are sealed in parcels, my brother's body sheltered blunt havoc. I don't even think there's still any empty drum left in his eyes where these tears can be collected so that the world won't get to see it and perhaps scold him. Some of the hot tears overflowed the bank of his eyes and got his cheeks burnt, they evaporated before even settling as liquids. His face has turned pale 'cause it has become a rendezvous point between water, fire, memories and feelings. I can't even remember the last time we cried, but I still remember how we vividly hid under the shadows of one rainy night and buried the flames of the oceans in our eyes alongside the memories of the mother we lost at birth.
The foundation of my gender is a hub for untapped grief and worries. The nature of my heart is the perfect metaphor for cloaked pains. I wished the picture of my mother could talk and maybe whisper love to us. Perhaps, my father will last longer here
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with us, if my mother finds a way of convincing us that she's comfortable over there. I looked at my father and saw how the shade of masculinity was encroaching to cover-up his nostalgia, of ‘cause I know he longs for the home in my mother, not only for himself but also for us the children. And I became a bulging breast begging for a chance to enjoy lactation after the death of the baby.
We've been living this way since we were born, our lives were gotten from the exchange with our mother's breath. The same land where our placentas were consigned to the earth, also swallowed the coffin bearing our milk. We became rocks like my father and just like every other day, we are still learning from him how to hide our cracks until we finally break away into something else.
Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan is an emerging writer from Ebonyi state, Nigeria. He’s a penultimate medical laboratory science student who explores medicine in the day and worships literature at night. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in several literary journals; both online and printed. He was the winner of the 2018, FUNAI CREW Literary Contest.
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FOR BOYS WHO KNOW THEY ARE Jaachi Anyatonwu
i know boys who are trying to fit in a bowl of social norms like new wine in a broken glass i know boys who go to the gym, build bodies, but their souls are shards floating in the mercy of winds i know boys who are disaster fitting in futility in a mould of faux tranquillity sipped off beer mugs i know boys who know they are this because they said they are that barely unaware of who they truly are boys whose bodies are home to shattered dreams & cracked walls of rejections boys whose eyes are rivers of salt particles by night, but a sky of diamonds by day brightening up dark corners of others dying in the inside but, i also know boys who are worth more than beer bottles. boys who give the jungle a run for savagery & beat fate to her game boys who stand before broken mirrors & reflect the beauty of a thousand sun
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boys who are worth more than broken artefacts lined up the haunted hall of discarded dreams boys who are worth more than sad tales & moon-lit shadows boys who know they are boys who are worth more than the mistakes of ignorant forebears, & stereotypes of misinformed peers boys who wear dignity like a pendant around their neck & tattoo resilience on their chest boys who are sacred trees with fruits full & ripe & leaves evergreen boys who are self-aware boys who know they’re not alone boys who let no one determine their worth. emotion. passion. Joy
Jaachi Anyatonwu is a poet, editor, and publisher living in the suburbs of Aba. He is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks and collections, and the Editor-In-Chief of Poemify Publishing Inc. Jaachi is passionate about discovering new voices and mentoring emerging poets. He is also a fierce advocate for the boy child and sexually molested.
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THESE BOYS YOU CALL STONES ARE NOT (A LESSON FOR ALL) Shitta Faruq Adémólá
Last year. It was mid-November when everywhere tasted hot. The leaves were dry, counting their steps as they danced to every lyric of the wind's beautiful song - how they sprawled in the air circling like tornados, matching to every rhythm.
Seeds buried into the earth were reluctant to sprout into something beautiful as if they would fall disgraced if they did. The air was ugly and bitter so that each touch on a man's body ached.
Everyone was tired of the situation. Well, who would not get tired of the pains that touch one during the heat? - sweat forming tiny drops on foreheads, the dry lips and sour throat and white specks of dust and long tornados whistling in the air and after my father died, everything looked like I should follow him. Everything captured the image of this arid season.
Perhaps, it meant more than a little to the chaos forming waves in my heart - I didn't know where to place it, but I'm sure it'd find a home. A home I had never known when its foundation would be laid, a home I didn't know, yet, which hands would touch it. But I know it'd find me, or I find it, or we find ourselves. The better side was as if there was a finding.
That day, I was returning from school. 8. Primary 4. Outside the house was filled with the wails of sympathizers: some holding Page 26 of 210
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their hands to the head, some bumping into each other, some falling and standing with limps, some standing by with hands curled on their belly like a sleeping snake, moving their heads in the pace of a snail, making their mouth make emotional sensations. Some are wearing blacks.
That day was when I knew hell is what I had entered, and when I read Ernest Ogunyemi's "my mother died, and I became ______", I already knew losing one of your parents is another dimension of hell, or hell itself declaring its sparkling colour.
I became a tossing. We were four boys. Four bouncing boys who had never known the taste of gall when our father was still the best thing our mouths pronounced. That day, the sun was the jacket under us - and heat. Fire, perhaps.
We began to be distributed like flyers advertising campaign for Election Candidates who would do "everything" they could to gain power. Like Basketballs, we were thrown up and then, down.
Well, we were boys. And in my country, I mean, in my state, I mean, in my society, I mean in my extended family, boys are stones thrown up like pebbles. I mean, they are a brick crouched upon like cheese in a baby's pit-hole mouth, I mean, they are the sands groaning in pain from huge gaits - the poems I would never want to write, and if I do, the screen of my phone would turn an ocean of blood. We have never treated the respects the girls wear. I mean, Aishat was never a tossing, nor Biliki, nor Ameerah, nor Sidi with the fat tribal marks. They were the luxuries of a Yahoo
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boy with his I-Phone. Understand. A Yahoo boy holding his I- Phone would always think he owned the world.
I remembered Mummy Sade. She was the best thing one could say after cruel. She had four kids. Spoilt ones. They made me think of the smell the chicken Ugwu left overnight in his pocket brought - in Adichie's Half of a Yellow Sun. I did think about nausea and Master's nonchalant disapproval. Laughs.
She would burden all house chores on my brother, the oldest of all, making sure he finished them in a little time. I mean: washing a hell of damn fucking clothes that would stand tall like Everest, scrub the tub in the bathroom like they didn't have house help, wash the dishes, wash her husband's Big Daddy because he would take it out soon, do a lot of cleaning in the house - plus the garden and the little drainage outside the compound, plus the larger and largest sitting room that would house more than a hundred guests, plus Shade's room, plus Femi's room, plus Kunle's room, plus Tope's room, plus - ah!
He never went to school. He had stopped since the death of our father while in JSS1. Well, who would sponsor him? Even though there was have the power to, no one would remember, Boys, Are Stones, here.
He would wake up early to wash everything needed for her children to take to school, shine their shoes with polish, and sometimes when there was no light the previous day, he would iron their uniforms, and when Femi would want to defecate, he
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would monitor the cleaning. Life was hard for him. For us. Sometimes, when the children had left for school, he would be the only one at home staring at the old photos of his father and began to see how tears drew circle maps on a particular spot on the thick paper. He would wipe his face and curse death, regretted it ever existed.
At Ebute Metta, I lived with Aunty Josephine. She cooked Pepper soup and sold Beers. And you know, hers was a nocturnal business. Her fiance would come with red-eye and kiss her and cuddle her and do the thing with her in a corner before leaving. It looked like she was high during those days.
She'd always been monitoring whatever I did and scolded me with heavy slaps if I made any mistake: If a bottle got broken by a none intentional slip, or if I collided in when one of her customers who kissed her too, with a tray that housed hot pepper soup and the head of a cow. Or sometimes, when she was high again, and her fiance didn't come at the right time, she'd unbuckle my trousers and began singing into them. She'd cuddle with me in the corner which she had been doing with her fiance, and she would not feel sympathy for my loud cries of protests. Sometimes, we would sleep there overnight naked, her head on my fast breathing chest, hands placed somewhere beneath me - tickling something there. I imagined she forgot I was 8, her nephew whose father just died, and that I was still hot from the fire. A boy whose future was dangling and running and not wanting to stop. Perhaps, she remembered that I was a boy and a pebble, and a stone. So, she would still do it.
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In some cases, she would teach me how to smoke little by little, drink a half bottle of beer till I could finish one, and two, and three, and a dozen, how to speak slangs with her customers, and how to do the thing with a girl with large breasts, and how I'd press the breasts like they were fresh grapes, how I would make my tongue draw lines on their dark nipples. And then, how to be a Yahoo guy.
I'd cry, and sometimes, the tears would fail to come because a lot of them had been shed.
The remaining two brothers were on the streets, hawking sachet water and soft drinks in a flat purple bucket under an angry sun. That was their fate and a per time source of income because if they didn't hawk, or sold all the goods they carried, Mummy Lawunmi would not feed them. They would carry the goods to Garages or long roads that were in Traffic congestions and ran towards moving vehicles for their change, or if a passenger called them, they would run after the moving vehicle with their fastest pace to sell. They would not want to miss the opportunity, so their pace would be quicken as if a Cheetah was chasing prey. They would wipe their dark sweat with the back of their palm after they might have succeeded in chasing the vehicle and sold whatever the passenger wanted to buy, panting heavily.
Whenever they got home and might have sold almost all the goods they carried, they would not eat. She would not give them food, because they were not to eat. Who the hell is not supposed to eat!? Especially, if they didn't sell everything. Their food would
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be a dozen wipe of Koboko on their respective backs after salt might have been added to the surface. She'd tell them to work harder tomorrow and with that, they might receive favour from her.
They would not cry too, because crying for them was a ritual they performed every day, and they were tired of it. Even if they wanted to try, the tears would not come, and when they came, they'd just draw white patterns on their faces.
They were boys. We were boys, and as I said, society treated us like stones, pebbles used for juggling in a competition.
From our story, the thing I came to realize is that boys had for once, never been respected. They were the gender with bones tickling in them. They were hoped to be independent and carry their responsibilities alone. This was what society painted the boy child, so they would be abandoned to source for their means of income and livelihood on the streets. No wonder the number of hoodlums on the streets today are boys broken from a series of heartbreaks: lack of care, attention, love, and most essentially, education. They ended up forming a nuisance to the society that formed them into the condition they are.
This story is for everyone to take a pen, sit, note respective mistakes, and point out what corrections fit them. It is for those bullies who would think they could molest a boy child and go scot-free. It is for everybody to read, reread and shed little tears to mourn the boy child and hoist banner high for the campaign
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against the maltreatment of all boy children because while writing this story, the screen of my phone was deluded in tears.
Shitta Faruq Adémólá is a Nigerian Poet and Writer eating Rice and drinking water from the corner of his room in Nigeria. His works are published or forthcoming in Libretto Magazine, Parousia (Christian) Magazine, Ngiga Review, Nanty Greens, Eboquills, The Trouvaille Journal, Jalada Africa, A Country of Broken Boys: Boys Are not stones Anthology and elsewhere. When he is not writing, he's either strolling around the streets looking for fair ladies to admire or listening to Simi's sweet voice.
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DEATH WAS HERE (To the victims of the southern Kaduna crisis) Martins Deep screeches of wheels; scurrying feet towards nowhere; curse words accompanied by bullets. our bowl of alms spilt, & father smelt war like it wore the musk of a male deer. said he, "let's go home" "there's no road" i cry--- the smoke of burning tyres spiralling up like a python, to swallow our homeward star. someone fell behind. i do not feel my father's hand on my shoulder i couldn't turn back. i must not risk turning back to become a pillar of salt that'd dissolve into the fresh water in mother's eyes, then drip away into her pot of soup. vultures devour unanswered last prayers oozing red from mouths that will henceforth savour cotton wool dipped in formalin. burning mangled bodies replace street lights, yet we grope, stumbling over roadblocks.
Martins Deep is a Nigerian poet & photographer. He is passionate about documenting muffled stories of the African experience in his poetry & visual art. He can be reached on @martinsdeep1
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I'LL DIE FOR YOU Ifeanyi John Nwokeabia when hunger howls & roars like a lion throwing rocks and pebbles at sun-drenched back flipping its razor-like fangs on helpless tummies and striking with devouring aplomb on defenceless intestines i will thrust my head in between, recklessly and die happily for you. when dawn hastily runs and meets dusks the mind suffers as hypertension beats its devilish drum reminding the pockets that emptiness is madness a dead memory is brought alive to torment its bearer agony painted the face with its beauty because i will die for you. when authority sent back children home after endless whipping on their soft buttocks allowing innocent tears to cascade their saint cheeks for levies that levelled my mountainous hope to nothingness i shall bald my head as a sacrifice to cement because i will die for you. i die in the morning, noon and night i die blaming myself for my failures to meet your needs i die seeking for solutions to end our woes
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like a head abandoned by its body after a cut i will fall & die for you, again & again but if I may ask, well i live in your hearts?
Nwokeabia, Ifeanyi John is a poet and teacher. He hails from Nibo in Awka South Local Government Area of Anambra State. He has Nigeria Certificate in Education and a Bachelor of Arts in Education, both in the English Language. He lives in Awka. His works are published on different online platforms.
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THE CONFIGURATION OF STAYING AFLOAT Praise Osawaru
Always, you seek your father's applauds instead, you find a deafening chorus of you-can-do-better, often accompanied by a verse of disappointment. Over the years, an infinite universe of extinguishing sky, created by him, threatened to gobble your sun & its radiant light.
Somehow, you have mastered how to dissipate the eloping streams of water from your eye, which carries a ceaseless fountain. Sometimes, the heart desires warmth even blood cannot dispense. It is uncomplicated to hew out I love you from a thunderous dark cloud, turfing. Simply disbelieve any utterance & recite yours.
Praise Osawaru (he/him) is a writer and poet of Bini descent. A Best of the Net nominee, his works appear or are forthcoming in Cypress, Glass Poetry, and elsewhere. He was shortlisted for the Babishai 2020 Haiku Award and the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize 2020. Find him on Instagram/Twitter: @wordsmithpraise.
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FOR THE BOY CHILD WHO WEARS A RAINBOW FULL OF STORIES Maxwell Onyemaechi Opia-Enwemuche every boy child is a shade of colour & like the rainbow, they wear these colours as garments & tell diverse tales painted with divergent hues on canvas of memories evoking emotions so visible & deep that it cannot be denied. every boy child is a map of adventure & like a cat with nine lives, he explores the bad in everything until he learns how to spell the G.O.O.D out of nothing, for every part of him is a story knitted on his warped skin which beckons on every passerby to read. every boy child is a barrel of tantrum preserving hatred & hurt that will eventually swallow them up not like the bolus of cassava meal that tumbles down their throats but as an insatiable grave. look closely at that boy child & you'll see that this is not a fable. every boy child is a flower that blossoms with time, & needs the bee eyes of the society to guide him into the avenue of purpose & a pool of unwritten laws telling him how to live a life devoid of emotions & try to be so strong like a coarse stone. every boy child is a country whose offspring will measure his life, not by his standards,
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but the stereotypes painted by the society that there's a man in every boy & the strength of a horse is implanted during creation. every boy child is a shade of colours, but the only visible story in this rainbow is the one wearing sadness as necklaces & doom as a garment on restless streets where dreams become ashes & smoke before the wind of life.
Maxwell Onyemaechi Opia-Enwemuche is an enigmatic poet, a storyteller, and a novelist who writes from Port Harcourt, Nigeria. His works have appeared on Word, Rhythm and Rhymes, Tuck Magazine, MojavHeart Review, Poemify Magazine, Eboquills, AceWorld Magazine, The Daily Drunk Magazine and elsewhere. He writes mostly on depression, suicide, sensuality, humanity, Boy Child, Rape, life, death and above all, Love. He believes in the mutual existence of humanity for the sake of peace to heal the world.
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THE WAR WAS MEANT FOR YOU Adeyemo Abiodun
You were expended and you lay supinely on the deck of a building as your head positioned itself towards other soldiers slumbering in the lake of their blood. It was past two in the afternoon. The scorching sun outwardly seemed agitated as the dreadful sound of guns and the stream of blood distressfully washed down the surface of the earth. You thought it was over for you when you realized your bullets' supply chamber had failed you and now you were left with only a pointed knife. You never wanted to give up. All of a sudden, a thought sprinted through your mind and you decided to reach out to get hold of an adjacent dead soldier's firearm. As you were about to grip the gun's folding butt-stock, sudden haste of impatient bullets showered on the barricade that was holding you. You had been hit on your left arm. There was absolute silence immediately after the horrible sound indicating the falling of bullets' cases from a distance. A rapid outflow of your blood-drenched the left sleeve of your camo. Your society had brought that war upon you. You were a boy child and every battle of life was yours to fight. After all, it was worth it since you succeeded in getting hold of the gun. You groaned quietly while checking its magazine and unluckily, it was empty.
Adeyemo Abiodun Jubril is a student of the department of English, Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-ife. He distinctly specializes in two of the genres of literature, poetry and prose. He resides in Ibadan.
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BECAUSE WE ARE BOYS Adeoti Quadri Adekunle some pictures define us/ pictures that become tempting songs in a house of unrecognized colour
many things unknown trace our feet & made us creep/ because we are boys/ father retreat from believing in our dreams/ we fade away in his memory like leaves in winter because we are boys/ our names are a throwback image in our mother's thought/ so we become stone/ we drown alone with what we knew/ we become a waving tree with no nest/ no birds, no lovers under it at night what should this world name us? ghosts? ancestors or rebel of silence? because we are boys/ whose muscles betrayed the street/ our eyes are the image of darkness with broken light/ now that we are boys/ we strive to win/ to pick up our name on a hidden grave we don't shed normal tears again/
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because crying & wailing are our sweat/ our dreams no longer exist on our palm it's a cross we bear throughout our daily bread & because we are boys/ we grew to know memory is a stream of water
Adeoti Quadri Adekunle is a Poet from Iseyin local government Oyo state. He is an undergraduate student of Ekiti State University studying English Language. His poems have been featured in Quills issue 6 magazine, God's of August anthology, Boys are not Stones issue 2 anthology and elsewhere.
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WHEN EVIL BECOMES TRADITION Stephen Toochi
Her eyes glittered with rage. A shout then a slap landed on his face. The shrill cry from his throat tore out the room as she dragged him across the floor.
It all started when he woke to the overwhelming presence of his father's sitting room with a disturbing feeling. The feeling gnawed at his intestines. He strolled as fast as his leg carried him. The worms in his belly grumbled and made funny noises. He mustered the last strength in him and headed for her room.
Nearing the door, he called out her name. She didn't answer. He banged on her door and it opened on the first touch. Untypical of her not to lock her door, he thought. Rubbing his stomach again he yawned and walked into the room. He screamed her name with the prefix 'aunty' firmly placed before it. She didn't budge neither did she make a move.
He approached her bed. The sheet was scattered as she laid on it. She spread her legs and soaked in the air from the ceiling fan. He peeped, the darkness between her thighs scared him so he walked to the side as her snores filled the room like a spoilt generator.
Pressing his hands against the bed, he leapt unto it. He wanted to shake her body till she woke. Then she turned, still sleeping and a change of plans occurred. He peered at something on her body for a while before moving his hands to it. Page 42 of 210
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The lady on the bed had slept. Enveloped in her blissful sleep, the wrapper she tied against her chest had loosened, revealing one full-blown milk industry and another, half-clad.
He tossed it, felt it's a warm and smooth texture. He caressed slowly, then in quick succession, and the nipples stood. Savouring the moment his mouth watered and he forgot the intense hunger brewing within his bowels. He lowered his head and placed his mouth on the nipples, circled it with his lips and sucked.
As the act stimulated her senses, she jerked up like a tiger whose cub had been snatched, flung him like a wrapper. His head collided with the wall but she charged at him, her vicious eyes peering. Punches, kicks and slaps assailed him as she dragged him to the sitting room and forced him to the knee.
He was on that punishment when his father walked in, minutes later and saw his son, bruised at the cheek, phlegm and tears dripping from his face. After the narration, he gasped and looked at his seven year old.
Staring at Junior, whose face showed no remorse. He drew him up and patted his cheek. "Why did you do it?" He asked.
"Daddy," he began, "I don't know why Aunty Gift is beating me. I just did what Aunty Sandra begs me to do always."
