Today I see it still—
Dry, wire-thin in sun and dust of the dry months—
Headstone on tiny debris of passionate courage.
—Chinua Achebe,
I swear to god_
I am not a hypocrite, I’m that black
Boy whose father died in cuffs and ankled chains _ whose requiem is sung in forlorn hills.
I am a fighter with words and whistles, fighting waters tendering the tendrils
Of a placid moon. A metaphor of the water to the dead bodies lying helplessly
In these forlorn fields.
Latest posts by Su'eddie V. Agema (see all)
- ANNOUNCING THE SEVHAGE/KSR HYGINUS EKWUAZI LITERARY PRIZES 2023 LONGLIST - October 30, 2023
- UBUNTU 2.0 at the London School of Economics: Celebrating Rich Voices, Culture and the Black Experience with V. Osarumwese, McInerney, Agape, Omeke, Su’eddie Agema, E. Mwambulukutu and Orayyy - October 28, 2023
- CALL FOR SUBMISSION: THE LONDON SCHOOL OF ECONOMICS BLACK HISTORY MONTH LITERARY COMPETITION (DEADLINE 31st OCTOBER 2023) - October 28, 2023
