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the
QuillS
ISSUE 6
June, 2020
1
the QuillS
A publication of Writers Connect (WRICON)
Issue 6
June, 2020 EDITORIAL BOARD
the QuillS is a biannual publication of Writers
Taofeek Ayeyemi (Aswagaawy)
Connect, a non-for-profit literary establishment in
Editor-in-Chief
Nigeria.
Akinlabi Ololade Ige
Poetry Editor
Copyright © 2020 the QuillS Isaac Akinrinade (Esv_Keks)
Permission to reprint materials from this journal Poetry Editor
remains the decision of the authors. We however
request the QuillS be credited with initial publication. Sheu Abdus-Salam Aladodo
Essay Editor
Front Cover Photo: Dog by Barnabas Adeleke Ibrahim Anifowoshe (IbanKhan)
Back Cover Art: Sprout by Yakub Oluwatomisin Fiction Editor
Journal Formatting by The Poetician Inc.
Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Nonfiction Editor
Oni Tomiwa
Haiku Editor
FOR SPONSORSHIP AND PARTNERSHIP Adekola Olalekan Harun
Visual Art Editor
Email
writersconnect1@gmail.com Oyero Olaseni
Publicity Officer
Phone
+2347035513533 Jimoh Rahmah
Protocol Officer
SPECIAL THANKS TO
Niasse Foundation
The Poetician Inc.
2
CONTENT
POETRY
Ojo Taiye 17 Benediction
18 Simple Children or Wild Stars
Taofeek Ayeyemi 19 voice and eyes as flagellation
Mark Gilbert 20 exercise
Abdullateef Ridwanullah 21 Shall we Write
Jide Badmus 32 Allergies
Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan 33 Does God Listen to Us?
Olaewe David Opeyemi 34 The Flip Side
Abdul Hadi Haleemah 35 The Harvest of Delight
Azeezah Olatunde 36 The weight of sadness
Nyashudeashe Chikumbu 59 death
60 rittle
A. A. Akindeere 61 A Plague Repaints the World
Oyero Olaseni 62 a place i want to be
Kolade Olawale Kabir 63 No Longer What it Used to Be
Olumide Emmanuel 64 Scarab
Otabor Igbinosa Edmond 65 Since 1828
Yusuf Olanrewaju 77 What Writers Won’t Tell You…
Ugwu Erochukwu Shedrach 78 do not say this is the end
Nnadi Samuel 79 to prey an insurgency
Adeoti Quadri Adekunle 80 Astafirullah
Solomon Sunday 82 Phantom of Solace
Okoli Stephen Nonso 88 Lynched Bodies
Abioye Samuel Akorede 89 A Mouth Full of Butterflies
Nsikak Ekikor 90 Faith and Fury
Oni Tomiwa 91 Things I Couldn’t Wait For
Haleemah Olakanmi 92 Dirges Everywhere
Augusta Iwukokon Matthew 93 Detriment
Salvatore 95 Isolation
Ezekiel Oluwasalvage Archibong 96 Altered Syllabus
Ibrahim Ajani Lawal 97 Lamentation
Olaitan Abdulafeez Oladipupo 98 The Days We Call Yesterday
Egbebi Mariam Yetunde 99 Ode to the Quills
PROSE
Adeleke Rachel Tioluwani 10 From Mama, With Hate
Nnadi Samuel 22 Insomnia for my Woke Feminist
Adeoye Maryam Olayemi 29 Thorns and the Light in the Tunnel
Ayesha Shaikh 53 Memory of a Daffodil
Ramon Sofiat Omowumi 56 Once Upon an Adage
Akanbi Oluwole 66 The Incubus
Olude sunmi 75 What a Man Sees
Otabor Igbinosa Edmond 87 The Story of the Trios
3
HAIKU FORMS
Martha Magenta 7 Broken Links
8 Night Run
9 Selected Haiku
Adjei Agyei-Baah 24 Village Road
Hemapriya Chellappan 25 Love is in the air
25 Become
26 Rain in a Rice Bowl
…with Bryan Rickert 27 Broken Dawn
28 One Way Trip
Peter Jastermsky & Bryan Rickert 46 Sheltering
Boloere Seibidor 47 Hummingbirds
Oluwasegun O. Adesina 48 Anxietude
Jibril Dauda Muhammad 49 The Succour
50 Campus Heat
Mark Gilbert 68 Head over Heels
Ugwu Erochukwu Shedrach 69 Serendipity
Rachel Rabo Magaji 70 Valentines eve . . .
71 Brother’s Keeper
72 Homecoming
Taofeek Ayeyemi 82 Behind the Covid Door
85 Amotekun
…with Rachel Magaji 83 Covic 1-9
…with Rahma Jimoh 84 Spilled Sugar
VISUAL ARTS
Sulola Imran Abiola 16 Sundown
Ibrahim Ajani Lawal 37 Doubtfulness
Rachel Rabo Magaji 51 Ignition
52 Fluorescence
Yakubu Oluwatomisin (TEFI) 73 Spiral
74 Spin
100 Sprout
Hajarat Abiodun Alli 94 Amity
INTERVIEW AND REVIEW
Ambali Abdulkabeer 38 Profligacy and Ethical Decay
in Contemporary Nigerian Poetry,
A Review of Ezenwa Ohaeto’s If To Say I Bi Soja
Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto 43 Tap into Your Own Feeling, An Interview
4
Editor's Note
“To make a quill pen, you first had to catch your bird.”–Anonymous
Tribute
While acknowledging the fact that this journal has begun to welcome theme-free
submissions, this issue should however be tagged Tribute. This is so because a number
of works here paid homage to grief and pandemic. And the Editorial Team will
therefore in the spirit of the former be paying tribute to the souls of two poets we lost
earlier this year.