"Aunty Sandra?" His eyes widened.
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"Yes, daddy. She opens it for me, tells me to play with and suck it anyhow I want. And when I suck it, she makes a funny sound that shows she enjoys it. So today when I saw Aunty Gift's balloon. I decided to play with it like Aunty Sandra's own. I don't know why Aunty Gift beat me that hard for something Aunty Sandra enjoys."
The bewildered look on their faces stayed as silence hung thick in the air. "Aunty Sandra did all this?"
He nodded. The father took him in his arms, wiped his tears and gave him a tete-a-tete.
Who is Aunty Sandra? You ask!
She was their sacked maid.
Stephen Toochi writes and lives in Lagos. He's an entrepreneur, writer, automobile spare parts Expert, and freelancer who has crafted engaging contents for websites and personal blogs. His works which cut across several genres of literature have appeared in local and international literary websites, magazines and journals. He loves travelling, Reach out to him on Facebook and Instagram @ Stephen Toochi.
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HE IS JUST A BOY Umar Yogiza Jr. he is just a depressed boy that could not severe his neck from destruction's enchanting tasks — a commanding sword to the neck boys are healing with the disease here & death changes its form every day if today death is in the calm atlantic tomorrow it would be in the sniper or on a naked wire or ceiling fan every day he is lucky to escape death's the charming task in many tales, he has eyes & mind like yours, but he carries society's grief & ill & depravity that's heavier than olumo & zuma rocks put together, he is in the country robust with his blood & energy, yet he is nothing he fades daily into a shadow, into a secret prayer of a drowning thing
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he peals the gruelling monster of society violence off his body daily while watching his future burn silently in the yearly budget & news, he is a broken clock, holding destruction he comes pursuing hope, now hope pursues him on a horse with a sword of poverty & poetry, he is a draft of infallible poetry yet unwritten, un-recited he carries grief in beggar’s footpath scavenge agony looking for a cure ailments turning into selling story he is feed with what he's hungry of he saw, but he must keep quiet or die by the weight of a country that have everything yet hungry & wanting
Umar Yogiza Jr, is a poet, builder and photographer, he writes and based between Abuja and Lafia where God and the Devil toss the coin of his life.
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BOYS DON’T CRY Ifunanya Juliet Ottih
I met a man at Nkwo counting his footprints His voice faded as he wheeled to the end of his strength In his eyes was a beggar wanting succour, But nursed to box up his emotions And carry his face like an unopened book
He shivered like a badly tuned diesel engine I knew not what his troubles were, But he wore many of them I saw
Like my brother and the one after, and just with all You hear them scream "MAN UP", To shed tears belong to women Hence, he must break rocks non-stop, Away from pats and cuddling
But what becomes of him When his bottled cravings explode? Arrested in court, you see them like flies perching on his heart with wrinkled fronts.
What is of a human if not susceptibility? He is a shimmering mountain of muscles and flesh With his robust face, he pleads for your shoulder. Isn't he only mortal? If it's a crime to cry then everyone is guilty.
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Let his pocket not define his strength and the beauty of his heart. Just like you, he is born of a man and weary to the bone. He can radiate a serene dignity in times of havoc. He is incredibly amazing If only he is given a chance.
Ifunanya Juliet Ottih is a talented creative writer, poet, content creator, copywriter, public speaker and researcher. An undergraduate of the University of Calabar, she has her work published in the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize (NSPP) 2020 anthology and other notable publications.
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BY BEING HUMAN Nket-Awaj Alpheaus by being human we can gauge the air we breathe that a boy does not inhale more than a girl nor a girl exhales more than a boy by being human we can tell how rain falls on a boy's and a girl's forehead that foreheads are not vats that must bear size by being human we can ascertain palm-routes that the lines in a boy's palm are not route to a street nor a girl's route to a kitchen by being human we can tell our difference through our pattern of thighs not our godlike faces nor strait of our chest by being human we will know a boy's shoulders
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are frail to weigh family eave that his palms are meant for a will-biro, not a wheelbarrow by being human full of a farmer's passion we can see fecund soil in boys and plant flower seeds to ornament future garden
Nket-Awaji Alpheaus is a Poet, Critic and Essayist. He is currently studying English and Literary studies at Ignatius Ajuru University. His works have been featured in Tribute to Kofi Annan (an anthology), Citadel of Words, published by Words Rhyme and Rhythm, etc. Recently he featured in Repostes of Locked Down Voices, published by the Society of Young Nigerian Writers (SYNW). He is currently working on his collection of poems (Acres of Mind Away from Home).
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THE PLATE BOY Iwu Jeff yesterday, the night knocked him down at one of the hazy northern streets, embraced by the arms of cold groaning, bara sadaka! bara sadaka! his eyelids hitched in sleep, his plastic plate pillowing his head, his body dancing to the beats of the breeze, his teeth grating up & down like grasshopper. bara sadaka! bara sadaka! his spirit sings in amplified voice, roaming the streets like a lost sheep— from door to door & market to market, clutching his plate with thundering eyes— seeing himself from hand to mouth, acting this movie scripted by life for him. at dawn, the muezzin's call for prayer catches the wind, waking him with a fearful yelp, his naked belly gleaming to the morning sun as saliva draws a map down his cheeks: bara sadaka! bara sadaka! the only song he hears from his mental playlist— an omen of survival. he's alive again!
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he touches his head & feels a sharp pain— chopped hair; food for lice, his lacerated body; playground for flies. bara sadaka! bara sadaka! he hears from the inside with his stomach firing bullets— side by side. as he winks, he returns to the only dream life gives to him, clutching his plate again, singing the song he's living to sing, waiting for his director's call for 'cut'.
Iwu Jeff is a Nigerian writer and instructor of English and literature. Some of his works have appeared in literary magazines and anthologies. He is the author of the play, VERDICT OF THE GODS and the novel FILES OF THE HEART
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FOR BOYS Testimony Jesutofunmi
For boys, A body turned to stone,
Heart; a carrier of unheard memories, Strings broken, dreams shattered,
Back cracked with a whip, Lips dry of felicity.
For boys, Whose palm wears the incision of pains,
A theatre of agonies,
Identity trapped in the facade of society, feelings caged, emotions murdered.
This is the tale of boys murdered by Society's ideology.
Testimony Jesutofunmi is a Nigerian spoken word Poet, Page poet, Dramatist, Artist and Dramaturge who hails from Ogun State. He loves to use art as a means of entertainment, education, communication and revolution.
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OF BOYS & MEN DREAMING OF NAMES Solomon Oladipupo
As boys, we dreamed of dreams chasing after us in flash-forwards weaving their many wobbled shapes into giants and lofty things that were ahead of us
As men, we chase after dreams: like a collection of flashbacks cut into the present, even as we weave our names & the names of the names that’ll come after us
Into credit lines & bylines & legacies of many things that are yet still ahead of us
Whether we are the dreamer or the pigments of collaging dreams we move nonetheless our lives are like trains in transit
Until…
Solomon Oladipupo is a journalist and writer. He explores poetry as an art form to express the personal and the collective essence of living. He is a graduate of the University of Lagos. Some of his works have appeared in the Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest anthologies.
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CATHARSIS Adedamola Jones Adedayo
Because Joseph is a fledgeling name awaiting bloom amongst an avalanche of storms where thorns dine at will, you earmark a ready-made man in him even though he is only a squint of the sun, impervious to the honeyed a sampling of phallic contrivances. against his fainthearted willpower at a time when his senses are still estranged from the eeriness of coitus, you bankroll his pleasure trove an art curator will say “hand job” & watch his naivety shudder— whether age fourteen is ample enough to handwrite him in the scoreboard of the sacred inklings of adulthood or not, you seem lacklustre! because a selfish hormonal appetite threatens to blacklist your body in the long-list of anonymous heaven-worthy folks & mismatch you with the streets as mince-meat for dogs whose seeds can’t wait to be poison-free to free-think through your world, you then make a sex weevil pilfering on a barely ripened skin from teething shoot.
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this way, you simulate the forbidden fruit, make a boy ejaculate his dreams untimely into the garbage bin of manhood, count the appendages of benign reactions that empower your mien to whitewash over the dirt-tracks your secret sins have been lifted. & your conscience retains the guts to corroborate you now because you think any Sunday is destined to acquit since you grovel before the giant redemptive cross that bejewels the sanctuary, since your lustful fare keeps failing this tainted boy on the expedition to purgation.
Adedamola Jones Adedayo is a Lagos-based writer, teacher, literary instructor, editor, football enthusiast, would-be polyglot and critical thinker. He holds a BA in English Literature at Lagos State University, Ojo, and he has had his writings featured at Qwenu, Serotonin, Writers Space Africa, Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest (BPPC) Anthology, Poetry Nation, Ace World and elsewhere. On Facebook, he is Adedamola Jones Adedayo (Jones Phoenix)
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A SEPTEMBER TO REMEMBER Nwabuisi Kenneth
The waves crashed by Chike’s window panes the night you finally left. And the serene, cold night was getting lukewarm with every of Chike's warmth. Thunderbolts, rain spatters, and then lightening drew traces of lines across the white painted walls, with the glint of this lightening, you saw Chike's picture tremble.
In a crisp flurry, the images of the day Chike approached you by the walk-way, wearing the same attire as he wore in the picture flashed across your mind amid burning desires and deafening moans.
It was on a fine September morning. You had been searching for the departmental office, you walked in your chinos trouser, passed a row of flowers planted in a hedge, passed groups of students laughing out loud while standing under distant trees, squinted your eyes as you walked pass Alummaco glass windows in which the rays of the cold morning sun reflected.
Then, you had seen him clearly, even with the blur of your squinted eyes. You looked at his approaching tall gait and felt the warm rice you had eaten before coming turn cold in your intestine. While he drifted close, huge blocks were on his chest. You tried not to gape at him and looked away as he reached your spot. You imagined him stop for a while and look you over and say, "I haven't seen quite a handsome dude as you ever since I joined this school. Are you new here?" Page 57 of 210
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"Yes, I am new here. I'm looking for direction to the departmental office." You would say, flinging your palms, in a way you'd always love to feel around your fellow boys.
But that was all in your imagination. When you turned away from your daydreaming, this dude in your imagination was long gone. It was only you standing, with the fragrance of his smart perfume wafting through the air.
Sooner or later, you would thank your stars for the interaction all happened in your imagination. Two days later, you had settled and felt insomnia for two consecutive nights. You are happy than you had finally left your little remote village in the East. At the baseball pitch, where you had gone to watch the players, luckily, the dude was there, energetically tossing the bouncing ball to his favour and the defeat of his opponent.
When it was half-time, you had watched him walk to one goal post end; away from his team, to lie on the carpet grasses with bottled water in his hand. You had braced up yourself to go talk to him, even though the first time you had gone to talk to a tall, dark and muscular dude like him in your village, you were blessed with several blows which had left red bruises on your face for two weeks.
It was a hot afternoon; that memory gripped you as you set out to go talk to this new guy. Two steps out to him: you remembered your village guy's long scowls and tightening jaws.
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Three steps: your indecipherable whispers and romantic gestures.
The fourth step: the voice of male youths around a rose, ''Omo this guy na homo! So, you be homo!" They raised metals, sticks and shoes, hitting you mercilessly.
And the fifth step which had been the last toward him: the hurting bruises, your mother's palm pressing it hard with a wet rag and you crying out loud.
As you recall it, tears welled up your chest and dripped down your cheeks.
"Why are you here, crying?" His voice had jolted you to consciousness and you realized you were facing him.
"Oh! I'm sorry." You dabbed the mist in your eyes.
"You look troubled, why?"
"It's just some past incidence I suddenly remembered."
"And why would this past incidence make you cry?"
"I don't know, but I feel I'm haunted by the same feeling that makes others feel good. All because I am a boy; all because I feel this way towards my fellow guys." "Oh Boy! Are you gay?" He asked you, this question you have always fought so hard to ask yourself; this question that explores Page 59 of 210
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your true identity; this question that had led to you been beaten up like a hardened criminal and had left imprints of reddening bruises on your face on broad daylight.
The long whistle hanging on the lips of a gaunt-looking man was blown. He gulped the last content of the bottle while his breath squeezed the can to a pulp.
"I'm Chike, lets meet after this game." You watched his bicep whisk the empty bottle to the air, it sprang off, squirting tiny liquids on the air as it tumbled and landed at a distance.
Chike had come into your life with crisp air. He had perfected your life. Your life had become like one romantic movie set with new goosebumps every day. And that was September, you both had happened, in his room, two years ago. That was the first, his table fan was rotating that day and beads of sweat all over your faces and bodies. He jerked your body slowly and you loved the way his sweat smelt beneath the sheets. The tiny way his mouth opens, moaning your name in ecstasy makes you melt underneath his arms.
Once he had said he wanted you both to go on a jaunt, just like couples do. You never doubted Chike, he can afford the biggest luxury. His parents were there— rich, supporting in every way. His wardrobe sang of the latest designers and pieces of jewellery. It was after your first year in school that he transferred his clothes to you, and you moved into his apartment. Friends ceased to visit. You became more than friends, you ate, studied and fucked each
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other all the time. He was the man, you were the woman, but soon he taught you how to be both man and woman at the same time. He called it a verse. He said it would make you active all the time and it would also make you not lose out in the game. Fun was what he called it. You wondered if this lifestyle you were beaten for in your village was just fun for him.
Each night your mother called to know how you were faring, you would always tell her about your roommate, Chike. Chike would always get jealous and seek to speak with your mother, one on one.
“I bukwa onye igbo, nwa m? " your mother would always ask.
" Eeeh, I'm Igbo, Mama."
" Ka m sikwanu, onye ebe ka ibu?"
“I'm from Onitsha, Mama." Chike would reply.
"My son has been telling me about you, jisie nu ike, na ebi nke oma. I don't want any quarrel amongst you too."
"Ooo, Nne, Ka odi." Little chats like this would always remain forever that way. As couples, you both lived. The day the department fixed an excursion which was worth Five Thousand Naira each, Chike paid for you both, you both sat on
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the same seat, your hands clenched in between the both of you. It was at the Badmus.
The Badmus is a peninsula that stretched across acres and miles. Tall trees, huge stones and flowing springs. The birds chirped at distant trees and the waters rumpled as the school's Marc Polo vehicle which you all boarded halted to the scenery.
Chike couldn't help but leave your hand as the students thundered from their seats and got down, others were on the phone with the other of their friends and relatives. Your hands quivered beside you as you fought every urge to hold him all through the time you both walked to the reception to secure a room.
When Chike indicated that you both were going to share a room, the room bustled of the other males' rancour.
"O boy, you no see woman wey you go fit share your room with? Why your fellow man?" One guy chimed. "Homo don enter our school, na today you bin know say boys don dey fuck dem fellow boys for school?" another added, then the reception was filled with many voices here and there.
The night was peaceful; you were out with Chike for a walk at the beach, under a coconut tree. A glinting light from a faraway bar illuminated the rumbling sea, a moon hanging aloof the blue sky reflected on the waters, painting it a coat of azure.
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Chike sat, splaying his legs wide inviting you over and you slouched on his legs, your back against his chest.
"The gawks we received earlier this afternoon doesn’t go down well with me." Chike lamented.
"What do you expect? This is us, this is who we are."
A moment of silence passed as Chike’s heart palpitated, he became unnecessarily restless in a way you had never seen him before.
"You will be graduating in a few months, how are we going to keep up with this?" You asked, your voice trembling.
"Let's not do this now."
"There are no better ways to deal with us than to talk about it."
"The fun, you mean?" Chike added. "Chike, what we have is not fun and shouldn't in any way be fun."
"What are you saying? We're going to be insulted like this because we are two boys in love with each other?" Chike complained. "We'll get through this, baby, we..."
"We, what?" Chike interrupted.
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"We can make it together."
"No, there's never any 'we' ", Chike continued. He got up. "This is just a game. Fun. We are boys, we can't be feeling like this for each other in this country." Chike walked out angrily, the rumbling sea blew cold air into your spine, they began to furrow at a tumultuous stance.
* * *
Learning to pack out of Chike's house was the beginning of wisdom for you. Your social life zeroed down. School grades were flop upon flop. This was how you learnt to live before, in isolation. You dreaded life and the sight of Chike and each time you bumped on him at the walkway, you looked away and he passed.
November was his graduation month, he texted you the venue of his convocation ceremony and you deleted it, he called and you left his calls unanswered and never returned them.
In a few months, living became harder as each day passed by, the memories of his sweat on the bed tore your inside, his smiles and giggles in the places he alone had taken you to —everything. The sweet September of intimacy came and before it sped off, he knocked on the door to the new apartment where you moved into and rubbed you once more with kisses. The memories of your sweet September returned and you scaled with his proposal.
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It was when you came knocking on the door to your eastern territory again with him, that your mother knew that this madness hadn't only had a grip on his son, but another grown youth.
"I love your son, Mama." Chike had explained. " He means the world to me."
"Tufia! Sodom and Gomorrah! May that madness you just spoke follow you and your cursed generation. Eeeh! Icho ikuziri Obinna, my son, my only son, etu esi akpo homo? How a man marries his fellow man?" Your mother roused in action.
"Mama, I love him, afuru m ya na anya." Your tears had begun to flow as your voice trembled.
"If you are going to keep on loving your fellow man, then you have to go live with him, not in my own house. And to think I toiled all these years to give you, my only son a good life to be a man and all you chose to be is a man lover, ewooo!" Your mother screamed and your tears came flowing with hers.
Chike stumbled out.
And you followed. Your dirty curtain kept trembling. That was how you came here.
Chike's cum was already on you, his sweat smelled, you smiled.
What a sweet September.
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Nwabuisi Kenneth is a student of English and Literary Studies at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. He has his works of fiction published in online magazines and anthologies such as Kalahari Review, Libretto magazine, Boys Are Not Stones Anthology II, Rape Rages 2019 and elsewhere. You can reach him via WhatsApp +2347015002556 or email at [email protected]
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A BOY IS A COUNTRY Adeniran Joseph dressed with brokenness, and a shaft of the sword we could lift our hearts to prayers but we cannot turn into a practice hitting a template of dust made with forgotten yesterday’s memories a boy sets his legs on a walk for survival but the street is too busy to accommodate him the fire still burn at the feet of a nostalgic copyright but we cannot always remember everything even as we count boys as men and others too we still cannot make a shift at the turn of a dead game but we can always gather our voices as we usher them into a place where hands meet the bin of jugging towards revolution. let’s say a boy is far from anything nameless let’s say a boy is every sound coming out from a tired leave Let’s say every story heard from the past has a way of returning but nothing stops a boy created with gravity from stretching into a limelight at least, boys grow to become men even as others might not understand their wet feet in a ground of dust.
Adeniran, Joseph is a poet, author, writer and a critic to humanity. His poem "Home In Bottles Of Fear" was shortlisted among the Top 100 Of The Nigerian Students Poetry Prize in 2018. His Poem "Songs Of Dark Rooms" was shortlisted for Christopher Okigbo Students Poetry Prize in 2018.
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A LION NEED NOT DIE ON THE ARMS OF SAMSON Taofeek Ayeyemi (Aswagaawy)
I am angry at an existence that falls short of life, at a world that calls you a messiah when you need one. I am angry at life for being a bed of thorns; for being a river of ennui; for chasing a bird into the expanse of archers. I do not blame my ancestors for birthing a society that sends boys into the woods, into wars, I blame today for flailing in the trance of yester-centuries. A snake hisses and a boy is greeted with assorted weapons. I am angry at the nine-seven bones anatomy because, in my country, three hundred nairas is less than one dollar. A boy is a boy, a man is a man, a lion need not die on the arms of Samson, the untidy tactics of Delilah should kill a pride of lions. I am angry at the apple stuck in the throat of Adam while Eve flushes hers in a stream of cycles. And yes, a Mary can carry the cross while Jesus watches on.
* * *
I am angry at the flesh rotting under the burden of boyhood, and the first story I learnt of me is that of hardship. How a boy's skin carries the calligraphy of sickbed for aeons, passing out the way a phone with low storage refreshes, and reminiscing into the shadow of a grief poet. I am angry at norms that bend my body into a misnomer.
