augustine-ogechukwu-nwulia
Augustine Ogechukwu Nwulia is a linguist: speech pathologist, freelance journalist, literary enthusiast; practising poet, conference speaker; a research fellow and columnist, with numerous Pan-African newspapers and editorials. / / A radical activist with a deep intense about human and social development all around the world. He is generally known for his rational disposition, critical analysis into class order, struggle and social development of the black community. He has championed numerous advocacy crusades towards the quest for social transformation and economic development of the African society. / / The founder and creator of THE BLACK DIARY, an advocacy project that anchors on building purpose, communal and family existence, restoring hope and igniting the spirit of determination within the human race; especially the social and human development of the black community across the universe. / / He hails from Ibusa, in Oshimili North Local Government Area of Delta State, Nigeria.
To the bones that births wisdom
And swallows life,
Like sniffing grapes gasping for freshness;
That the nation may one day
Walk on the streets of renaissance.
At the mills;
Tales of recollected wools ready to heal,
The over three-hundred and seventy
Pieces of broken fabrics
Into an assembly of fitted rhymes.
When the clouds are consumed by heavy grief
They drop their tears on us
So that sands may travel wider than their range
To earth a new evolution with fate
And moments mightier than cold modesty.
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2017
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
Mother of my being
In solemn fidelity to your keeper
You both spoke the gamete into form
Clothed agonies dripping from your coast.
Your deep moan rained on me like milk
With my world bearing colours of your garlands
Your mild reneges and reproofs
Has inflicted on me; scars of correction.
Like a young lad
Lost in the labyrinth of ecstasy
While fumbling with imperfection
We killed time with our episodes.
In the navel of my sacred memories
I lit a golden candle bearing your name
The years and feats owes you gratitude
Cos your face is born in me.
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2017
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC
For the love of
powerful imaginative rendition
that pours my instincts
experiences and feelings
into a jar of metaphoric language.
An overflow of my emotions
recollected in tranquility
soaked in aesthetic spectacles
knitted in lines and versification
– I am a poet!
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2016
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:28 AM UTC
(Dedicated to the late Prof Chinua Achebe)
Mountain ranges in the east wind,
Like wet dew on a grass.
Amid soggy tears,
Enthusiasm denies us.
Squeal of gongs and drums
Sound throughout the land,
North and South:
Poignant blood runs through our veins.
Indeed, things have fallen apart...
Spring thunder -The Iroko has fallen!
Albert Chinualumogu Achebe.
You it was who issued the great call
For us to rebel against despotic rule.
A glittering colossus among literati,
With an esoteric mastery of proverbial dictions.
The literary luminary and patriot,
It's the very best we have had.
Storms of the societal reformation
have brought a flowering of heroes on the land.
In the wind and thunder of cultural revolution,
The rising sun casts a myriad reflections.
Achebe's thought glows golden bright,
Struggle-criticism-transformation;
flowering everywhere.
Though the dogged messenger has become silent,
The candid message-wave still dance in my ear,
I wipe warm tears from my eyes,
And press my hand to my throbbing heart,
Keeping the peerless books in my *****
Oh yes! Achebe was here,
And we felt his magical pen.
Adieu! Great Iroko of our land.
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2013
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:26 AM UTC
(In Honour of Prof. Buchi Emecheta)
For the joy of consciousness
I read you countless
I smelt your grievance
I felt your episodes
Scenes and synopsis
you took from the stages to the pages.
Sussed from a bitter side of womanhood
A world growing wild like tendrils
To be or not to be;
Africa must have been accursed
Smuggled through the ditch of venoms
by her neighbours.
The voice of the voiceless second-class citizens
Ọnyèbụchi Emèchetá
..You lit a candle
In the dark room of dejection and whispers
..You broke the silence and spoke loudly;
that even the heavens could hear you.
To the ring that betrays the fist
..the sheep that bleeds by the sword of its shepherd
To the dreams that were murdered in cold-blood
The falsettos that misrepresent womanhood
..and the narratives that quells Africanism
You spoke!!!
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2017
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:22 AM UTC
Betraying my muteness,
exposing my thoughts,
breaking my silence,
like a hermits' chronicle.
Alienating my wishy-washy state,
provoking a consciousness.
Breaking the yoke of fear,
stirs up a doggedness.
With an askance glance,
a nefarious activity is detected.
In truth, we stand!
In wisdom, we believe!!
In lines and verses, we speak!!!
Gazing at the sky,
casting my mind back,
Oh! Rabeeya's thoughts...
"A writer is a human being,
trying to create places,
between words and spaces".
I do it for the people,
I do it for the depressed,
I do it for the downtrodden,
I do it for those folks who still believe in redemption,
I do it for love,
I do it for humanity.
Holy thy pen,
mightier than sword,
soaked in wisdom,
possessed with power.
To say that the ink is dry,
is an abjure of moral allegiance;
an abuse of elementary divine-ordinance.
With an exceptional effulgence,
it echoes my thoughts.
My ink, my voice!
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2014
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:19 AM UTC
Carnivorous earth;
when shall we purge you
of your ingested preys
Like the unbridled beast
with ceaseless feast.
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2016
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:15 AM UTC
I tossed for goodness
but then, I was drained
by throbs of pain
denied by guts to reined in glory;
imprisoned by fear and struck by departure.
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2017
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:09 AM UTC
Martyr of venom
with loads of guilt; cringing in terror
His heart was heavy
Like the elixir of hope
fiddled with froth.
With wails so wild and
piecing a feathered pen into his skin.
His woes and miseries;
well crested in the wind
coursing the earth with his fluid.
Agony at the neck of the day
Sobbing whistles from providence
creeping into the cold street
like the last days of the prophet.
His face crinkled in anxiety
poisoned by his own blood.
His lungs are breath-starving
drowning with solemnity
and cuddled by fate.
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2016
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:07 AM UTC
Whims within whims,
The nation stumbles and breaks
Penetrating her open wounds,
With the debris of the civil war.
Loony vultures and eagles;
Back on the ****** dinning table.
Feasting in flickering fuss;
With their loopy lentigo claws.
For the love of my generation,
And the one after.
For the love of rightness;
And all that it stands for.
To fill the empty spaces
Of our future that will
One day become our past.
I rise!!! I rise!!! I rise!!!
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2016
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:06 AM UTC