Where are the pens that
Feed our ancestors? The ink out. Or seized
Are they? The cats stand by our soups and
Mother looked on - with perched gob.


This land, what the hell befalls you?
I ask father again - where the voice dwells
Ours is a nation of eaters, no leftovers for
The wandering souls. We cry for a roof to call home.

Where are the pens that
Feed our ancestors? The ink out. Or seized
Are they? The cats stand by our soups and
Mother looked on - with perched gob.

To the grumbling minors, arrows are thrown.
Our dreams now roam in the street like the
Rome of Demons. A dome of doom.
Abiola. Giwa. Strike with your papers.

Government of the party,
By the incumbent,
And for the elites.
Is this what we celebrate?

If democracy stands for
Liberty, justice and equality,
Then we are miles behind,
Suffering bitterly in our clime.

Did our vote for Abiola count?
Maybe that's history,
But we still have leaders that were not elected but selected.
Why is election rigging a celebrated culture?

Will we continue exchanging our votes
For money, meals and fake promises?
Let’s fight first for human values before party values
So that our lives will count more than ballot.

The night creeps because I miss you

The depth of the night creeps upon our isolation
I miss you just as the moon misses noon
Only chants of thought and emotions prevail like the ripples of a disturbed river testifying borders carved that never allow french kisses tarry

Missing you is like an electromagnetic waves that shuns vivid feelings imprisoned by circumstance
Oh ! hell is mine

Will the sighs and whispers ever sieze ?
Will they be like M.K.O Abiola and 1992 ?
I miss you
But not in my traditioned dreams that are fueled in commitments


The night is creeping because I miss you
And the day is shy and sessile
Your visage has never spared any of my creeping nights, just like the insects and the nectar.


By Ouseibai Bright