This body is a city of dreams, of doves, of the moon, so brittle and feeble that the wind carries it from a treehouse to a mountain on fire. Must a boy always be on the run? I am angry at the ism that
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says a boy should walk on live coals and mask his face with a smile. I am angry at expectations that keep chasing boys into the nest of black nocturnal birds. I am angry. I am angry. Teach me please, how people walk out of a burdensome life through their wrists.
Taofeek Ayeyemi (fondly called Aswagaawy) is a Nigerian lawyer and writer whose works have appeared in Lucent Dreaming, Ethel-zine, The Pangolin Review, Hedgerow, The Quills, Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Cho and elsewhere. He won the Honorable Mention Prize, 2020 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Contest and 2nd Prize, 2016 Christopher Okigbo Poetry Prize. His chapbook "Tongueless Secret" (Ethel Press) and full-length book "aubade at night or serenade in the morning" (FlowerSong Press) are forthcoming in 2021.
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THE BOY Finum Isaac
The boy is not a toy, The boy is made of bones with blood that streams along his veins. The boy is strong, made of flesh, a body that feels. The boy isn't made of mahogany. The boy is not a piece of steel, the boy just loves Superman.
The boy hurts when he is sad, he sheds tears that flow into his belly, he dies in silence to remain alive. Under his skin, you will find a layer of grieve, within his belly, a pool of depression.
The boy is a human being, living in a society that often feeds the minds of boys with an unsound meal.
Making them feel they are different from what God carved them to be.
Making them feel they are
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superhumans, like characters from Marvel.
The boy suffers misconception. The boy is not a program, he is not a robot. The boy breathes, he has life.
Finum Isaac is a final year student of the Federal University of Technology, Minna, Niger State, Nigeria. He's from Kaduna State. He writes poems, short stories, essays and articles. He also loves to read books.
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BUTTERFLY BOYS Ololade Edun
Aduo did not clock nineteen before he chose to end it all with a rope. It was on a Sunday evening, around the time young boys used to gather on the streets to play monkey post, and girls sit at a corner, fawning over their favourites amongst the shirtless sweaty players, with tales of what happened the last market day.
I sat at my favourite corner, away from the world while still in the world. The girls were not too far from me, and I wasn't that close to the boys kicking the ball either. Just call me an outcast if you wish; I mean, it's not that the word is strange to me again. Everyone here called me and Aduo the odd ones behind our backs.
Aduo did not show up that Sunday. It was unusual for him to miss our Sunday evenings. Not that I knew him to have any big job that would prevent him from leaving his room. Aduo loved the outdoor more than anything. No, scrap that! Aduo loved the outdoor just a bit lesser than he loved me.
After listening to the palm trees closely whisper solitary songs to my poor self, I kicked the surrounding plastic bottle as I sauntered off to Aduo’s house to drag his lazy butt out. But the circus I met outside his house painted something different. It was like a gathering of unfortunate neighbours who had come to peep. No, please cut that off your mind. I met people outside: some in tears, others clutched together, bonded by eternal grief; some mumbled incoherent words as I passed by, others gave me a weird but comforting look. I got scared.
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Inside, I met something worse than sad. Death sitting at the corner with his scythe smiling at me. I would have loved to interrogate Death, but Aduo's body dragged all my attention. He was in our favourite pyjamas, the pink one I bought for him when he celebrated his seventeenth birthday, close to two years ago. I remember how his eyes lit up when he ripped off the ribbons on the pack, I remember he kissed me that day, even though I still did not think I loved him enough.
Here, my Aduo was laid on an old brown dirty mat, with wools blocking his nostrils and ear. His eye shut tight, the more I tried to force them open the more constricted the nerves, as they became hardened. Aduo could not talk. Even when I knelt beside him bathing his stiff body with my ocean of tears, he did not wake up to tell me it was all a prank, that he thought of how best to get me to accept the proposal to be his boyfriend, and this scene was the best he could come up with.
No, Aduo cannot die yet, we still talked this morning, and he never sounded suicidal. Not that I have a superhuman power that detects depression, but Aduo had mastered the art of making me laugh. He knew how to make jokes about everything; I never believed I won't see my Adou again.
When I closed my eyes the night that Aduo died, I hoped I will open them to see him beside me, lying by my side with his head on my chest, listening to my heartbeat. I remembered the last time we were together in that position, on this same bed, inside my room, two weeks ago.
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Aduo did not say much other than ask me to reassure him of how much I loved him. I had smiled, cuddling him closer, not baring out my chest. I wish I had said something. I wish I had told Aduo how truly I loved him, how I wanted him, that I would do anything to always have him.
But of what use is a butterfly with broken wings? If it were a caterpillar, we would have hoped for metamorphosis. Of what use are buried feelings when the one you love will never wake up to realize them again? My Aduo is gone! Why did my Aduo choose to end it all? The love of my life now clipped, wrapped in white as food for the gods who inhabit the six-feet below.
I will miss Aduo, but this is not a memento. I did not write this because I wanted to always remember his last moments. There is no use putting down words of remembrance when you plan on joining the one you love soon.
Ololade Edun is a contemporary Nigerian Creative. His works have featured and forthcoming in anthologies, Pawners Papers, SPIC Family, Poetry Family, Country Tales, The Speaking Heart, Arkore Writes, amongst others. He has interests in the areas of Medicine, Literature, Sciences, and Leadership. He is a Parliamentarian, former Editor-in-Chief of NAMS OAU and an author of three books.
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BUSY BODIES Tomisin Olusola Martins
A light-skinned devil garbed in a moonlight gown walked down into this lake of paradise, became an accentuated Syllables & an opened mathematical equation for busybodies. My grandpa once held a feast of words at his dining table, asking me to be his guest, where candlelight’s stand erectly on a table for two, like a newly wedded couple on a honeymoon night, with yellowing lights pouring scorn on each face. He taught me how to play in a wilderness without getting hurt, buried his words inside my belly, drew his head nearly close to mine, asking me to promise him not to fall his hand, he knew I have my road to take.
A friend also taught me how to play a game of dice and counters on board, now despised me for going against his own will of the gospel, and for ruining a nightstand in a rented hotel, where he kept a light-skinned lady waiting for me to play a game of fire fingers with — a mellow ripened fruit awaiting
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to be eaten with an ugly face. This feeling I have within that my grandpa would be displeased if he sees me burning my being with such a devil, so, I turned on the music on my phone to listen to blues on one hot afternoon, and I began to write a gospel of love poem, till the mundane night came fully enthroned in my room.
Tomisin Olusola Martins is a Blogger, Content Writer, Photographer and Author of a Poetry Collection, "Alto in the Larynx of Lake." He studied the English Language at Olabisi Onabanjo University (OOU) at Ago-Iwoye where his literary works (poetry) first earned him recognition and many awards for the best in POETRY WRITING at the yearly KOLAJ FESTIVAL.
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ON SUCH DAYS Enobong Etuk
You are supposed to go straight to the office to face the disciplinary panel where you will either be dismissed or paid in place of notice. But somewhere you find yourself in her office, welcomed into a calming space with ambient lighting and Deuter softly playing in the background.
You sit on the couch facing Dr Temi who sits behind her desk wearing a pantsuit with a pad and a pen in her hands. Her hair pulled back in cornrows, pushing her face into a sharp focus, forcing you to look at her— to see her. You shift your gaze from her face to the dusky purple wall and the giant blue painting behind her desk.
"How are you, Ayomide?"
She says your name; the way your boss would say it, the way Dara, your wife, would not say it. You take a deep breath, you want to tell her that you don't know what you feel, didn't have the vocabulary to describe your feelings.
"I'm fine” You finally find the word and force a smile. This smile is not genuine and you know that you are afraid to show her what you feel, for fear of looking like a wimp.
"How is your work? How are you coping?"
There is an awkward silence but she waits patiently, not asking further questions, just awaiting your reply.
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"I have a shitty job" You stop and look at her. She is writing something on her pad "Who doesn't?" She smiles at you with her eyes "It's fine, we don't have to talk about it."
You release a deep breath you didn't know you were holding. "How is your wife?”
At that you get impatient, "Listen, Dr Temi, I didn't come here to discuss my wife." You clench your teeth, take your suitcase and storm out of her office.
* * * You do not go home, rather you find yourself in a club with sorrow-laden eyes. "I will survive", you mutter to yourself, to the bottle of alcohol in front of you. You force down the liquid down your tummy, your first taste of alcohol. You let your mind wander and wonder. You ought to be a happy man. That was the initial goal but limitations had set in and now you alone know where the shoe pinches.
You are so lost in thoughts that you do not notice her by your side.
"Mind if I join you?" She flutters her lashes.
"Ok" You nod to affirm.
"If I may ask, what is a cutie like you doing in a club all by yourself?"
"I needed to be alone." You clear your throat and drag your gaze up to her face, expecting to see the usual sex worker, desperately in need of a man. But you freeze, stunned. She isn't dressed as Page 78 of 210
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such but your eyes get stuck on her full breast, forming a hard knot of desire in your belly. As if suddenly realizing that you are married, you rise to your feet.
"Sorry, I have to go." You hesitate and clear your throat again.
"Call me." She fishes out a note from her small handbag and hands it over to you.
"OK." You barely reply as you turn to leave.
* * * You drag your worn-out body to your room and lock the door behind you. You now enjoy solitude. It gives you the chance to beat your mind into submission. In your room, you pick up your diary and start to read out to yourself the relevant commitments which were becoming unbearably heavy. The expenses on your aged mother have become a big hole in your pocket. So also, are the maintenance of your car, and the monthly allowance of your house-help. Not to talk of your regular bills: house rent, electricity bills, income tax.
"Damn it!" You shout as rage fills your heart. You close up the accursed book and fling it furiously against the wall of your bedroom. No more tears. You will not sit down and cry like a child. You will face your problems squarely, grapple them like a man with courage. * * * "Ayo, who is this woman you are seeing? You think I wouldn't find out that you are having an affair?”
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Your wife starts to nag. Because it is so typical of her, you don't say a word. So typical of her not to read the pain in your voice and see it in your eyes.
"I thought I married a man but..."
You bring your fist down on her jaw with such force, that she staggers back on her feet, eyes red-rimmed and wide...
"Ay... Ayo" She stammers, tears filling her eyes.
Guilt sits on your chest, weighing you down like a ton of bricks. At that moment, you want to reach out to her and take back the horrible thing you had just done but the thing on your chest won't let you. You storm out of the house, leaving your wife in shock. * * * "I'm glad you came, Mr Ayo." Dr Temi's eyes meet yours first and you smile in return. Your gaze sweeps down her feature and you think of how lucky her husband must be.
"I wasn't hoping to see you today, I thought you had terminated the appointment." She said as she pushes away the laptop on her desk. "Let me help you, Ayo."
You close your eyes, breathless. "You don't understand what it is like to be in my shoes. You don't know how I try to live up to the image my wife has of me. How can you possibly help me? "You are right. I haven't had your experience, but I am interested in what you have gone through. Tell me."
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"I lost my job," You bend your head "my mother has cancer and needs urgent treatment." You turn away, hating yourself for revealing even a glimpse of your vulnerability.
"Does your wife knows about this?"
You stifle a laugh "I can't tell her"
"Why is that?"
"I have been trying to keep things together with the hope that all will be well. You know, play the man." You bite your lips. "She will be disappointed in me because I have failed her."
You glanced up at her, still writing on her pad.
"If you woke up tomorrow and everything was just the way you wanted it to be, what would be different? How would you be different?"
You close your eyes and see your wife, the way she had looked at you the night you hit her. You see your mother smiling down at you and your boss, patting your shoulder. The image breaks apart. You open your eyes and you are still sitting there, Dr Temi in front of you, awaiting your reply.
"I will be a happy man."
"Then let your wife know you lost your job. Let her see the magnitude of the challenges. Together you can face them."
You shake your head and lift your eyes to the ceiling for a moment. When you have more control, you lock eyes with her "Won't she
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think less of me?" You say the word fast, as though it hurt too much to let it linger on your lips.
“Love is supposed to be based on trust, and trust in love, it's something rare and beautiful when people can confide in each other without fearing what the other person will think.”
* * *
When you are outside, you flip open your phone and you’re your wife. On the second ring, you hear her pick up.
"I'm sorry for hitting you." You clear your throat.
"Ayo!" An alarm sounds in her voice "What is it?"
A lump form in your throat "It's nothing bad. We just need to talk."
She hesitates "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes" You release a deep breath, "I'm coming home."
Enobong Etuk is a student of the University of Uyo, where she studies Human Anatomy. She is a Nigerian creative writer with enormous promise and important stories to tell. She writes works that provoke thought on topics of gender and social justice. Her work has appeared in Riverbird Mag and elsewhere.
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GIRLS' STUFF AND MEN'S THINGS Ebubechukwu Bruno Nwagbo
"Daddy daddy!!" The children tugged at their Father's shirt. Dad: These children will not kill me. Go to your mother. I have settled her. Victoria: Daddy e needuru m obere ego for girl’s stuff. I need some money for girls' stuff (Victoria whined) Daddy: But I have... Victoria: Oh Dadyyy! Dad: Ok (Starts counting money )1, 2,3,4,5,6... ehhh (looks at Victoria) 7 thousand Naira. Ngwa here, have it. Victoria: Thank you Daddy (hugs him). Daddy, you're the best. Dad: Just be a good girl. Ok? (She leaves her daddy and runs off. Her brother Obi remains. Daddy turns to Obi and grunts.) Daddy: Eheee! You! What do you want?
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Obi: Daddy eerrrm b-b-boy's things. You know eeerm men's stuff. Daddy: Hmmmm Obi: Daddy you know nau. Daddy: Oh! Now I remember. I kept it in the drawer over my bed. Obi thanks his father and both go their separate ways. When he gets to the drawer over his father's bed, he throws his mouth open at the sight of kola, caffeine and gin.
Winner of the Kollaj Prize for Short Stories 2017 and the September 2018 edition of the Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest (BPPC) Ebubechukwu Bruno Nwagbo is a broadcaster, librarian and literary administrator. He currently moderates the Poets In Nigeria (PIN) Food Poetry Contest. He is a co-editor of Boys Are Not Stones Anthologies.
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WE HAVE BEEN BOYS Kalu Amah
The first moon, they said, foretold my gender, It was a full moon that night And I cried before the owl could hoot. Instead of my death at birth, came the owl lying dead at the drunk of the udala tree. Dike! Dike-ogu! My people yelled.
So, I was growing inside a body that defeated an evil bird at birth. The boy whose cry at birth echoed weaponry And when later I cried, everyone ignored He is a boy, a man to be, they said
I grew to love pain and Embrace hard feelings like a child will embrace the mother's luscious breast And when we Walk and fall Or work and fail, Our kindred vociferated: Stand, lest you fall! Be a man, lest you're devalued
And inside the heart, We conceived this difference between us and our opposite
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Like something else flowed inside them Unlike the red fluid that irrigates our body system And in our dexterity Ends keep opposing their meeting And we keep getting weary And we wish those eyes could close forever
We have not been stones We have only been boys, a part of human.
Kalu Amah, formerly published as Siza Amah, from Amamiri Ihechiowa, Abia state, was raised in Aba, Nigeria. He lives in Enugu. His writings include poetry, travelogues, short stories, and reviews. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in Dreich Magazine, MahMag, DisQuiet Art, and others. His Julius Caesar Dramatic Monologue has toured around many states and in many events in Nigeria including the Dike Chukwumerije's Night of Spoken Word, Abuja; Enugu Literary Festival; TEDx Asata, and many other literary gatherings.
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SHAME ON HER Salim Yunusa
She told me to keep quiet, spoke to my wet crouch sweetly, as she unzipped it. It was red like scarlet from my little thing oozing blood. She said 'men don't cry. She said we were just playing, but boy was it a rough game. We were an improper fraction, I was the hurting tiny numerator. I could see the glow in her eyes, the excitement, every time she twirled and flexed on my frail body, I boxed beating palpitations that signalled me it wasn't right. No man keeps knocking himself on the same stumbling block. Every day at Dawn and dusk, she would have pinned me down each time while dirtying herself and me while she continuously said it's fun. My silence and my frowns worry her, she turns upside down just to cover her shame. Her rotten dignity lays bare on the palms of my little hands and the memories haunt me daily. I am but a broken soul! Society chants the infamous refrain, "boys are strong," and forget that our torsos torn apart cannot be mended. I am a boy, a little man, but human too. I have been stripped of love, but not all hope is lost.
Salim Yunusa is a writer, poet and activist from Zaria, Nigeria. He is the Founder of a literary organization, Poetic Wednesdays.
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MAN Okam Cheta
You're the man, the legitimate hero with emotions at zero Cracked up, whipped down
No such thing as a weeping strong man Your emotions should lay low and not blown up with a fan The weight's yours to bear a complaint from you to the world
SON: Even with me this broken, not a thought for the world to hear??? I'm the weeping willow tree, should they not see my tear? This heart that's broken and unpieced Shouldn't they know it gets more bruised through the ear?
For indeed I've borne both the sentence and the sorrow Patience at least life could borrow All there is just hollow can't at least the world lend an ear To this one who's missing today???
And lost his tomorrow to the mistook teachings of yesterday: "You're the head and not the tail that gives a bow" "Be firm and give not emotions a ray"
Okam Cheta: it's simply poetry. To observe, to witness, to write; I am an adventure. The goal is to replicate life in the pages of poetry. When that is done to the best of an explorers ability, the totality of existence becomes a melody.
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GIRLS {GET} TOGETHER IS NOT A BOY'S PARTY Dann Nwankwo
I disembodied myself, my life is like a leaf, & a shoot, I am an heir of the soil, so, I sprout, into folds: of memories, of people, & of places, my aura had outlived. My soul is a template: of everything lost in exile, of horses, of chariots, of kings & kingdom swept by wars. My body is a market square: of voices so loud but cannot be heard, of people buying & buying & buying till I have nought to sell, of forces pulling down my hands as I stretch to grab freedom, but I still germinate into folds: of people enclosing me, scuffling my hands, demanding what I have not, to offer, I wonder whoever bedevils the devil — for I am one. I read it, I saw it with my two eyes: in the prints,
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where black boys were red-written with smeared blood and dried tears, where boys were domesticated sex toys. I read it: in the news, of which are always bad, where black boys were armed with guns & made warriors they never wanted to be.
& in the expression worn by ladies, that boys are violence, wars, threats. For only the rights of girls deserve to make the whole world soldiers fight & fight & fight as though boys are not humans.
Dann Nwankwo is a mixed breed of the Yorùbá and Igbo lineage. Words, to him, are liquid weapons of destruction or construction. He was an Editor1 at Samwagba Press Club in 2015. Top ten finalist at AAUA Spelling Bee in 2017. A faculty librarian at National Association of Science Students, AAUA in 2018. A departmental President of Biochemistry, AAUA in 2019. His works have appeared on various sites like Teenscorner, Allpoetry, Foravidreaders, etc.
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JEZEBELS Toheeb Aderemi Raji
I walked through a street in the South, where blacks were apartheid-like in Africa. I ventured into a taxi of cannibals, where women fed on men to fill their insatiable urges. That taxi en-route into town at the crossroad where the driver took a turn; injected with unconsciousness; helpless like a corpse. I woke up in an orchard, where jezebels were holding unto a feast filled with forbidding fruit, energized with energy drinks. They were three and I was one! Like Adam, I remained in their colony only to keep consuming, that, which was cursed like the fruit offered by Eve. They started to take a turn; eventually lost to count. I was eaten like a grape; through their mournful rape, like an ape, I took a shape. I woke up in a sanatorium after three days of quarantine. I became a victim of not Covid but rape.
Raji Toheeb Aderemi is a short story writer, poet, performer and multidisciplinary artist. He hails from Ede, Osun State. He is a graduate of English from Federal University Dutse, Jigawa State. He derives more pleasure in reading poems and stories. He sees poetry as a key that opens the voiceless mouth to speak.
