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

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

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

(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

(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

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

Carnivorous earth;
when shall we purge you
of your ingested preys
Like the unbridled beast
with ceaseless feast.

© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2016