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I am that song you nod and hum to but still can’t sing along with, because, sometimes, it’s too deep. Yet, it flows, attracting passersby who know nothing of the sadness within. ...

Three Poems by Aliyu Kamal
Three Poems by Izang Alexander Haruna

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. 

In a lot of ways, ending a year is like ending a poem. Like a poet approaches a finished poem in scrutiny, going over and reading it again, sometimes reading it out loud to hear the rhythm and make sure it flows smoothly, so too do we go over the events of an ending year. But unlike a poem, we cannot remove the words or the lines we feel are obstructing the flow of a year spent. There is no going back to remove a word or insert a new one. There is no changing the events of any moment. There is no altering the flow. There are only the what-ifs.

I shout your name into the dark night A forest of shadows And there is no hyena around to respond Where are you!?

Despite the inhuman conditions in which Nigerians now live daily, they have largely remained calm and unable to raise their voices against the conundrum threatening their existence. Paradoxically, people who have been driven to the brim of patience have chosen to remain resolute in their silence, they prefer to mourn each day away hoping a miracle might happen to them.

No one wants a gathering of aunts. They will sit in a semi-circle, with me before them: head low and my shame a halo above my head. They will pass my poem from one bewildered hand to another. It will be a love poem. They will shake their heads; make a valley out of their mouths, clap their hands, and let out both audible and inaudible sighs. They will look at me with eyes carrying both disappointment and wonder. They will wonder how I am able to write all these things. Wonder how I even know these things exist, the child that I am. They will try to reconcile their sweet daughter with the stranger on the page. Then they will ask for the identity of the one who has taken my heart..

Everything Here

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