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NIGHTS THAT DROWN THE SOUL Julius Tunde Ige
For boys who have become men before childhood, boys who have ejaculated thick tears by thrusting into deep places that are deeper than their young imaginations.
This is for boys, who never understood the meaning of life, for it came with silence and each silence translates into a thousand pain.
For boys who had the guilt of the world as an emblem on their forehead, bearing both the sins of the past and future.
This is for boys who paraded the street of ignorance, their minds became this foam that accepted every form of emotions: hook, line and sinker.
Their distillation process was interrupted because their mind filter has been expanded like the ozone layer in the sky. This is for boys, who felt the sun, embraced it and wished night never came. The night they experience comes with a cold sensation in end places, unusual feeling and creation of tears that is what the sun didn’t bring.
Julius Tunde Ige is a contemporary poet and writer whose works sheds light on absolute sadism, pain and philosophical poems. In his poems, the message of life is passed through metaphoric and lines that are drawn from both day-to-day activities and life experience.
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MAN'S PLIGHT Emeka Angus
SOCIETY: Man, do not cry Man do not cry Don't shed a tear
Though Tension builds in your eyes Like raging storm against a sailing ship The heat of the sun may peel your flesh, The suppressed flows of volcanic emotions Drains your strength two times more The debris and rubble beneath you Lacerate your wobbling feet Your heart is bereft of a lover's touch
You Must Close your eyes Sail across and ahead Sniff in the ash of your burnt skin Work, yet even more March on till you match up Man up!
MAN: You ask me not to cry I am a man
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I may not shed a tear
But I am flesh and blood My heart bleeds My manhood fails me My ego strangles me His pride will kill me Did you not hear? ''Jesus Wept''
Emeka Angus is a poet whose works have been published in renowned magazines. He is one of the poets around the world who contributed to the making of an anthology concerning the coronavirus global pandemic. He is currently a teacher of the English language in a secondary school.
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TO THE BOYS WE PUT IN CAGES Omowunmi Sulaimon
I didn't see nor hear your; muffled sobs — the ones Only your pillows witness, with walls acting as an absorber, The bland colour rivalling the emptiness in your heart, I feel them. Looking into your eyes, I see the unruly tears of untold stories.
Every time, you hide under your jokes & wear a smiley mask. You bury your hands in your pocket to feign nameless pain, I see the entombed aches hidden in your playacting facade. You slip sometimes & I catch it like lightning till it wheezes by.
Boys should not be seen crying; a taboo to your "masculinity." Like a dog with rabies, you get mad at everything/one & yourself, The anger eats you up, till you have to expend it on the wall, But whenever you hit it, the pains don't match the one in your heart.
Every time, you massage your organs in a show of self-love, With a lost lover picture in your head, aiding you to climax, Till you explode in colours too shameful to be painted. The aftermath is a broken boy with an appendage in his hands.
With narrow chances & expectation as high as mount Everest, How do we forge the boys to steels with insufficient irons? How would they stay afloat in a sparking stainless sea?
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When everyone walks to the furnace, you daren't cower.
You carry your cross & still leave room for another. You make a girl call you daddy, you give… till you’re empty To the boys, we put in cages with restraining shackles, The unlock key is to allow yourself to live fully as a human.
Omowunmi Sulaimon is a Writer, freelancer, reader and an up and coming fitness expert. She's a medical laboratory science student at the prestigious University of Lagos. When she is not writing, reading or working out, she will be sleeping. She loves travelling too.
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FOR BOYS WHO RETURNED HOME AS BREAKING NEWS Jaachi Anyatonwu i. the beginning of sorrows eight pm. silent night, dark. silvery moonlight stream through wall cracks. i heard my name. mother, streams of tears down her cheeks. father. death. ewo! ii. there’s sadness in my hut but the world laughs & carries on eight pm. silent night, dark. i am only seven. a thousand thoughts raging. tears. fears. what will tomorrow bring? moon glows. couple moans. frog croaks. iii. they ignored the hungry little boy in the street eight am. busy street, cacophony, dust, heat. lost souls with no eyes speed past a hungry boy, like the light train, ignoring my yawns and bulging stomach, eyes turned right. too busy. to care. iv. and reality dawned on me like the illumine bliss of sunrise Page 97 of 210
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it's hard to live this life, yet, when a loved one leaves this life, we die in bits. it's difficult to become what we dream of, yet we strive to stay fit by the hustles we gym on. you see? my mind is free. free to dream from off this mental prison where lies the hurt of papa's demise. it is difficult to escape through this line while walking on a thin blue line across the river nile, where norms enslave and cultures long-overdue walk freely on the streets of reason. v. but they said times supposed to heal us twenty-seven. a wanderer. the lone star on the horizon. time ticks. nomadic, i trace the star. rainfall. bag of salt. dare. vi. love is to blame. nay? if only she knew in her bloom as she swung hips from side to side & from pouted lips kiss my dad when he wooed her that he will someday be unalive, with no promise that he'll come again to wipe her tears away... vii. from the east, a wise son seeks answers spirit. soul. body-like the three wise men
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i am following a lone star that spells freedom. but look who's still in chains. me! lost in a foreign land of dreams. all the gym, still not fit. though chance favours those in motion, yet no favour graces my feet. viii. molehill i know it's improper to make a mountain out of a molehill, but here i am still counting my dead & munching sour bread. still wondering. wandering. just here... no progress. ix. the sea calls me by my name eight pm. third mainland bridge. beneath those waters lies the answers i seek. only he who goes to war and return is a soldier. i will dive. i quit the survival fight. i might die. but, the pain in my heart, can’t survive underwater. x. wherever i go, i leave the pain behind man come, mango this fruit of life is a big joke! Mama, forgive me. i tried, in futility, to find meaning in this life man born. man was gone. dives!
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xi. breaking news!!! today, on suicide: man, twenty-seven, dives into the atlantic ocean. rescued by passers-by. no pulse. no breath. dead. xii. requiem i heard you came looking for me i didn’t drown, i am the water. - Jo Nketia
Jaachi Anyatonwu is a poet, editor, and publisher living in the suburbs of Aba. He is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks and collections, and the Editor-In-Chief of Poemify Publishing Inc. Jaachi is passionate about discovering new voices and mentoring emerging poets. He is also a fierce advocate for the boy child and sexually molested.
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CHANGING THE NARRATIVE; THE SILENCE OF THE BOY CHILD Ajibade Abdullahi Adewale
The silence of the boy child is a danger to society.
The personal story of the boy child has always been left untold owning to a widespread view of perceived culture that directly portrays the male child as a symbol of perfection. This could be traced to the idea that defines masculinity as being strong and always healthy in its entirety.
Albeit the narrative is taking a new dimension, though minute, the conversation about the boy child being an endangered species is often a time seen as unconventional thus, it is a needless discussion. Practically, the birth of a male child actuates fresh hope in the family as he grows to shoulder responsibilities and it's automatic that he becomes the breadwinner.
Saddening, the boy child has to decide his future and walk his way with little or no guidance from society. In his attempt to find his legs, he ends up taking drugs and engaging in other vices. Also, he may end up depressed since he is on the run to satisfy the expectation of society while all he gets is “you need to remain strong and behave like a man.”
On the flip side, the campaign encouraging the brandish of the girl child has been gaining momentum. In a sense, what is the
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point in putting all energy to elevate the girl child when the male child is not well-trained or guided? Unfortunately, the campaign for the female child is seen by many as an opportunity to outshine or dominate the male child. Elaborately, exposing them to unnecessary competition.
In corroboration to the foregoing, it is only a psychologically and mentally developed male child that will not threaten coexistence with his female counterpart. Likewise, there is nothing “equal” in “gender equality when it is one-sided. Be that as it may, the current dispensation is now being exposed to the reality surrounding the existence of the male child as many a person is beginning to realize the necessity of rewriting the narrative attached to the silence of the boy child.
Emphatically, the male child has emotion too, he can be depressed, he is not perfect, he gets raped too and his voice can only be heard when the narrative is rewritten.
Ajibade Abdullah Adewale is a student of Obafemi Awolowo University studying linguistics. He writes from Osun State.
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BOYS ARE NOT STONES Felix Idasimeokuma
We are humans too, not toys. We have souls, and we carry bodies that feel pains too.
Even though we are thick and dark-skinned, we do not wish to be put in sacks.
As cold as crows beneath flakes of snows, we are who we are; boys, not stones, let the truth be told.
Felix Idasimeokuma is an Indigene of kirike (kalio-ama,okrika, Rivers state of Nigeria). He is a Poet, Inspirational Speaker, Believer and Humourist.
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MASCULINITY Esther Kalu
Masculinity has been made a cage where boys live in. Boys taught to look fear in the eyes, boys taught to wear masks — tucked in perfectly to hide their emotions. Boys; with hearts like glass, shattered, but absorb the brokenness to be outspoken. Boys taught to be stones as hard as a rock and should remain impenetrable when pain knocks. But when I look at these broken boys, I see life! A life they wish they had, basking in undiluted freedom and happiness. A life to be who they want to be!
When I stare at their faces, I see the plight of freedom in chains. I see brooding broken boys that beckons to be mended into the men they have become. But they are masked up behind a façade that took them years to perfect. I see boys with broken spirits Yet only nurse their brokenness in secrets. They say “men don’t cry” But they forget that boys are not stones.
Esther Kalu is a mass communication student at Yaba College of Technology, Yaba. She finds solace in expressing her thoughts and emotions through the art of poetry. She loves to smile and she spends her leisure time exploring the world of literature.
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FOR BOYS WHO TURNED TO ASHES Ajibade Abdullah Adéwálé
There are only twin ways to die by the pang of death & by being a boy.
Being a boy, mind like war field, responsibilities, expectations, perfection and peace battle for territory while pain is the spoil of war.
They say boys like him should grow a thick skin, that his body is proof that bullets can't penetrate, even when his existence disperses into thin air like the flames of burnt firewood.
They never ask the reason for his silence even when it's an escape from the loneliness.
Stones thrown by the society hit very hard, his body is an abode of bloodless scars. Boys like me get mourned when turned to ashes, ashes exposed to the wind come tomorrow.
Yet they ask about him, like they never knew he was murdered before the night comes.
Ajibade Abdullah Adewale is a student of Obafemi Awolowo University studying linguistics. He writes from Osun State.
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FROM BOY TO MAN: THE MAKING Ifiokobong Etuk
If truly, the boy is the father of the man, and the boy is innocent then the man truly is an orphan . . . i. A boy is a free spirit, knows no captivity, his experiences are acquainted with ignorance and naivety, his mind knows immeasurable bliss for this.
A boy is beautiful in his soul and face, windowed by dreamy eyes that sees his future grace, laced by fantasies whenever he closes them to sleep.
A boy is a fierce torch bearer of living hopes, a harmless petal of vulnerable dream globes, a perfect blend of tough and brittle.
A boy wants to be a man, and the world tells him "how to be a man!" Even though he is not ready for it. ii. A boy finds a way to be a man, but at a price he thinks he can pay:
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He must send his innocence to extinction and begin to know corruption, for the world of men is full of guilt.
He must abandon his childhood dreams and learn how to make new ones without light gleams, for a man must not accomplish the dreams of a child.
At the end of the day, the boy becomes a man. iii.
A man is the child of the boy, but how was he birthed?
To make a man, a boy had to be cannibalized, Slaughtered and torn apart to be made new.
The boy dies giving birth to the man and the man is born to a deceased...... If truly the boy is the father of the man and the boy is innocent, then the man truly is an orphan.
Ifiokobong Etuk is a Poet, a Photographer, and a student of communication studies. He uses his poetry as a means of self- expression and addressing issues that find enough importance to trouble his mind. When he's not writing poetry, he engages in reading the works of other creatives. Page 107 of 210
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BOYS ARE NOT STONES Ifem Chiemerie
Some say to be a man is not a day job, although to some extent this may be true because a lot of the fact that a whole lot of things in the world greatly and significantly depends on the male gender be it in finance, economy, sports, politics, science, art, commerce, name it. In terms of creative innovation and technological advancements in the human race, men have taken the lead because they are naturally endowed with stability, agility, tenacity, creativity and some other unique qualities and abilities.
It is surprising to see how much society demands from men starting from the stage of boyhood, the truth is that men are not stones neither are they gods, the expectations of society and men subsequent response in line with these superfluous demands have always proven to be detrimental to the male gender specifically young boys.
Almost from cradle boys are compelled to mould their lives in conformity with the expectations of the society boys are expected to be like their fathers who also were subject to the same standard they are taught and trained to hide their feelings, not to express emotions or show any form of tenderness as this will make the society perceive them as a weakling and consequently take advantage of them.
Whether positive or negative, whatsoever culture and tradition our generation tolerates would always turn out to be a norm in the
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succeeding generation, and when people of goodwill criticizes or opposes some of these weird values or culture they would be seen as weird and unaccommodating, some of these ideologies are age long as it predates the modern civilization take, for instance, the ancient African society in the primitive setting in remote villages, from the point when the boy starts to crawl without leniency, young boys were trained to hunt, farm, fight, fish and carryout certain demanding responsibility alongside their fathers while the female counterpart stays at home, this process many societies believes will further strengthen the boy physically and emotionally, that they were meant to go through a very difficult and rigorous process.
In much African society, boys are told to be like a lion they are fed with the notion that expressing their feelings will be detrimental as this will reduce their dignity and make the society consider them a woman and subsequently deem them unfit for certain honour and prestige there is a tribe in West Africa where a suitor is beaten and whipped by the potential bride’s father for him to prove he is strong enough in every way to take care of his daughter, and because of love and societal demands many men accepted this standard which is unfair and callous.
Every man is a product of influence, the eyes and the ears being the doors to the heart, many times the boy yields to the notion he had been faced and fed with. That he had seen and heard almost all through his life would be very difficult if not impossible to resist, line by line, step by step, he begins to accept the notion that men are made without emotions and shedding tears is a
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business only for women like his predecessors, he internalizes the doctrine because he is naturally egocentric and would never want to be seen as a weakling, haven't received these culture and traditional "dogma" he begins to employ it in his relationship and every other sphere of his life because he wasn't taught that men have emotions, he comes into the larger society unable to communicate his emotions effectively and therefore would not be understood because the human society is one which emotion is a very vital part of because even some laws that governs the community is not void of emotional factors and considerations, emotions and logic are elements present in the process of structuring and forming every society, wrong beliefs equal wrong living, so when the boy grows up to be a man he will still have a void in his heart because he wasn't taught properly about expressing his feelings, this will affect the way he relates with people around him and when he has a visitor, the atmosphere in his home is always very tense, he is unable to display affection towards his wife in public places because he has an ideology that restricts his emotions, his relationship with his children suffers because every child needs affection and attention which he can't give because he wasn't given, one can only give what he has and almost everyone in the world is a product of his or her childhood experience, his relationship with his children will be more of that of a king to his subjects, because he would rather want to be feared than to be love, even when he has this strong feelings towards his children he would always try to hide his emotions. Let's take me for instance, I am 24 years old, I do go to visit my dad but he has never told me he loves me even when I know he does I remember many years back, my elder brother came back
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late from an outing, my Dad locked him outside the house, as a result of this my brother became agitated and began protesting, my Dad became very furious and brought out something to hit my brother but I took the object and hid it, this was primarily because he has been taught that he needs to be in control of his house regardless of the measures he employs he should never be emotional, this kind of action is a trend in the typical African society, this is what a man's ego and his willingness to meet the social standard.
Boys and men alone should not be blamed for this deficiency, I use the term boys and men because every man was once a boy, the world as a whole should learn to understand that just as the female counterpart he also has emotions and emotional needs which is to be met, he is not a wooden creature that is immune to emotions neither does he repel emotions, the boy is as delicate as the girl emotionally and so should be brought up with care and love, many people talk about "girl rights" but you will barely see people talking about the “boy rights" because many believe they are strong and invincible and would not need to be cared for, the truth is that if we want to make the world a better place we need to start talking about the boy rather than neglecting him which will bring about a vacuum in his heart knowing full well that someday he will have to live with the girl who may not be able to fill that vacuum we created thereby giving her extra responsibility. Whether we like it or not, the impact of our actions towards the male gender has affected our society negatively because as a result of lack of care stemming up from the impression that the boy is strong and therefore he is emotionally independent, this has
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led to emotional instability and crisis which lures many to engage in antisocial behaviours. We must change our impression about these things it shouldn't be strange to see a man cry, the plight of many men has been hidden under the veil of ego and societal expectation, many are those who are victims of domestic violence but cannot open up to the world for the fear of being mocked, many are those who have been sexually molested and even raped yet the criminal laws of many nations are construed in such a way that only women can be victims of rape, are we not all equal? Why fight for the girl child and neglect the boy child? When a woman cries, we will come to her aid with every arsenal at our disposal but when he cries we deem him as weak and tell him to be a man, is comfort meant for a particular gender? Is this the equality we desire?
These are questions every man needs to answer in his heart even when a boy experiences a misfortune, rather than letting his emotions pour out his heart and relieve his soul from the burden, we tell him not to cry like a woman and in a bid to create an impression, protect his ego and appear strong, he swallows the toxins which he ought to have vomited and because he is trying to be a man, so he goes about with the burden in his heart, he now becomes a beast of burden, where love and tenderness ought to occupy now dwells a pain, sorrow and agony prompted, stimulated and preserved by ego engineered by the society. This issue has eaten deep into the very fabric of every society, it exists in developed nations and even in Third World countries, men everywhere try to appear emotionally sound and stable to the extent that sometimes their wife would know their husbands need
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a shoulder to lean on, he cries on the inside but smiles on the surface, the truth remains that if the society still accommodates this ideology and perception about men and if men try to meet up with societal standard because of their ego then we will end up creating a society full of people who are depressed and that could be very dangerous because people who are depressed are very emotionally, psychologically and mentally unstable and can do anything to redress his frustration.
Have we ever wondered why we have more widows than widowers? One of the causes is the lack of attention we give to the male gender and the impression that we don't need to take care of them as they are strong enough to get through whatever they may be facing.
Now the point is this if we want a positive change we have to be the change we want to see the mind is the battlefield every great attainment or achievement started from the mind so my position is this we need to start sensitizing and enlightening people as touching the issue of neglecting the boy we need to make them understand that the boy is not a stone, he needs love, he needs care he needs to be treated with equal consideration his tears should not be considered a taboo but a call to demonstrate love, we need to make them understand that the boy is not a rock, the boy is not a log of wood but a sensitive creature that has emotions and responds to stimulus the earlier we understand the closer we get towards creating a sane, fair and utopian society which every reasonable person desires. I believe there is nothing impossible if we believe since we inherited a negative trend that is
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detrimental to our civilized society as a result of the ignorance of our predecessors, we can modify and reform the trends in a more reasonable way to profit our society. I have a dream that someday boys and girls in every tribe, in every tongue, in every race, in every nation will be treated fairly and indiscriminately with love and boundless affection as living beings with feelings.
Ifem Chiemerem hails from Awka Etiti in Anambra state, Nigeria. He lives with his mum and two siblings in Lagos. He intends to change his environment by writing positive content that will transform society at large.
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WE ARE BODIES IN READINESS TO CHEW BOMBS (after Biachi Ndidi anointing) Ayouba Toure
perched on the arm of a plum tree in the dark an innocent owl wails, everyone stones & accuses it of ill omen. this owl is a body. this body is a reliquary housing unreleased tears of adam’s offspring. every attempt to draw the taste of fire burning the smiles in our blood yield nothing silence is the only language that fits our tongues we have been taught to measure our potencies by the number of burdens we endure in secret we are a thing that feeds on bitterness without painting frowns on the face. whenever a fierce snake visits the living room we are the god every mouth calls upon: we are soldiers in readiness to chew bombs, to face vulnerability, to run way before we crawl and look the sun in the eye all our lives. we are products of dust expected to inherit the traits of a stone: we're men. perched on the branch of a tree an innocent owl wails, & everyone accuses it of witchcraft. an owl is wailing on the tree that villagers accuse of witchcraft. this owl is a body. this body is a storeroom for all our treasures: tears & frustrations.
