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My sense of identity is that of an observer making sense of every scene that presents itself. More like a camera capturing what is presented as it interprets the images into photos. But I must admit that even as lenses get blurry. ...

Ikeogu Oke was a Nigerian poet and journalist who died in Abuja on November 27th, 2018, at 51. He hailed from Ohafia in south-eastern Nigeria and was considered a deeply spiritual person. He sought to embody traditional African beliefs, notably wearing the Ohafia war dress to high-profile events to highlight his Igbo heritage. 

"Love potions are just aphrodisiacs Viagra is how many minutes of happiness?"

Most importantly, I hate poetry for teaching me how to love. Poetry made a lover out of me. Before poetry, I didn’t know that the gaze from my lover’s eyes could loosen my joints. I didn’t know that a single touch of his hands could melt me like candle wax. . .

Tope Ogundare is a psychiatrist and poet who was recently shortlisted for Association of Nigerian Authors/KMVL Poetry Prize (2023). In this piece, he gives a brief glimpse into his writing and inspiration. Do read, do share! ...

Orange Poetry NG

But life isn't always like poetry, it hardly ever starts from the last stanza. Sometimes, you have no idea if there will be a last stanza at all, or if it will continue in long lines that do not have an end. Like the cliffhangers at the end of thrillers. And these cliffhangers of life... these events that continue to infinity like a recurring decimal, are the parts of life I struggle to deal with. My mind shifts and fidgets endlessly when it goes on a journey that does not seem to have an end. 

Everything Here

Initially, poetry was just another subject in school, words strung together, one after the other. As a child, my mind was more focused on the empty cans waiting to be filled with sand or crushing biscuits into paste to bake into cake. I don’t know where the concept of time immemorial fits into the corners of my memory, but words have always lived somewhere in my heart. I just didn’t know exactly where, so I never bothered to visit.

I grew up enchanted by sound and rhymes, from my grandmother's folksongs to the English nursery rhymes I devoured.

Love is no longer shy smiles exchanged with bowed heads, or letters shared with each other in secret, with younger siblings acting as couriers. A woman’s love is no longer affirmed by her silence when asked by her elders if she loves a man, or how she avoids roads leading to her beloved’s house out of shyness, or how she runs away giggling when his name is mentioned. Love is not date nights on mats once a week, sitting on either edge with a lamp in between. Love is simply no longer silence and a smile. 

At first, the idea of sharing it with girls in our class never came to mind; but, soon the spirit of youth began to spring in our souls, we began to hear the whispers of our hearts and our minds believed it was love.