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every attempt to describe the taste of fire burning the joy in our smiles yields nothing. silence is the only language that sits on our tongues. we've been taught to measure our potencies by the number of burdens we endure / in secret. we're everything that swallows bitterness painting no frown on the face. whenever a fierce snake visits the living room, we're the first thing every mouth pronounces. that we're soldiers in readiness to chew bombs; to face vulnerability; to run away before we crawl; to look at the sun in the eye all our lives. we're products of dust, expected to inherit all the traits of a stone. we are boys.
Ayouba Toure writes from Paynesville, Liberia. His works have been published in African Writer, Praxis Magazine, Odd Magazine, and elsewhere.
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SHARDS Peace Ufedojo Haruna
The beautiful evening sky was dished to me on a broken plate.
The clear sky was embroidered with stars and the pearly moon sat sublimely on the belly of the heaven. I took a deep breath, inhaling the throat-scorching smell of petrol which was leaking out from the car, I hoped it wouldn’t explode. The vehicle lay on its back with smoke coming out of its trunk. The windscreen was disfigured by the harsh impact of the ground, leaving shards of glass in my arm.
I heard a moan; it was seasoned with pain.
“Amir…” I croaked…
Crack!
His bones creaked as he tried to move his body. He winced, biting his lips before letting out a loud hiss. His face was smeared with blood and his breaths were uneasy like waves of the sea, hitting the beach on a cold night.
I held back the bile rising in my throat when I saw large splinters of glass enrooted in his neck and lower abdomen.
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His lips trembled as he quivered. “Joshua…w…why did we get ourselves into this?” he asked, tears squeezing their way out of his eyes.
I wanted to tell him to stop talking, but I figured it would be the only thing that’ll keep him awake. I tried to get out of the vehicle, but, my right leg was stuck under the chair which was now above me. I let out a sigh of defeat before replying to Amir’s long- awaited question;
“Circumstance brought us here.”
I watched as the bloody tears from his eyes rolled into the corner of his lips.
We could have been at our houses counting money and celebrating if things had gone our way. All we had to do was smuggle some packages of cocaine across the border. Unfortunately, it seemed the police had an informant within our circle. We couldn’t get the cocaine across the border. Amir and I got into a hot chase by the police. We had escaped, but we got pushed off the highway by a truck carrying bags of rice. It was only a matter of time before the police found us.
My heart dropped into my stomach at the thought of it.
“Joshua. What made you choose drug smuggling?” He asked, his eyelids were heavy and it was obvious he was in a battle with sleep.
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I held back the tears brimming in my eyes as the memories of what brought me to that point rushed into my head.
“It’s a long story” I replied.
“We have time” he insisted. “From what I see, no one will be coming to help us anytime soon” he added.
My lips produced a painful smile. “My father left my mother and me when I was seven.”
I started taking a deep breath and letting go.
“He disappeared like smoke. I guess he had gotten sick of my mother’s flamboyant lifestyle. My mother wanted to keep up with her careless spending, so, she began sleeping around. She even started bringing them home. It was terrible! So bad, I wished my dad had taken me with him. At that age, I got used to the sounds of sexual acts, it was like a broken record which kept repeating itself.”
“It must have been traumatizing” he whispered.
“It was. I had to drop out of school when I was sixteen, because, my mother started taking me to a baby factory to have sex with girls” I scoffed. “I have so many children out there, that if I come across any, I wouldn’t even know. My mother turned me into that
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kind of person to maintain her spending” my voice faltered at the end. “W...w” I choked on my tears.
“Take your time, Joshua.” Amir pacified.
“Whenever I look into the mirror, I see a monster. All the terrible things I’ve done, hunt me. I’ve robbed, assassinated, kidnapped, smuggled…” I paused. “My mother died a year ago. I thought I’d feel sad, but, she’s still my mother. Regardless of everything she did to me, I couldn’t help but cry.”
“You’re a fighter” Amir grunted.
We stared at the grey roof of the car for a while, both of us basking in the torture of the silence and pain, praying that hope would take a stroll past us.
“Amir, why are you here?” I asked, breaking the silence.
Something strolled past Amir’s eyes, I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“My daughter got hit by a drunk driver. I planned to use the money from this operation to pay for her surgery.”
“You have a daughter?” I asked, my lips forming an ‘O’ shape.
Amir nodded.
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Amir didn’t look a day older than twenty-three. He was about 6’2ft tall, the colour of his skin was like that of peanut butter and his ebony-coloured hair was fleecy and soft due to his Fulani heritage.
“H…how?” I stammered, my vision was getting fogged.
“I got married at the age of eighteen, my wife was sixteen.” He whispered, blinking his eyes which were glossed by tears.
“I was forced into it. After the wedding, everyone disappeared, leaving me to bear the burden alone. I have four children and feeding them is hard. I don’t have the proper education, getting a job is hard…” he coughed.
“Sorry, Amir.”
“…My business is also failing. My wife began to send the children to hawk goods without my permission. Then, this happened” his voice died at the end.
“We’ll get through this, Amir” I assured. “I can’t, but, you can.” He whimpered; his eyelids were succumbing to defeat. “I feel cold, Joshua”
It was then it dawned on me.
“Amir, you need to fight!” I screamed with tears welling in my eyes.
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“If you make it out of here, please take care of my family…” his voice faded before he could complete his sentence. That night, the stars and I watched Amir’s pupils shrink leaving his once bright eyes empty, as the wails of sirens echoed in the distance.
Peace Ufedojo Haruna is an undergraduate at the University of Benin. She lives in Abuja. Her poem 'From Freedom To Free- doom' was shortlisted for the 2019 edition of the Korea-Nigeria Poetry Prize, Student category. She has her works featured in 'Ocean Of Dreams' 2019. She is an advocate for female expression, poverty eradication, anti-racism and environmentally friendly culture. She is also engaged in the fight against rape and other sexual violence. Writing is a way she expresses her thoughts and views.
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WHEN BROKENNESS CLAIMS A BOY Emmanuel Ojeikhodion
I feel like the boy in me no longer breathes. I mean to say I'm a boy but sometimes, I consider myself another being sharing a boy's body. If you take a stroll inside me, you may come out limping with what you've seen. Forgive me, I do not mean to disfigure you with what I carry.
There is a city in my body, one who hasn't sighted a vehicle of love. I grow large with desires & shrink after, at the unrealistic realism of my cravings. This is how I have learnt to love myself back in return & tell myself: "I'm the love of my life." I wonder why the wings of love won't clasp this soul of mine.
My pains from the past few years have gathered in the safe-locker of my body. I do not know the colour of my tears because if I try to break one, I'm no longer considered a boy again.
Aside from this thing called love, I grew up familiar with my mother's scent. At age eleven, my mother already saw in me the man I should have become later on.
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Son, you're a man now, you'll become a bigger one in your twenties, she said. A frisson of shiver shot through me each time the world asks me of my origin. The downtown of my mother's body is the only route I grew up knowing.
Emmanuel Ojeikhodion is a Nigerian-Edo born emerging Writer. He writes Poetry and sometimes Essays. His works have appeared /forthcoming in Chachalaca Review, New Horizon, Cons-cio Magazine, Capsule Stories, Déraciné Mag, Rigorous, African Writer, Pangolin Review, Praxis Magazine & elsewhere. He is a finalist in the Best of Kindness Poetry Contest 2020 from Origami Poems Project. He is on Twitter as @hermynuel and Facebook at Emmanuel Ojeikhodion.
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THE WISH FOR FEWER DAYS Favour Ohakwe
All the sorrow in the world won't stop death, the way it crawls and slides into victims, like a serpent. Its blanket of darkness covered the night, as it came for Dele's mom. Soon, effortlessly she was gone, lost to the world forever, soul separated from the body.
But Dele was an only child, of a dead mother and a runaway father. A father who was too afraid of responsibility, too afraid to see his reality, a reality that goes nowhere, a reality without a destiny.
At first, Dele hawked and tried to make a living, only if he knew what that meant. He scurried the streets of Lagos, his feet soon became as white as snow. While his ankles ached and bruised, begging for a glim of rest, although his spirit was troubled daily so much that it needed comfort.
Sometimes Dele contemplated suicide, but he thought that'll anger his dead mother and her legacy. Only he knew how much he so loved his mother, the way she said sweet words of encouragement. She never considered them underprivileged; she was always praying and fasting while she was alive, believing in a messiah, just like the rest of the world. She did always pay her tithes and victoriously read the Bible. She hoped that God's prosperity would one day save them, so she paid seeds after seeds of money so it will come to pass, and that was the story, of how Dele never went to school.
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But still, Dele believed in God, he believed in destiny, and soon enough he was blessed for his faith and beliefs when a strange uncle of his proposed to take care of him in his household. Dele was ecstatic to accept; to him, it was too much to take in, so much that he felt overwhelmed.
Uncle Olaniyi was an investment banker, with a beautiful wife and a mansion to house his family. The house was stories high, that Dele felt frightened by the display of wealth, and for weeks he got lost in passages, lobbies of the building trying to learn about the new territory. Its interior was decorated like a palace and Dele soon felt that this is where he belonged. Uncle Olaniyi was childless, for a reason Dele could never decipher, because with such wealth there should be children to inherit them, he puzzled. This same thought left him after a month.
The house was a huge one, it needed a cleaner to wipe and sweep and Dele was its number one candidate for the job. He held all the basic requirements for it, firstly and mostly, he was ignorant and couldn't mask his illiteracy, secondly, he was an orphan who did as he was told. This was all the work he had, in exchange for food to eat and a shelter to lay in.
Till a day when Dele was summoned into the Master's bedroom, to simply clean. Uncle Olaniyi was in bed, his night robe on, showing the bare flesh of his fat bell an indulgence had caused. As soon as Dele entered the room, Uncle Olaniyi hurried to the door to close it, which left Dele scared and piqued at first, his
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curiosity heightened by fear. He simply thought the house was under attack and held a fighting face to show he wasn't scared.
Uncle Olaniyi came closer to him, clearly noticing Dele’s dilemma, his reactions; for he has done exact rite a lot of times, but with many a willing partner, all in hush tones and closed doors in private lush hotels.
Quickly he held Dele's hand and spoke with a cooing voice. “Young Man, wouldn't you like to feel pleasures that men haven’t been able to phantom,” said Uncle Olaniyi slowly, emphasizing every word.
“What do you mean Uncle?” asked Dele frightfully, his heart rate increasing with every word, thumping beneath his chest. “Allow me to touch you and surely you will see,” said Uncle Olaniyi seductively. “Let me caress your body with my hands, feel the hardness between your legs and suck the pain away from them.”
Then Uncle Olaniyi tried to kiss him on the lips, an appalling affair it was, Dele resisted with all the might he could summon, but his fussing about couldn't stop the throbbing lust of his uncle, as his bulging erection protruded from his shorts. With a flush of strength, he held Dele down, as tight as his power could muster. With his manly strength, Dele had no chance, and no amount of screaming and shouting for help could save him. Dele was raped, all fibres in his body screamed pain, after that, he couldn't feel anything for a short moment. He feared his soul was
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gone; it often wandered off away from his body searching for a form of relief. But Dele did the only thing he could do, he prayed for days and nights. Just like his mom did. He saw no escape from this slavery. His only option was either being raped or being hungry and homeless again. He was scared to share his dilemma with anyone else, because of threats Uncle Olaniyi gave him, promising to strike and bite Dele, like a rattlesnake.
Days went by so suddenly, the once beautiful blue sky always turned dark when Dele looked at it. The songs of the birds as they kissed the heavens, in search of twigs, to make nests for their un- hatched eggs, never brought a smile to Dele's face anymore; all he ever saw was a blackness that dwelled upon him, covering his countenances like a blanket too faded to bring light or happiness.
Soon he was embracing depression like an old friend, like the way he fell into silence like a void and stared blankly at nothing. After a while, he noticed that life meant nothing to him, there, he wished for death or fewer days, but the days never became shorter, the prayers came unanswered and the rapes continued.
It was on a beautiful Saturday evening, as the sky turned grey, too old to hold the night back, that Dele was stripped down, naked, his clothes were resting on the marble floor of the Master's bedroom. Thrust after thrust from Uncle Olaniyi came spontaneously, but Dele never felt a thing. He hasn't exactly felt anything for a long time. He had been defeated, like the devil, like the Greeks, like world Peace. He lay down and felt the striding rod go in and out of him. Too tired to
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steer, too depressed to care. Before suddenly, the doors flung open, and lo and behold was Uncle Olaniyi's wife, let's call her Temi.
Aunty Temi came in with a shock and astonishment on her face. The dimmed lights couldn't hide the disgusting action made in front of her; she caught them in the very act, like a studio performance, like the very rapture. She stared too awed to talk, her mind calculating her thoughts individually, while slowly trying to regain speech.
“Aunty save me please!” cried Dele desperately, finally his prayers have been answered, this would be the end to this madness, help was here. He rushed behind Temi erratically, with terror in his eyes, although he was too afraid to speak, too tired to ponder, as sweats beads dripped from his face and tears streamed from his eyes.
Temi looked at her husband in disdain and shame, she was still shocked and her fragile face couldn't hide it. “Why?!” she wailed bitterly, “Why have you done such a thing? Do you know what dreaded sin you have committed against morality and God?!”
Uncle Olaniyi never said a word, he just looked in disbelief and silence at what was unfolding before him. He never saw any shame in his actions; he saw nothing wrong in raping an innocent boy.
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“You'll be taken care of,” said Aunty Temi to Dele, “I will take care of you; you'll grow like the trees by the riverside and your spirits shall once again soar high.”
After that, Aunty Temi led Dele to the bed, told him to lie down, and get rest before she took him to the doctor, so Dele did as he was told in undoubting obedience. Aunty Temi walked outside to bring a bottle of water, which Dele drank without objection, and so, not too long after. Dele fell asleep, due to the sedative in the water he was given to drink by Aunty Temi.
Not too soon after, Dele woke up, only to find out that he was tied up, with ropes to his feet and hands tightly. They ache as he wiggled about them, while a spearing headache caught him, in an hour, he was screaming in tears and pains. Aunty Temi was standing at the entrance of the room, looking at him in pity, like an animal led to the slaughterhouse. She sighed and reminisced, the times she had done the same thing she did to Dele, to other boys.
And just like Dele she too was trapped with a role, to play the contented wife, married to a serial gay rapist. No amount of practice prepared her, no number of pleas from past victims’ summoned pity in her heart. No amount of money will quench her thirst for wealth.
So, Dele lay down on the bed, with silence like a blanket, over the room. Tightly was he tied to the bed, he knew he couldn't escape, he knew nobody will save him. His mind was not blank, it was
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dead. He was the proverbial Christ, who will die for the sins of lust in his Uncle, the lust he never created. He watched, as Uncle Olaniyi snickered and sneered as he slid inside him. Then at that very moment, Dele prayed for death, but death didn't come.
Favour Ohakwe is an avid reader and a Writer. He's currently writing his second novel titled Daughters of Hera.
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WE BURY SADNESS IN OUR SMILES Kwaghkule Aondonengen Jacob
Listen to me lad! You are like a lion Whose roars echo Even when the jungle Trembles with hunting steps Of a well-applauded hunter, Haven't you heard before?
As a man as I am We bury sadness in our smiles & learn to live with some scars Of our broken hearts For the fear of flaws A man must not poses, Haven't you heard before?
When flames of fury spike & Smear like fire in a furnace, A man must wear a shining face Like a smiling morning star To the deception of the public & for the glory of our gods...
Sit sadly still & motionless Let me tell you a tale
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Of how we hide our weaknesses Before the eyes of society, The bearing stench in our stories of success Even when failure swallows our efforts.
Let those erotic channels That descent down your cheeks Remain dried forever. A man does not cry; He only sighs & smiles When a phenomenon strikes. My father's words from the grave…
Kwaghkule Aondonengen Jacob is an award-winning Nigerian Poet. He is popularly known by his pen name "Mr Kvip". His poems appeared or forthcoming at, Praxis Magazine, The Best of Africa Magazine, Poemify Magazine, Indian Periodical, InternetPoems.com, Sub-Saharan Magazine, including many anthologies and elsewhere.
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WHITE LIE Enobong Etuk
After staring at him for what I think was quite a lot of time, I finally found my voice and said “Just take a look at yourself..."
I sighed in frustration. "They are right. You are no better than a piece of dirt. Father was right, you are nothing more than a scab." The sentence hung in the air until the silence between us was like a suffocating mask. He stood motionless, emptied of the words I had just said, emptied of life.
"Do you know what a scab is?" I asked, cupping his chin in my hand and forcing him to meet my gaze. "A scab is something you have to put up with until the time comes when you can pick it up and flick it away."
Standing directly in front of me, his tears started to fall, and he cried uncontrollably. Tears kept streaming down his eyes as he, with trembling hands, took the blade on the top of the dresser.
"No one will miss you," I said laughing as he slit his arm with the blade. I looked back up at his eyes, shaking my head. Staring back at me from the mirror was my reflection.
Enobong Etuk is a student of the University of Uyo, where she studies Human Anatomy. She is a Nigerian creative writer with enormous promise and important stories to tell. She writes works that provoke thought on topics of gender and social justice. Her work has appeared in Riverbird Mag and elsewhere. Page 134 of 210
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DEAD INSIDE John Ngbede Festus
I wish I could let the tears flow like the sky, ejaculating sperms into the arid lands. I wish I could let the pains show like the untamed harmattan that kisses every skin. I wish I could let them all know how it hurts to wear a mask, masquerading each day's task. I wish I could let them all see that I am sick and tired of being sick and tired, and how, like the bird, I want to be free lilting through the morning, melting the dew-mugged effervescence of the earth that withers the sun and shivers the moon But I can't! 'Cause, when they said I am a boy, they meant I'm dead inside a breathing corpse whose feelings are numb whose meaning has sunk into the abyss, and whose soul, hasn’t been found A wanderer merely drifting, roaming the midnight halls, hearing whispers of those who can't see me, yearning to be heard by those who don't listen. A loner amongst a forest of trees,
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a dead tree, travelling the same road where vultures fight for their shares, tearing away with glee, my every piece of meat!
John Ngbede Festus is an alumnus of Ebonyi State University, disciplined in sociology and anthropology, as an intellectual congregate until August 2015. He began writing poetry as a creative license since his years in high school. His works touch the tempers of post-colonial Africa, especially the surrogate and feudalistic fundamentalism in African polity, and other social realities.
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FOR THE BOY CHILD: I AM BECAUSE YOU ARE Olugbuyiro Success
"We have the task both of affirming the humanity of others and helping them to affirm it for themselves." ~ Ananias Mpunz
There is a need for "shifted attention" to the next person before we think of ourselves. When we think of others first, we get positive vibes to do more, beginning with ourselves. So, we hear words like "I did not want the pain to continue, the life of street kids inspired me, founded on kindness and compassion, the course to change the world" etcetera but when we think of ourselves first, we tend to get lost in the negative vibe of selfishness. That has been the basis of social vices to humanity leading to the continuation of corrupt practices, exploitation of the minority and powerless, vulnerability and discrimination.
Where you take your first breath says a lot about you; where you continue to take your breath has a lot to do with the opportunities life will give you. I have been bruised, broken and hurt by cycles and repeating cycles of violence. I am moulded from a broken home and my childhood, shaped by the abusive relationship of my parents. I was blooming into teenage-hood when suddenly my innocence was nipped off by the neighbour next door. I was not made for the street, but being a hopeless and homeless orphan, the street took me in but not without its price of pilfering, drugs and alcohol. Before I knew it, the prison became my new home.
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Many people have also been there and no longer feel the pain by indulging in the act that brought them pain in the first place. They see it as the norm, as revenge and hence feel no guilt. I do not want to be in pains because you are in pains; I do not have to be abused because you were violated. I do not want to be the price you pay for your damage.
We have been made aware of our identity and differences. Life keeps reminding us of our individualities, we are born alone, we die alone- me, myself and I. But we can live and let men live. So, I am out of the prison and I have wiped my tears, though I cry within me daily. I am still hurting while the healing process is taking place. But I have chosen to break this cycle. This act of sexual violence and her elder siblings must stop and it begins with me.
I will not let another man pay for crimes she did not commit. I will protect her and not behold her as an object of gratification and refuse. I will protect the girl child and not let my past get in my way. The women folk will see me and behold a father that loves, an uncle that understands and a brother that can be trusted.
I will love the boy child and set an excellent example of fatherhood. When you see me, you see a man that loves his wife and her many wins, has happy and protected children and stays away from hard drugs. Sickness or health, lack or riches, does not define my masculinity. I will not hide my tears so you know men feel pain too, men can be weak too, and men can be vulnerable.
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You can be loved and cherished and also ask for help. You can be protected and not seen as an object of revenge and predisposed danger.
I will not encourage other folks and their despicable acts towards fellow men. I will speak out so you know I can relate to your pain. I will speak against stigma which in itself is traumatic. I know this battle is hard to fight because it will take place in the field of human minds. Arms and ammunition are not useful in this war but a tweak in minds and mindset, redefinition of who we truly are and what we should stand up for.
When we begin to see that we all are connected: my actions and inactions affect you, your actions and inactions affect me, how we can make or mar one another, we then can deliberately make the world a better place for you and me.
This war will not be easy, this war may not have ended on time but as long as the sea keeps hitting the shoreline no matter how many times it is swept back, I will keep spreading the right news to all men. Till our opinion that "every man is a scum; every woman is a liar" is trashed. Till all our wrong attitudes and manner of living and making someone else's life a living hell comes to an end.
A piece of us has to die so we can live life fully and trust me; our generation will thank us for it. They will look at the cost we paid to free them and say "I am free because you were free". I know
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you have been hurt but you can deliberately choose to let it end with you.
By the time we do that, we can proudly say that for the boy child; I am because you are.
Olugbuyiro Success is the first of four girls in a family of six and also a 300-level student of the Department of Physiology, University of Ibadan. She is also an entrepreneur, a budding farmer and an advocate for mental health, good politics and gender equality. She writes and hopes to leave footprints in the sand of time.
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THE PRAYER OF A POOR BOY Ariyo Ahmad
Whenever there is silence in the voice of nature, he is always scared of praying, for who would listen to the pains etched in the marrow of his bone. Hunger has tasted his blood and sucked it like a vampire.
So, when the sun talks in the morning, even if it were too harsh for his eyes, he would pray that: “Oh, sun; let today be a brighter day,” even if it were leftover or fallen crumbs of a rich man’s table. Like a bloodsucker, he would vent his decayed teeth on it till it sounds like a mouse trapped in the mouth of a cobra.
When the sun changes the texture of her face, and the sky cries after the imbalance purse of the cloud, he would cling his knee cap into a dirty mud then raise his hand like a sinner. Thou, he still doubts if God is watching after him, for this ‘hardship is unbearable’ was his song. "Let this drop of rain be the way I would count my blessing tomorrow." The tomorrow that he knew may never come, Tomorrow is scared of his future greatness.
And when the night approaches,
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the busy beetle whispers, and the wind blows through the fallen apartment where he gets submerged into darkness. He would pray, that death never demolish this apartment and may tomorrow be a new dawn, for he is still a small boy who fears to die.
Ariyo Ahmad is a Nigerian poet and an art lover who chooses poetry as a great medium to express his feelings about an aspect or the other in other to save the world and make changes in humanity at large. He has his poem accepted for publication in the forthcoming mad-muselit magazine, the best African magazine, tealit press and he has been featured in different Anthology.
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EMPOWER THE BOYCHILD Enyi Christiana Chijioke
The world has done an amazing job at. raising the girl child as well as protecting their rights and giving them a voice. Many women are taking up the leadership role in Africa, most careers that were considered to be male dominant are now occupied by female folks. I'm not against this but what I'm advocating for is gender role balance. The boy child has become less competitive and it's crucial that as advocates of human rights, we should consider how to carry both sexes along.
The boy child is a young infant developing into a young boy who would grow into an adult man. A boy child is differentiated from a girl child by the genesis. It has been instilled in the boy from childhood to find his masculine identity through the use of their bodies as dominance and control over the girl child on how to be the ideal man and this has contributed to what makes them suffer the most. They are expected to be tough, breadwinners and not sharing their emotions because it is girly for them to do that.
Nowadays, the utmost priority has been given to the girl child as regards their education and wellbeing, leaving the boy child alone with no choice or guidance from the environment. Unfortunately, both boys and men have been out of circulation in the girl child empowerment, consequently creating an imbalance in a family set up and society at large. In a bid to find his stand, the boy child has been associated with various social vibes such as drug abuse, rape, dropping out of school amongst others.
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The boy child's interest has been overlooked by some factors such as culture and tradition, educational institutions and others. The women have lived in a male dominant world, they had no say on any issue about their lives because they feared the men and the consequences that follow thereafter. Moving towards the 20th century, things started turning around. The advocacy for gender equality started and African society saw the importance and realized that and educated woman will be of benefits to society.
Women started gaining influence and come to realize that what a man can do, they can do it even better. The male folks did not perceive any indication of threat coming from the women empowerment and though unwillingly, they supported the movement. Along the line, the girl child empowerment started to obscure the boy child empowerment as society started to pay more interest to the girls than the boys. The boy child is meant to deal with his problems alone.
Nevertheless, the boy child might continue to live in disappointment and annoyance thereby pushing him into hazardous and illegal activities. Both genders are important and no one should be at the expense of the other. Boys need guidance alongside advice through their episode to manhood, as they face many challenges and are exposed to the obstacles of life. We tend to focus more on the girl child and most times, we tell the boy child that he is the head of the family without much sensitization.
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citizens well emphasized. It has been said over the years that girls become women by attaining physical growth but the same does not go well for the boy child. They need to show courage and preeminence of certain skills or techniques. There are many occurrences where the boy child is subjugated by their weaknesses which leaves them depressed or even lead to committing suicide.
Solicitation for the perfection of the physical body is a way to prove strength and manhood but in the actual sense of things, is that the way we should go? Disabilities or injuries on the bodies of the boys is frowned upon as he is told to be a man and take it like the man he is. They are bullied, body-shamed but society cares less about all these things. The transition to adulthood can be very difficult for some boys. The challenges they face sometimes has to do with the gender gap between boys and girls.
Besides, the boy child is also an unseen victim of sexual assault but there are few or no rooms for them in society, for them to talk about it as they are being cut off from showing their emotions. They are expected to accept the fact that they are not supposed to show sadness without knowing that this can make them have issues in their future relationships with other people. They are not meant to cry in the presence of other people, as it shows a sign of weakness. They pretend to be alright but deep inside of them, they are hurting badly.
There is a lot of stigma for male survivors of abuse and there are people who do not believe that boys can be sexually abused.
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Abuse is a terrible thing regardless of whom the perpetrator or victim is. Seeking help no matter the gender can be very difficult but it is much harder for the boys. They are raised to be self-reliant, achievement-oriented and should avoid anything feminine. Also, the pressure to be financially stable has led most of them into committing various crimes, while others feel like a failure for not living up to the standard expected of them by society.
Furthermore, men in general sometimes seem to have a harsher judicial system compared to women. There is a huge difference between both genders in terms of arrest, trial and prosecution of which most times, men receive the bitter part of it but nobody gives thought to that situation. Society does not give ears to that. Some of them feel depressed and drops out of school, while others battle with mental and health issues.
Occasionally, it is heard that women are victims of media impulse but they are not the only ones involved in this. The men too are involved in it. While the female folks feel that there is a certain type of image they need to fit into, the boy child and men at large are required of what is termed "masculine." From an early age, they are taught how to be tough and physically strong. Having a look at most of the magazines covers, we will see that most of the models on it tend to be violent and aggressive, thereby compelling the younger boys to hold tightly onto these icons.
Society does not condemn a woman for having flaws but it does not make them any better because they are placed below standards. However, if a man does not or is not living up to standards, he is
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scolded vehemently for it. Men live in a world where they are encouraged to sweep their emotions under the carpet. Also, giving the obligations of a man to a boy child can be as illegal as anything. There are numerous unreported cases of men and boys been raped by women but they cannot speak out because society believes that girls are the only victims. Many of these boys who are rapists and molesters have once been molested which led them to do the same to others. Society has told them that they do not need support, neither should they cry or lament because they are men and the boy child now feel less important. These conditions upon the boy child have bred weak, unstable and disrespectful men.
Overlooking the moral values in empowering our boys has landed them into serious trouble. Even the women who have been long empowered are also lamenting because they lack men who can join hands together with them to produce positive results as well as providing support. Boys should be taught to become responsible men at an early age and not only grooming them as the head of the family. They should receive the same sensitization as the girl child in terms of sexuality and good behaviour pattern, to ensure that they do not violate others. If the boy child is well-groomed and nurtured to become a man of dignity, I strongly believe that the rate of domestic violence will decrease. We should focus more on how to reduce this activity and put in order, preventive measures that will stop the boy child crisis because once the boy child is ignored, he becomes a threat to society and we will all feel unsafe and won't be able to sleep with our two eyes closed. To put an end to this mess, there is a
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need for empowerment for both sexes as it will fasten the process in the quest for human rights and no one will be threatened.
There should be more rooms for the boy child to be equally empowered to increase the level of competition in making the world a safer place for us all. When society defends the interest of the boy child by fighting for his rights, he will grow up to be a responsible man, father and husband and our generation will be saved. The boy child should feel that society is ready and willing to check their needs. Religious institutions, schools, communities should focus more on enhancing programs that will motivate the boy child. One could ask how possible the boy child empowerment will be, I believe that these measures will be of help.
Parents should be taught how to reward good behaviour, communicate and impart knowledge in them as well as disciplining both the boy and girl child fairly. Family bonding should be encouraged through the splitting of activities with other members of the family.
Guiding them on how to cope with their emotions, putting under control their feelings, dealing with stress, peer pressure and also how to be goal-oriented.
Enhancing activities that are great at helping boys do better in their studies because dropping out of school can make them available for problems like unemployment and other social vibes.
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Community awareness should be created to avoid the use of harmful substances amongst boys. When there is community awareness alongside the collective energies of parents, they will be a reduction in the intake of harmful substances. The law enforcement agencies should put in place strict rules to observe the selling of such products.
Society should focus on empowering both sexes so that we can have a harmonious state of wellbeing and a society where people can support each other. Provisions of opportunities to emphasize the problems concerning them. Availability of materials that will improve the wellbeing of parents and enlighten them on how to manage anger to reduce stress.
Society will be made up of gentlemen if we empower the boy child. They will grow up to become respectable men who will sacrifice themselves for the growth and development of society. They will grow to become men of great intellectual abilities who will have plans for a brighter future for generations to come. The boy child should be empowered so that they can be mentally and emotionally strong in the management of their homes, having a stable marriage thereby reducing the rate of divorce.
Domestic violence will be erased if we empower the boy child. Women and children will no longer be victims of domestic violence. When a man is not empowered, society malfunctions; no supportive husbands for women, no good fathers for children and corruption accompanied by poverty will become the order of the day. The boy child should be empowered so that we can reach
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balance in society. Being financially stable and great entrepreneurs who can sustain themselves and others will also be another benefit of boy child empowerment.
The fight for empowerment should be to have equal gender rights for both sexes.
Feminists voices are heard all over the media and newspapers fighting for the rights of the girl child but the question remains: "Is the boy child not a human being?" Why are they not inclusive in this fight? At the grassroots, all hands should be on deck to empower the boy child and raise a generation with less or no social vices thereby making the world a safe atmosphere for all and sundry. Our feminist too should join hands and empower both genders. Of what use will an empowered wife be to an unempowered husband?
ENYI CHRISTIANA CHIJIOKE is from the eastern part of Nigeria. She loves writing, travelling, reading. She's very positive about life.
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SUNRISE CAME LATE Blessings Mphako
Don’t blame me, blame the sunrise; for it came late.
Am young, so I’m still looking for that Ed-Sheeran’s own it feeling. I also had a feeling like I met her before, I didn’t have to ask who she was when I saw her dancing on the floor. She told me to meet her at the door, then we sneaked into the gents, it was so wild. Don’t ask me how I felt when she asked me to pay her, what do you expect on a night that didn’t seem to be getting old?
The bar we were at had an auto-teller machine outside, so, all I had to do was punch in and out, the money came sliding — then we went back inside. The bills for the drinks — we didn’t divide, She knew that I had the money so I would provide it. They all surrounded me, so, I thought, well, why not? Let’s do this till sunrise.
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But the sunrise wasn’t approaching, so, we continued drinking without sleeping, the party wasn’t stopping for the music kept going, I think when the money got finished, I exchanged drinks for my wallet, when sunrise came I didn’t have it in my pocket.
So, don’t blame me Blame the sunrise; for coming late.
Blessings Mphako is a Malawian Writer born on January 9th 2002. He is studying for his Bachelors of Arts Degree in Public Administration at the University of Malawi's Chancellor College and he's in his second year. He led the writers club at his secondary school in the year 2016-17 and won the school's best writer award in 2017. Since then he's been working on poems and short stories which are yet to be published.
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DEAD MEN / HOW TO LIVE David Victor
What is the definition of a man? I asked. My ears waited patiently for the wind of truth to bring answers to its hearing, but words lose their voices — So, the actions of society replied:
"He is a figure, with a thick voice and a backbone. A creature that breaks and fixes everything we call his own."
Then, I remembered when we were young boys, we were like innocent shrubs in a nursery, we were safe under the shades of love, and the freedom to be ourselves came with every flower that bloomed.
But it all went wrong after we were ceded as men, transplanted into a desert-like society, trusted deep into the sands of sexism, watered with pride, callousness, and the sun of supremacy, then drying up every bit of sentiment left.
And like the dead men that had gone before us, we followed the blueprint the society designed for them,
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we were the humble beings turned into human beasts, the beautiful gardens turned into graves where our innocence was buried, where gravestone-face and feigned smiles are the names engraved on it.
Sometimes being a boy feels like a curse, and being superficially crowned supreme is worse. When my brothers fall apart, no tender bones can pull them together because we carry the weight of the nation on our shoulders, but still don't know how to treat the other gender.
And so, of all the creatures made from dust, man is the only one that has forgotten how to live.
David Victor is a graduate of the University of Ilorin, Nigeria. He began writing poetry as a teenager and has contributed several poems to literary blogs and journals, including Poemify Inc. He also has a self-published poetry collection (Sunshine) that was issued in June and received top reviews. You can access his poetry online at daachiever.com and his Facebook account @Victor C. David.
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POEM IN WHICH YOU ARE Oluwafisayo Akinfolami
Not a bullet, you are alive and a god, not a domesticated zone for grief, in which you are a metaphor for beauty in your own body, in which you are a rain of burgundy verbs, in which the sun is bleeding into you. In which you are not a fugitive, not a wound. In which you are not a mouth of grief. In which you allow yourself the gift of crimson lingering. In which your body is a poem, in which you are here, in which you are there. In which you are colour-worthy. In which you are a thriving song.
Oluwafisayomi Akinfolami is a penultimate student of history and international studies. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming on Poetry Potion, Writer Space Africa, Praxis Mag Online, Spillsword, Undivided Magazine and elsewhere.
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THE BOY CRIES Divine Uchechukwu the boy cries — thank heavens he finally cried. words of adoration leap from lips to lips, spreading across the wooden terrain of the little village. the chief favourite has birthed a gem & the waist of the maidens must gyrate to the rhythm of the joy he brings. the boy cries — he is young, learning to be strong. he will stop, eventually. the loud wails of the infant boy rend the stillness of the night, it rises higher than the cries of the night creatures. the mother must lie awake. she had birthed him and now must watch him, but the boy must learn & the mother turns to embrace the calmness of sleep. the boy cries — why won't he stop crying? a boy shouldn't cry so much. his knees give way & he stumbles under the weight of the world. the son of the chief's son shows a bad example to the other boys. bravery alludes to foolishness for the boy, he knows no expectations required of him to keep, first of those are no tears from his browned eyes.
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the boy cries — why will the 'almighty' give a weakling child to a strong man as a gift? he lies on the hard-concrete floor his warmth seeps into the crevices made by the many feet on it. his tears a comforting part-gift to it. the bruises on his knees are evidence of how long he had knelt, begging to become a boy made of ceramic, a boy allowed to break once in a while or twice in a month. but the chief 'chi' had not promised a boy made from yarn, his 'chi' had promised him a boy made from stone. the boy cries — this one is not a man, he always finds a reason to shed tears.
His eyes redden, he has been awake all night, drawing in life, reassigning his hopes to the nether lands, sponging in desperation and hopelessness. tonight, he will choose life as a last resort. still
— the boy cries…
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Divine Uchechukwu is a twenty-two-year final year student midwife at the School of Basic Midwifery Alex Ekwueme Federal University Teaching Hospital. He has a keen interest in developing poetry that resonates with the readers and forces them to confront their everyday realities. His writings are centred around conventional contemporary topics.
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ECHOES Adewara Joses
You are a boy, dangling in the wave, craving for the pathway that leads home, you scribble your thoughts into a page, you pour your heart into a poem, you forget this poem has no audience. Your words, your pains, your cares, your reflections sit in your head.
Your life is a book – but nobody reads you, your pages are printed in Hindu. You are a mystery – running with the wind, maybe one day, your soul will find calm.
You are a boy, with fire in your belly. You are a sea, with storms enraging you. You are a shadow, fading away. You are a poem, without a reader. You are a story, with no plot to your path. You've been taught how to hold yourself in a fiery furnace. Say, you are a man, and men don't panic, men don't doubt, men don't complain. You've been taught how to close your eyes and swallow "amen" at gunpoint.
You've learnt how to flex your muscles, remind yourself of masculinity.
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You've learnt how to gather rocks around your fragile heart.
But you are breaking. You're losing grips. Your body is crumbling. You can't find yourself anymore, not even in a poem.
You are a mystery.
Adewara Joses is a Nigerian poet, performer and content editor. He has published works on several platforms including Aceworld, Punocracy, Tush Magazine, and Writers Space Africa. His literary accolades include the January 2020 Wakaso Poetry Prize, the 2020 Christopher Okigbo Poetry Prize (First Runner-up), and the 2020 Nigerian Students Poetry Prize (longlist). He is presently studying at the University of Ilorin, Kwara State. He loves to read.
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TIMS Chimezie Nebolisa
Behind that perfect smile of mine, there lies a monster. A monster full of rage and ready to devour, that monster cannot be separated from my very being. He is my alter ego. Unlike the trinity, I have been in a struggle for my soul with this monster for over twenty years since I crawled out from my mother's womb.
Since childhood, I have learnt to carry the troubles my society heap on me with a facade of smiles and love. they made a beast of burden, yet I have to show them strength, they made it a rule that as the gender with a tail between his thighs, to cry is an abomination. I know now, you might think this boy is insane, but I tell you, in this our clime, who isn't?
I will love to tell you my story, about how it all began but I won't care how you will feel after that. The damage has been done and I will just give them back a fair piece of the drug they doused me with. Before I tell you this story of mine, I hope to let you know who my revenge and anger shall come upon.
First, to the woman whom through her ties I came into this world. She was never around, always on a tour from one seminar to the other and those few days she was around, there was never a time a communication came up for her son to tell her about the demons that were devouring his soul. To my dear sisters, for bringing those demons into our home as friends. Maybe I believe, they
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were also into the same act, for a saying goes: "show me your friend and I will tell you who you are." To be frank, I think them in that direction.
To my father, the hegemon of the family, who thinks that to be a good dad rests only on giving education, shelter and food to his children. Unlike my mother, he was always at home but never with Us.
Finally, to the society who told us as young folks, certain things aren't to be said or mentioned especially when it is a matter of sexuality, even when we manage to speak up, we are shut up, never heard or listened to. Every night of my past years on this globe, I have never had a good rest. Every fifteen minutes I close my eyes, I see myself drowning in a bottomless ocean and I managed to get my eyes open, it seems to set off blocks was rested on my chest. During some nights, I see those demons crawling and devouring my soul all over again. To say in its simplest terms, I have known no peace. I wish not to bore you with my struggle or how I'm fighting my soul ripper, but writing my story is to give a voice to boys like me, whose innocence is being stripped from such a young age by those who should shower them with love and care.
My story is for fellows who continue to struggle with their demons and that the best way to be free is to speak up. I discovered that to win my soul over, I must write my story to be truly free from these demons I see every day, I have chosen to be free and this is my story.
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Chimezie Nebolisa is a young writer with an interest in poetry, politics, economy and national development. He is an ardent lover of nature and storytelling. He also pursues an interest in journalism, culture and believes that humanity will be better when we deny our selfish interest for the general. As one who often engaged in volunteering, he has engaged in community development through the aid of international organisations such as Rotaract and AIESEC International.
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HOW TO BREATHE LIKE A BOY IN A COFFIN Sa'id Sa'ad
Breathe…with your nose, mouth, lungs and do that for others.
Have you ever wondered why you find the Ministry of Women Affairs but none for men? I did. Anyway, don’t bother, men and boys don’t have affairs, which was why they don’t need a ministry.
Growing up as a young boy, my eyes were drawn to street protests on women rights, placards with sketches of a girl child, and voices of angry women on television shouting, ‘We can’t take it anymore, women must be…’ in anger. I wished I had listened to the complete sentence till the end, but I couldn’t. Maybe even if I had wanted to complete it then, I wouldn’t because I was a boy with wet muscles. I had to breathe with all the organs inside me, for myself and for those who said they can’t take it anymore.
This was different from the two-plot compound we were asked to sweep first thing every morning because my father felt it was too large for my sisters. Every morning at six, we would sweep until the interlock catches the glimpse of a ceramic tile. After cleaning the compound, we would water the flowers and trees. And every time I pour water to their feet, the trees would dance their leaves to the ground. That makes me feel the weight of every leaf like a lump of burning coal on my head. These have been the routine for the boys in my house. In addition to the usual boy’s chores like digging, weeding, scrubbing and carrying everything heavy that is believed to be capable of breaking girls’ ribs.
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I learned that little whispers were a good form of messaging especially when telling a boy that strength is built in rage. So, I never kissed fits of anger. My insides were tastier than the salty sweat outside, and that makes me ingest the inside and wait for a crown. Everyone has said that I would be crowned the head of the family. I was sure they aren’t referring to the round white bone with the eye socket, cheek and nose bone. For many times, I had imagined it to be a large head, equivalent to a truck that could carry heavy budgets and a transparent court of law. Something that could pay bills and sometimes judge. It helps me focus even after they said, ‘your honesty will fail your judgement if you can’t pay bills.’
So, all my growth became the little dot beneath a question mark. Maybe hoping to grow into a question, not necessarily requiring answers. I wander basically around everything that feels hard when touched, like a rock; feel smooth with a grip like an egg, and looks fragile like a mug of tea. I love tea. That makes me wrap all my gloom around a mug of spicy tea and sip them all. My father had said that women are a very special work of art, therefore we must do everything for them. So, when we strive to breathe for ourselves in a coffin, we must breathe for them too.
The rule is one, and… It is not in the definition. I was meant to believe that boys are aggressors and girls are weak. Boys are a threat and girls are victims.
Don’t equate yourself with girls. Equality has a long…long tail.
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All the times I have to breathe, I do it for myself and had to carry along with other people’s breathing organs. A boy must always be a boy. For that, I don’t have to cook and wash dishes. They are soft chores for girls, they said. Many times, I have thought of opening my oxford dictionary and check a definition of a boy or maybe check the synonyms to see if they are words like; rock, stone, wood and wall. I don’t know the definition of a boy to my father either. He isn’t an English teacher who would formulate his definition, or rather a mathematician to draw equations and find that ‘X’ that will multiply my palm into a wood-based panel, but I was convinced to believe that the best definition of a boy is; A palatable phrase with a noun, adjective and an auxiliary verb acting on the object to make it look like a dazzling edible sentence. Or better still, a mathematical equation with gaps filled in by zero’s point five, all to the power of everything above and multiply by two.
My father was a good man with a country under his feet. His decisions were always well-crafted like a statue. He was careful with his actions and how he makes them fit into his basket without allowing one egg to break the other. That was why when I see him giving my sisters’ pocket money which doubles mine while going to school, I didn’t get worried, and whenever he does that and mistakenly finds my eyes swaying to inquire with a motion in silence, he would explain abruptly, ‘You see, they are ladies and they have more demands than you. And we don’t want them to look for that or anything else outside.’
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My exit route has always been attributed to everything in my economics teacher’s law of demand; ‘The higher the demand, the higher the supply’. If anyone should be at fault, then it must be my economics teacher, perhaps she didn’t memorize the law correctly. As far as I was concerned, I knew that my father was right, and that makes my demands less. It became obvious that I don’t need much beyond a Vaseline, soap and towel that I would use to wipe bath-water off my skin and clean my shoe with the dampness on it.
And for all these times, the protest, the placards and voices of angry women continued, and I turned and stare at my sister’s full- wardrobe raising shoulder to equate with my small plastic echolac bag worthy of carrying only little travelling items. I imagined that equality is a big cute pet, with a sharp mouth and a very long tail.
You are not a stone, you are a wall. Remember to let them lean. Boys’ issues are secondary. The primary is what the boys do. Remember.
Learn how to sleep in a boy’s quarters, even if you don’t, you will sleep in a garage. When I began to grow, my belongings started disappearing from my room in the flat apartment. Earlier to the parlour and afterwards to boy’s quarters. I wondered if girls have quarters too. First, it was my school bag, then the monopoly game a brother who works in a bank gave me, and finally, my flat mattress followed, which instantly gave me the idea that I would disappear soon too.
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A ray of light shone on my head and that day I packed the little things remaining and go with them. Parking was easy, after all, I was a boy. I don’t have a full wardrobe, I don’t need an extra bag for an undergarment, and I don’t need sanitary pads or make-up kits either. My two trousers (A blue jean and black velvet) have a unique magic of matching with my seven shirts which makes them easier to get missing. One could dissolve into the liquid part of themselves as well and shift in the crowd like a river. Disappearing for me became a friendly match between going closer to the gate, accessing food at its utmost freezing point and seeing new policies that set boundaries for boys.
I knew I was going to shift to the boy’s quarters someday even though it was built before I was born, so it doesn’t look scary. It was after I moved that its colour began to blur my sights. The white wall in the room was decorated with splashes of blood that stuck after the visitors who had stayed their smashed mosquitoes on them. The list had grown, and the only strong help I could access was, ‘GET YOURSELF a mosquito net’, but I didn’t.
I was elated to conclude that even if they bite me, it wouldn’t pierce into my skin. I am a boy; my skin was built with many layers of different skins. I was very comfortable. If there was any discomfort then it should be electricity which the boy’s quarter was the only room with faulty electricity. I was told that a truck cut-off the electric wire when it drove in sometimes ago. I believed the truck driver to be a girl.
Don’t complain, coffins are for boys.
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I said do not complain. Or else, weakness will resurrect you and make you a scapegoat. Do what I have done if you can. Removed my heart out and stored it with the rest of my important documents in Zenith Bank. So, I don’t complain. Do not complain too. After all, you are a boy and coffins are created by the best carpenters after measuring your height.
Do not cry. If you must do it, do it when your mother has guests. She would care and ask you the reason for such dreadful rain. At a young age, we play together with the girls and sometimes cry together. And when we do, our tears were exchanged for expensive chuckles, or wrap of sweet. Later on, I was asked not to cry anymore after the last tears I had shed the day I fought with Augustine, the bully in my class, ‘You are a man, don’t cry like a baby. Since then, I stopped crying and watched my tears freeze into snowflakes that would never melt. The only time I would cry was when I was asked to explain what happened after a fight I had had with a friend that beats me up blue-black.
Augustine was just a bully at school. He had a stick that found a home on my head, and when he did, he’d pinned my butt to the seat. I don’t cry despite that. I gather all my fears and pains into my room every day after school and dropped them where I would drop my dirty uniforms. When life began to recruit more of Augustine’s-like for me, they lock me inside a room, with frozen eyes that cannot shed liquid-tears and a pounding heart that can’t sing a hymn. The coffin became a small space to accommodate me and my bullies.
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Keep quiet. You must not argue.
My tongue fractures whenever I forced it to break the truth that gender-based violence activists have forgotten about boys. That, their war is only wearing a feminine khaki with a sharp end of a blade.
Make sure your echolac has a functional zip. My echolac bag has never had a functional zip. That was why it always scares me when my father threatens me about moving out of his house. If I was to carry it as faulty as that, the little things that had my name etched on them would fall after some meters of a walk. That makes it easier to trace me. The only thing I could do was to pack the parts of me and arrange them in my bag of blessings. When I get hungry, I remove a few and eat. An old man had advised me that the best way to empty yourself is to start feeding on it. Many times, I had imagined sprinkling myself in a bowl of grain, with milk, sugar and warm water.
The map in my house was built with tactical geography. It is a clear forest route that had a beginning and an end. As simple as; crawling in the master bedroom, feed in the side room, grow between one lesser room to the other, pushed to the parlour and finally get an obituary letter that sends one to the boy’s quarter. And from there, we get a bag with functional zip to walk out at night, and in silence.
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Sa’id Sa’ad is a Nigerian Storyteller, Poet and Spoken Word Artiste. He coauthored the poetry collection "Reunion." He spends his days in a radio studio as an OAP and spends most of his night writing. In between, he sips tea and travel.
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BOYS WHO BURN FROM INSIDE Sodiq Oyekanmi i have seen boys wrench back tears with laughter boys who have known the weight of cadavers boys whose heads are battlefields for world war three boys whose hearts are playgrounds for malevolent women boys who wrap their woes into whores, whiskey and weed boys who watched bloated bodies of their families putrefied on their farmlands — before harvesting them into caskets. broken boys are withering seedlings that managed to sprout into prickly flowers. most boys burn from inside: — the embers of soft curses from their neighbour — the flames of responsibilities engulfing their souls they stand aside sometimes to watch the ashes of their lives. i have seen young men hide depression in poetry lines. poetry — confinement for their sorrows and sighs. their smouldering voices, enough to reduce them to ashes, dust and smoke. broken boys are withering seedlings that managed to sprout into prickly flowers. i have seen boys who shawl their sorrows with songs; singing threnodies like nursery rhymes
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boys whose inside are filled with burning coals of memories, tales and dried dreams. broken boys are withering seedlings that managed to sprout into prickly flowers.
Sodiq Oyekanmi is a Nigerian poet and a student of the University of Ibadan, where he currently studies Theatre Arts. He enjoys writing poetry as he sees this as a creative outlet that enables him to reflect on the world around him. He is a hopeless romantic. His works explore grief, depression, finding oneself, love and heart-quakes. His works are forthcoming on Kalahari Review and have appeared on Black Youth, Echelon Review, CROWNDESERVER, Brittle Paper and African Writer Magazine.
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SELF-PORTRAIT OF A BOY WITH TINY JOYSTICK Temidayo Jacob it's the little things that matter most until it becomes my little rod of love dangling before a burning woman. say, a boy is called a god of small things; say, a boy is celebrated like small victories. a boy does not owe anybody a fierce & enormous instrument of bliss — not every orgasm is an offspring of furious, merciless pendulums. a short penis is god's way of saying: short words like "amen" can dial a miracle. it took something little to fall goliath; it took something little to feed the 5000. i'm tired of trying to stretch myself into an anaconda or something like that. i'd carry my tiny joystick around & use it in the biggest ways possible.
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if no girl appreciates the little i can offer, then my palms will appreciate them.
Temidayo Jacob is a Sociologist-Poet who is passionate about espousing the conflict between the individual and society. He is the Creative Director of foenix press. He is also the author of Beauty Of Ashes. Temidayo's work has appeared and is forthcoming on Rattle, Outcast Magazine, Lucent Dreaming, The Temz Review, Peeking Cat Poetry, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, and others. You can reach him on Twitter @BoyUntouched.
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I AM THAT WRETCHED SON Wellington Nwogu
I howl from this place of pang, with silent voice: my chin bears scars of several slaps from heartless hands.
I am that boy with cuffed wrist, my neck, laced to lots of laden like loads tied to a donkey’s back.
I am that neglected name in the house of wealth where mouths munch much of meat.
Particularly placed to pick from the bin like the mad folk, I am, My black big bag, a house of dirt...
Who does not know I live in a cave, a hollow space and place, far from favoured living people.
I am that wretched son of wealth-noted-man. Yes, son of sorrow and sadness.
I howl from this place of pang with a silent voice, my chin bears scars
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of several slaps from heartless hands.
I know they know I live to beg, I know they know I beg to live, Like helpless fatherless souls.
I am that poor king whose the kingdom is kidnapped — King of naked feet
I am that wretched son of wealth-noted-ma. Yes, son of sorrow and sadness.
Wellington Nwogu is a Nigerian poet and playwright, particularly from the Niger Delta Region of the country, and he has published many books to his name. His art addresses both environmental and social problems of his time.
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A REVIEW OF LAGBAJA BY PERUZZI AND ITS SIGNIFICANCE ON FALSE ACCUSATION AGAINST MEN Temitope Johnson Toyin
LAGBAJA is a song released by one of the star-studded artistes signed by DMW known as Peruzzi. The song was released on August 7, 2020, in Lagos Nigeria. The genre is Urban Afrobeat and it is produced by Vstix. It was also shot and chopped by NAYA. The song has two verses and the chorus is sung three times. The delivery of the song is top-notched and is aptly described by Soundstroke Phoenix in their review like this: “Peruzzi came through with some passionate vocals with hardcore energy and distinct delivery.” The song has a 4.8-star rating on www.soundstroke.com. The video of LAGBAJA can be watched on YouTube.
Soundstroke pointing out the negatives of the song noted that “The song was unarguably all over the place. “But I would not blame Peruzzi because as the cliché goes “He that wears the shoe know where it pinches.” However, if the song was to be given a few strokes then it would be the tobacco puff that was at the end of Peruzzi’s LAGBAJA video.
LAGBAJA can be adopted as a crusade against any form of malicious attack that is meant to tear a man down especially in a gendered society. Conor Friedersdorf in 2016 writing on "amp.theatlantic.com" argued that prevailing norms influence women and men in disproportionate or different ways. The Page 178 of 210
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gendered representation of rape has over the years been a stereotype that is unfavourable to men because of the physical dominance of men over women. But a fair chance is not always given to the men to adequately defend themselves in the face of rape allegations.
Rape is a sexual offence against humanity and must be prosecuted and thoroughly investigated. Even Peruzzi when rape allegations were levelled against him went to his Twitter handle and said: “My name is Okoh Tobechukwu, I have never and will never be a rapist”. This was his last tweet before he went on a break from social media. It was as if he took some time out to reflect and evolve internally and when he returned, he came out with his banger song LAGBAJA.
Music is food to the soul and powerful messages can be passed across through music. It is a commendable effort by Peruzzi for him to respond to all these allegations that were meant to tear him apart. He responded in an upbeat fashion and this is a reflection of the high self-esteem he has in himself. There are times when men need to reach into their inner self and bring out all of their inner strength. This will help keep one afloat when storms of life come to drown you and it is a sure thing that will come. For Peruzzi, it was a record label breach, rape and some silly tweets at a much younger age when youthful exuberances could be an influencing factor.
What can be yours? What challenges as a man can you come back and face? Keeping your head up high is pivotal. It is all centred
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on “knowing who you are and what do you want out of life”. As Oprah Winfrey posed. Peruzzi in his song “Destiny” represent himself as a Prince and this also was reflected in his video of his song LAGBAJA where a young boy had a crown on his head. Indeed, it is in the man’s adrenaline to rule and take charge. While it is true biblically that both Adam and Eve were commanded by God to have dominion over the earth, Pranjal Mehta a Social Psychologist at Colombia University New York argued that “Part of the male job evolutionary is to ‘defend turf’ this brain area is larger than their female counterparts.”
LAGBAJA by Peruzzi was mostly sung in pidgin English and it is solution-seeking and defence against problems. It can be deduced that LAGBAJA is an unknown person or whoever it is you can talk to. A well-known adage says that “a problem shared is half solved.” The chorus of the song: “Call Lagbaja say the matter e don turn kasala (Call whoever, anyone that is unknown) Abi you go call Fashola as road don block ashana (Would call Fashola as there is a road block for prostitutes) Na the matter we dey solve but e no gree solve (It is the matter we are solving but it has refused to get solved). Ask her wetin dey sup e no fit talk (Ask her what is happening but she can’t talk or explain)"
In verse two Peruzzi gave a general reassurance and in line three he sang: “You can’t catch my dream, no need to try”
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Research has shown that younger boys mostly learn to hide emotions that culture rates as “unmanly”. But doing it spurs the body’s fight or flight response making him ready to handle a threat. Robin Maxon in 2016 noted that “a man’s brain varies tremendously over his life span quickly contradicting the image of the single-minded sex addict that circulates in the mainstream consciousness.” ~ source: www.livescience.com
Also important is the hormone called testosterone known as the hormone of the libido and often linked to aggression and hostility which men have in high doses. Pranjal Mehta noted that: “Testosterone impairs the impulse-control region of the brain. Thus, men ogle women as if on ‘auto-pilot.” But men forget such women once she is out of their visual field. This means that men are visual creatures and are conditioned to visual stimulating elements including that of an attractive woman.
The issue of self-control comes into play here. There have been reported cases of men who are paedophiles (a physical and sexual attraction by a man to younger girls), men who have committed incest and abused younger female children or the extreme case of a 52-year-old man abusing a four-year-old girl child and the likes. These are abominable acts such men found guilty should be punished accordingly as the law provides. A study in the proceedings of the National Academy of Science showed that a greater number of men are “without the promiscuity gene.” Arguably, men are more emotional than women irrespective of the fact that most of them hide it under being “manly”. They do have the desire to also get married, bond with their children and
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empathize among all other things. Men are likely to seek a solution to a problem rather than show solidarity like women. That is a part of them that must be understood.
Men are human too and while it is commendable that women over the years have risen in defence of themselves against male dominance and patriarchy and continually seek liberation with the influence of Feminism. This liberation should not be abused and used unduly to bring the men down as this could do more harm than good to the individuals involved. If a man has been wrongly accused of an offence that is gendered, for example, rape, then it should be given the full attention as it would be if he had committed it. Peruzzi has been sure of himself that he never is a rapist and will never be one has used his God-given talent and gift musically to churn out beautiful music that is therapeutic and representative of his creative ingenuity. The stones that are thrown to hurt us, we can take and build a castle with.
Speak out against false accusations irrespective of gender. Offer your best at any given time. Never be the same after trials. Get ahead of the game and keep your head high.
Temitope Johnson Toyin is a passionate Writer. She loves to read. She holds a degree in Sociology.
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FOR BOYS WHOSE EYES ARE OCEAN'S BANK Sulola Imran Abiola
They are raw gold in the refining process; pearls keeping cool under the sea, grenades that explode when kept in the hands of the careless.
They are ammunitions that find their way through the tiny muzzle of the Kalashnikov weapon. They are at the height of it all, papers of no fading content, for their dreams are written with permanent ink drops.
SULOLA IMRAN ABIOLA is a Poet, Photographer, Public servant, lover of arts and an optimist who believes in a breakthrough in every life-sniffing situation. Born and bred in the bustling city of Lagos state. He writes across all themes. His work is forthcoming in The Quills, Kalopsia Lit Magazine, Writenowlit, Lumiere Review and several other magazines. He writes & savours the sound of phone shutters from the state of Osun, Nigeria. Instagram & Twitter: @official_sulola Facebook: Sulola Abiola Imran.
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A GOD FROM THE MIDDLE WORLD Ajao Ibrahim Bello
The boy, a replica of the wild. Born to rule, but must taste the sour of slavery before ruling.
The boy is charged and acquainted with responsibilities over capabilities. He'll be pronounced a lazy fag If he ever throws a black look.
The boy, a hustler from the hood. He fetched and lifted firewoods for his family to fill their empty bellies with food.
The boy feeds from his fears and drinks from his tears. He lives a just life not to die of a knife.
The boy, waiter in bars — worked tons of shifts for a penny just not to plead guilty behind the bars.
The boy never walked alone without being weighed with the clog of struggles leading his way to unseen troubles.
The boy, a mad clock
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that has never stopped ticking-tock. He'll be called a putz if he goes anti-clockwise.
The boy sunk in the memories of his past flaws, seeks redemption before fame, for love and lass, his pocket needs to be flooded with glisten golds.
The boy has to reach the sky before he dies. Even today, the sky is no more the limit as no-one cares for his pain before fain.
The boy, a god from the middle world. He creates comfort in his feud. He's the history of yesterday, The yearnings of today, and the mystery behind oblivion.
I am the boy, you are the boy We are that boy. What boy? The boy from the middle world.
Ajao Ibrahim Bello is a young Nigerian Poet writing from the South-Eastern part of the country. He is a graduate of Sociology and has majored in his writings on both societal and natural occurrences. He is an award-winning Poet and some of his literary works have been featured on different anthologies and magazines.
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MONSTARNATION Nwankwo Prosper O. beneath the yoke of bridges | boys like me feed on cold memories every night of sufferance | to keep the sun inside them alive | their mothers' mortification | washed in the shadows of their fathers' confetti of ill-fares | their brothas' dreams of essence guns made famous foggage in a thede's antiphon | their sistas' mouths like graves filled with blood & ouns & guts | They are tiny roses of true heroes unsung | somewhere in onitsha | lagos | kano | you will find them playing the politics of elegy | in marketplaces | in fogged-corners | in eerie economocrazy | they trade their bodies for survival | or lucre | where home turn a ghost language | violence becomes a common-tongue tender | to make mama's pride & father's balls | to buy girls a plastic world of love in vanity boxes | they live these tags: pussyboys | online-birds | monster- seeds | grown by the society | they are smooth operators of pangs through pros & cons | they die in muscled silences | alpha males wounded inwardly | wearing burials of fame | this country | this world: a monstarnation of system-boys.
Nwankwo Prosper O. is a Nigerian poet and a Mass communication student. Prosper seeks reunion through the accents of poetry that x-rays existentialism, ruins, sensuality and humanity. Some of his works have been featured in EroGospel, Praxis & forthcoming elsewhere.
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HOW TO NAME A BOY Christian Odinaka N.
Look at home before sun dusk. Don't befriend the smiles rising upon his fancy face, But tell him how his mother was murdered before a happy day morning.
As he cries; don't let him hear the history of your broken dream, But let the pains of your cheerful heart hover over his face.
Take the scriptures out of his sight, Let him see the revelational taste of a new god. Let him see through the Ray of an unknown god.
Before you pronounce that name, look upon his cheeks and know his aim. Be lucid when you want to take his smile ...mean it when you want him to laugh so high.
Show him pictures of war; and a girl. Tell him sex with the story of a virgin, For boys are not stone nor God, boys are just gold.
Call him Hero... but that should not be his name, for when he fails to grow as one he becomes a failure.
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Christian Odinaka N. is a Poet, Playwright, Blogger and short- story Writer. He's a graduate of Mass Communication, National Open University (NOUN) Kano state.
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BOYS ARE NOT STONES Gabriel Dkings
They say boys of the old chips are boys made of bricks? No fears No Tears No shame Only Strength to hold waters from dripping down their eyes.
They say boys like us don't cry that we are the head, so, the neck should not see our weakness.
They say boys like us should walk in a fire with empty feet, and bury our fears in a dark room where no man would have a trace of it. They say boys like us can't be emotional beings, so, when the hurt becomes much, let us hide our scars beneath our smiles. They say a crying boy is not a boy enough to become a man.
But today, Dad told me:"Real boys are not boys without tears," they cry, they are fragile beings, they go through hurts, and sometimes they wish the world listen to them.
Gabriel Noah Kingsley popularly known as "dkings" is a poet and a spoken word artist based in Suleja, Niger State. He is a graduate of Telecommunication engineering Fidei polytechnic Gboko, Benue state.
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BECOMING MEN Emecheta Christian
This is a message to my ten-year-old self.
Many moons have risen and sunsets have passed since I thought of you The meekness of your thoughts reminds me of who I could still become This world steals memories of you from me in swift successions You knew exactly how to navigate this path prone to savagery beasts Automated creatures with canned thoughts and intuition Products of prolonged years of physical abuse and mental mutilation I have tried to make them see that we are a different breed But the more I try, the more they see inconspicuous evil in us They say our kind is controlled by that tail between our legs Prying for the perfect time to strike, regardless of age or gender Some say we have a lot in common with dogs and pigs I guess we were born guilty without a chance to be proven innocent Thinking about the stigma I have to endure daily brings tears to my eyes But I can’t shed tears out here for my best interest The last time I shed tears, I was laughed at and called a sissy They say real men are born without tear duct Their body system consists of cement and gravel-like concrete I have enrolled in a school called World Masculinity Institution
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Where I am supposed to learn how to become a real man Here I have learnt that unsuppressed feelings can kill faster than bombs And toughness is the key recipe for survival as a man The blood in our veins must be molten liquid metal So that when we bleed, people will stare in admiration,
Knowing that we have earned the right to be called Men I also learnt that real men don’t use weak words like ‘Please’ and ‘Sorry’ Our vocabulary must be filled with profanity and vulgarity Spirituality 101 teaches that Alcohol is the fuel of the soul Therefore, any man who hasn’t tested alcohol must undergo an alcoholic baptism Alcohol is the only medium through which the spirit of manhood can possess us And make us one with the Gods who control the affairs of men Concerning family life, we learnt a whole lot of things; We were thought that real men don’t mingle in matters of raising children Kids will only make you weak and distracted from your true purpose Showing love to kids is a sign of weakness and nobody must see us as weak And the list goes on and on. This is the direct opposite of my definition of masculinity I am fed up with all this superficial parade of manhood I just want to be free to savour all the beauty that life offers.
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Emecheta Christian resides in Makurdi Benue State although born and raised in Anambra. However, he would not claim – like many – that his passion for creative thinking, writing and poetry was developed in his mother’s womb, No, the musing began in the latter part of his college school days, from reading African literature and works from poets whose loud messages may never find the platform that would make them echo. His life goal is to contribute to the building of a better Nigeria and world.
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YOU’RE HUMAN Joxzy Otor
Planted in the land of abusers, too, heroics foisted on us, telling us to play cool; "Be a man" I hear them yell, A ton of struggles, they didn't care to hear.
While my peers earn a cheer, I drown in the vapour of life's troubles, tears in my heart that no one would share, I dare not let out, I shoulder the rumbles.
Face the hard life with a smile, one that never sinks in beyond the lips, my life's been controlled by society's guile, but, in the heart; I bleed deep.
Would you hear me out, would you share my pain? or would you shut me out if my tears do rain?
Tears are not feminine, why stifle my strength to cry? tell me no further to be masculine, boys are not stones, let my emotions fly!
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To the boy that becomes a man, the man that should be a man, remember, first, you are human. Be you all you can, be a man.
Joxzy Otor is a Musician, a Writer, a Self-discovery/development coach, and a Relationship Counselor. Fondly called "INKspirator" and "PenAddict" by his audience whom he prides as his family, Joxzy is well known by the lines "We live for us", "Live before you leave" and "Family is not biological". Joxzy is the convener of " A talk with Joxzy", a WhatsApp platform dedicated to counselling and helping you heal from all forms of emotional distress.
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THE OTHER SIDE OF A PAMPERED TALE Ebubechukwu Bruno Nwagbo
I am the firstborn of words I am the virgin of the story I am the other side of a pampered tale
... And blood and ashes can't form a boy with bubbling 'b'
... And blood and ashes can't form a boy whose ghost dispirited to the skies, for he can't breathe the air from the panties he ate.
Tear down heaven, let the sea release her joys Exciting champagnes or mind burgling burning campaigns. Blood and ashes can't form a stony body For the strong capital 'D' would be missing, And what are 25 alphabets without the backbone? The reason is why we have so many broken boys who will choose a 'D' over some bubbling 'b' Just to stay some strong invincible chests.
Ebubechukwu Bruno Nwagbo is a writer, literary critic, reviewer, librarian and broadcaster. He is a Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest (BPPC) and KOLLAJ Prize for Short-Stories laureate. Ebubechukwu currently moderates the Poets In Nigeria (PIN) Food Poetry Contest. He is a co-editor of Boys Are Not Stones Anthology II and III — A Country of Broken Boys and The Anatomy of Boys, Men and Others.
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HOW TO CREATE A BOY Okam Cheta
A pinch of unexpressed emotions Hidden in the heart of the creator With a handful of grains of confusion Mixed with unseen tears of masculinity Call it a boy And watch it swim in its own body An ocean of feelings, Off the eyes of the World.
Okam Cheta: it's simply poetry. To observe, to witness, to write; I am an adventure. The goal is to replicate life in the pages of poetry. When that is done to the best of an explorers ability, the totality of existence becomes a melody.
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THE PORTRAIT BOY DARES TO DANCE Eyo Inyangette
He is dancing, Swaying his hips.
His arms spread free, Testing his wings.
His face lifted towards the sky. His scrotum seems weightless against his mind.
His muscles carry " him" Instead of a canon of masculinity.
He dances to the front and the back. He dances for boys and girls.
He dances to images of god. As they halt their breaths in awe of how beautiful difference can be.
A boy is usually a portrait, Displayed, hung and watched,
Locked into a certain shape Barricaded on the sides,
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And valued for how well He stays that way.
So, when I saw him through my camera lens dancing... Daring to dance the way he did.
A boy dancing like he didn't know Those drums also play death songs;
Dancing too close to the edge of his portrait, In a society ready to call him names while watching him drown.
The silence of the crowd was broken by the sound of my camera; Catching him as he fell off the portrait accepting him as he is.
Eyo Inyangette from Akwa Ibom State is an undergraduate student of the University of Uyo. He loves beautiful works of art, and poetry to him is a window for a breather.
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FOR BOYS WHO BEG FOR AN OUNCE OF SMILE Maxwell Onyemaechi Opia-Enwemuche
"the earth is the LORD's, and the fulness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein." Ps 24:1 but how come a boy child struggles with his shadow & grows up wearing a burden as a garment, facing horrible battles as human darts with improvised smiles until he becomes a pile of flesh on the ground. the mind of every boy child is a memory meant to accept the ugly megabytes of society's information that weighs him down like a sack as he trudges through life & shaking hands with anxiety while trying to become a stone without emotions. the story of a boy child is a trophy, fabricated with thorns as responsibilities for the tag between his legs becomes his cross that defines the way society treats him without giving him a chance to stay afloat. every boy child has pain they wear & the loneliness that sleeps with them. every boy deserves attention not for a while, but like a road that travels beyond a mile. every boy child begs for an ounce of a smile to bottle up their celebration which outlives sadness in style.
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there are times when the truth is needed & those times are now before us. the project of a boy child is today for tomorrow is pregnant with stories that will shape our future beyond mere tales. i am that boy child who travels every mile looking for a place to beg for an ounce of a smile.
Maxwell Onyemaechi Opia-Enwemuche is an enigmatic poet, a storyteller, and a novelist who writes from Port Harcourt, Nigeria. His works have appeared on Word, Rhythm and Rhymes, Tuck Magazine, MojavHeart Review, Poemify Magazine, Eboquills, AceWorld Magazine, The Daily Drunk Magazine and elsewhere. He writes mostly on depression, suicide, sensuality, humanity, Boy Child, Rape, life, death and above all, Love. He believes in the mutual existence of humanity for the sake of peace to heal the world.
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BOYS ARE CHAMELEONS OF UNPLEASANT THINGS Olude S. Peter
Definition: Refuse Dumps, Muddy Houses & Dust Bins, Weak Buildings & Ruffled Roofs, Hunted Horizons & Deserted Nations, & –– White Wedding Dress, Stained With Coffee, Are Boys.
Adio Was Pleading With Fate, He Was Bruised, Like Scorn- Bag, Shattered Like Betrayed Smokes Rising Unto Perdition; Mama Said, ‘Hold Your Tears From Falling, Boy, Boys’ Do Not Cry’.
(chorus) Define Them!? Fish Bones In Oesophagus, Unpleasing Things, Broken Element(s), Isolated Fears, Deserted Feeling(s), Desert, &, A Pain In A River, Forcing Itself To Speak & Amoeba.
(Rough Sheet) :. Tragedy Spirit, Solve Black Boys, If Your Friend Succeeding Minus You, You, In The Ocean Plus Your Broken Fate, = Drowning; Society Says, Boys, Are Unsolvable, Perilous Equations, X = (Boys) Of Grieve + Poisoned Prayers – Beautiful Things ÷ Doubts X Torment,
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X = Boys X Grieve ÷ Doubts X Torment + Poisoned Prayers – Beautiful Things X = Boys X (1 Grieve X 1 Torment) ÷ Doubts + Poisoned Prayers – Beautiful Things, X = Boys X 2 Plagues (Praying Permanence) – Beautiful Things, X = Boys X 2 Plagues Praying Permanence (Plus Pathetic Portions), X = Boys In Woe,
Every (X), As Cold Wars, Fighting Beneath Its Flesh, Please, Tell Them What Is Hell, If Not The Bottling Of Dilemmas– Silent Boys Are Hard To - Joy, – Stars Faking Light And Shine, The Mind Looking You Has Reached Its Village, Two Tough Cries At A River Side, But Fate Is Not Flashing You How You’ll Flaunt Into A Finer Father.
The Boy In A Bathroom Is Conquered, Wiping His Sins Away, With His Palm, Stroking His Image For Shelter, His Sins Past Hell & Justified Like Fallen Angels. Is It Joy Pained? Or Pained Joy, When A Boy Uses Salty Soap To Joy His Body, Fly Rich Blooms Away Like Fired-Bullets & Sink, Into Everything Broken: Shame, Feeble, – Mom Wants You Be The Bread-Winner Of The Family, When, You Haven’t Won A Teacup For This Little Thirst That Fed You Dry,
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Or, In Five Years’ Time, You’ll Be Paying Your Sister’s School Fees;
How Does A Boy Enter High School Without Writhing Ahead & Looking For Light, Alone, When Papa Wakes You Up At Night, Praises You & Says, Look, Son, Word Is In The Eye, Breaks The Spell In Yoruba, ‘Kosa Gbara Mo’, ‘Power Has Pruned’, Or Friends That Are Far, Close, Remember You Live? Nobody Knows Boys, Nobody, All Out There, No Pig-Meats For Ye Boys To Eat, Only Your Index-Finger(s) And Tomorrow’s Unsubdued Sorrow & This Big Battle Your Muscle Is Yet To Clip & Weigh, These Good Plans That Dumps You Like Shit!
Only These Wanderings In A World Where Their Dying Might Heal With goosebumps or Sia’s ‘Bird Set Free, These Wanderings, Where Boys Weep & Walk Miles Midnight, Only to See The Moon Say ‘Chill’.
Olude S. P. is a hyper-realistic Pencil Artist, Writer and Poet. He hails from Nigeria. His stories and poems have appeared in Caffeinated Thoughts Anthology, Erogospel magazine, Madswirl, African writers, Parousia magazine, Poemify magazine, Eskimo pie, Kalahari Review and elsewhere. He is a grand puppeteer, he carves words to speak for themselves. He at his leisure time lies in a silent cave, humming Sia’s crescendos and trailing footpaths holed by Arinze Stanley.
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OTHER BOOKS BY POEMIFY PUBLISHERS Salient Chapters (A Collection of Poems) Torn trust, broken bonds, supreme succour, loyal love, honest hope, dead dreams, pure patience and great gain are realities that reflect as we seek our essence in life. These memories were 500 Naira milked and moulded to give life to these chapters. The expressions are easy to follow and comprehend; soft on the palate. You will enjoy every bite of this piece of art. The Sons Of Hades A dreamy poet and novelist, Kessington started creative writing at a tender age; a habit he expressed with keen enthusiasm. Sons of Hades is his first publication drawn from his struggle
as a socially awkward teenager, his 1000 Naira love for dark fantasies, tragedy, unravelled mysteries, and crime drama.
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Diary Of A Keke Driver
The world is made up of events and there’s hardly any day that elapses without an event to talk about. Even our personal lives are knitted with a series of events that may keep a whole lot of
people talking about them when they 500 Naira are compiled as a book. It is on this premise, that this book, The Diary of a Keke Rider is coming your way. It is full of intrigue, humour, morals and every good thing that will arouse your senses and keep them yearning for more.
Tale By The Lagoon It is a simplified attempt at telling a story of a typical African girl growing up met with various challenges, leading down the galleries of a diverse turn of events, appeared sad at first but later had a pleasant ending.
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The Missing Book Of St. Valentine (A Collection Of Poems) Love is the lens through which we observe life to overcome all its weakness and see the positive sides of everything in a spouse and a friend. It is all-encompassing without boundary and excuses as luggage. In this book, 500 Naira you will see where scriptures, eulogies, adventure and worship shook hands
with your eyes and mouth wide open. Your testimony is my delight and may you find joy as you read.
Amina (A Collection Of Poems) Amina is a collection of poems written by Victoria B. Willie and Jaachi Anyatonwu. This stunning collection showcases poems weaved around themes such as love, intimacy, Islam, pilgrimage, society, family and mystical 3,500 Naira teachings at the heart of the Islamic tradition.
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Diary Of A Broken Poet: Collection of Poems
Diary of a Broken Poet is more than just a collection of poems written by the author on issues that affect him and us.
This collection is a discourse between 3,500 Naira the poet and his readers, an intimate conversation that unveils the ‘beingness’ of the author and his unique perspective of life and living. Diary of a Broken Poet is a gift from one heart to another.
Sweetness: Collection of Poems
This collection of poems promises to take you on a tour of lyrical beaches to see beautiful sunsets. The imagery is vivid, easily relatable! This book will make you yearn for love and the 1,200 Naira sweetness of romance.
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Creating Lead Generating eBooks Every writer can write. Okay, that’s an obvious fact! But not every writer becomes successful authors. Again... Everyone can self-publish, but not everyone can successfully create a
lead generating eBook. This book is a 1,500 Naira guide for aspiring writers and already self-published authors who desire to earn from their inking. Like a friend, Jaachi will lead you through the not- yet-taken path of Lead Generation and Social Media Marketing of eBooks. Scriptophobia: 15 Sure Ways To Deal With Fear Of Writing
Fear of Writing and Writers Block are twin demons that disrupt the flow of muse for many writers. Scriptophobia, the book, is a self-help that teaches you 3,500 Naira how mental exorcism can expel fears that writing may unleash.
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Scriptophobia: The Workbook. How else can one overcome the fears of writing if not through writing? This is an accompanying workbook that takes the writer through 32 days of chain writing. Self-Publishing Successfully: Pro Guide To Successful Authorship (2nd Edition) Do you crave to be a self-published author like I am? This book is the pro 2,500 Naira guide you need to attain that level. So You Want To Be A Poet? There’s more to being a poet than just writing poems. Poets are an odd, beautiful breed. Constantly observant and obsessed by details, we speak a language that can transcend time, cultures, religion, ideologies and Free places. Being a poet feels like having two personalities (if not more) — one in this world, and one in some other. Does this sound like you?
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BANSI III | ANATOMY OF BOYS, MEN AND OTHERS
Poemify: Poetry Simplified Poems also tend to suggest things beyond what they say; often what causes the strongest emotions is not what the poem describes, but what it makes the reader imagine.
2000 Naira Poetry Writing: 10 Tips on How to Write a Poem If you are writing a poem because you want to capture a feeling that you experienced, then you don’t need these tips. Just write whatever feels right. Only you experienced the feeling that you want to express, so only you will know whether your poem 2,500 Naira succeeds.
To get a copy of other books by Poemify Publishers, visit our online bookstore @ Poemify Bookstore
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