First is Martha Magenta, a cerebral haiku poet whose works I have found wonderful in
the many haiku-based journals I have read. I discovered she was not only prolific but
also proficient as her works keep appearing in almost all the journals where I have my
haiku featured, and those I didn’t get appearance. So, among such other prolific poets,
her name became very familiar to me, and when I heard about her demise, I felt the
haiku community was minus a great one.
According to Brendon Kent, as copied from cattails, “Martha was always compassionate
and helpful towards beginners to the haiku form and frequently offered a shoulder to
those going through difficulties in life and health. She didn’t ever let on that she was in
third stage cancer herself until the final months…” About two months before her
demise, she left a wonderful gift to the community which is her debut book titled
“Birdsong: Before the Earth Falls Silent” which is available from Lulu at
http://www.lulu.com/shop/martha-magenta/birdsong-before-the-earth-falls-silent-a-
collection-of-haiku-and-tanka/paperback/product-24330627.html and in her good
spirit, the proceeds from the book go to charities involved in the preservation of birds.
In this Issue, I have selected a tanka sequence, a haibun and five haiku of Martha
Magenta from her website where she used to post her published works. You can visit
the website later to read her other works: https://marthamagenta.com/
Second tribute, and the most unfortunate, goes to Rachel Toluwani Adeleke. I didn’t get
to know her until the announcement of her death. It was reported that she fought but
gave in to depression by committing suicide. It was also gathered that the incident
happened few months after she emptied her mind into a piece of work where she told
the world the root of her depression and psychological pain. Unsuspectingly, she was
writing a suicide note, and it really passed as one. It was said that the twenty-two-year-
old bard and griot had no father-figure in her life, was practically nursing and taking
care of her mum and self-sponsoring her schooling with virtually no assistance from
anywhere.
Her story touched and left me saddened. From her various photos, one can deduce
she’s a dynamic soul full of life. The tribute given her by those who knew her made me
feel she is an important person who should be paid a due tribute. I visited her timeline
and copied the said story. When I revisited her timeline the second day to get more
information about her, I found that her account has been deleted. I muttered “so soon,”
5
and felt sad over how life seems to be a story of how man lived and died. I also felt
good that I was able to retrieve her story, something with which we can preserve her
memory. Quickly, a caveat, if you are lighthearted, you may not have to read her story
which I have reproduced in this issue.
The issue of depression leading to suicide becomes more worrisome as we recall that
the penultimate year 2019 was scarred by the death of 5 promising young writers and
students (among the 40 recorded suicide in the country) – as gathered from Ace World Pub
and Ideal Health Ng websites, namely; Chukwuemeka Akachi (May 13), Samuel Elias (June
17), Uzakah Timi Ebiweni (May 21), Hikmat Gbadamosi (April 27) and Christabel
Omoremime Buoro (June 18). Akachi’s suicide sent the most tumultuous shockwave
through the writing community that year, being a fiercely brilliant and promising
writer.
Above all, it is our advice to our contributors and readers to take care of your mind and
emotion, seek help when needed and share your feelings with trusted ones. It is no
doubt that failure and disappointment in some aspects of life lead to most suicide. And
the argument on whether suicide is an act bravery or cowardice is a matter of mental
gymnastics and emotional sophistry. Be that as it may, there is a certain fact, all suicidal
persons are/were helpless at the point in time of their life. It should also be noted that it
is an illness (mental illness) which requires treatment and other forms of therapy.
Because once depression and grief eats into the mind of any person, the mind becomes
activated against him – having no absolute control over it anymore, thereby pushing
him into doing the unthinkable. Unless taken care of, it keeps giving him the feel of
helplessness and worthlessness that he seems life is not worth living. I therefore feel
there is a bit of unconsciousness in suicidal act at the point of doing that. Thus, the best
thing is to avoid being broken down by depression by way of seeking necessary help
and doing what gives us joy.
Our last tribute goes to the world for being shook by the hydra-headed Covid-19
pandemic which has afflicted millions of people, and hundreds of thousands have died
in the world over. There are survivors and there are a number of us who have proved
untouched as we keep cautioning ourselves by staying safe and alive. Until this
pandemic is over, let us keep staying safe by observing the precautionary measures.
In the end, I appreciate all our contributors to this issue, you all are the real MVP’s. I
also appreciate our readers who have being our strength all this while.
Therefore now,
Read. Enjoy. Appraise. Digest.
Taofeek Ayeyemi (Aswagaawy)
Editor-in-Chief
6
Martha Magenta
(March 13, 1949 - January 14, 2020)
Martha Magenta was an award-winning haiku poet
who until her death lived in Bristol, England, UK.
She had a passion for herbalism, gardening,
veganism, animal rights, Earth and the environment.
She worked for ActionAid, and Friends of the Earth.
Her poetry, haiku, haibun, senryu, and tanka have
appeared in many journals, magazines, and
anthologies. She was awarded first, second and third
prizes and Honourable Mentions in contests for
haiku, tanka and haibun in 2017 – 2019 and is listed
on The European Top 100 haiku authors, 2017 and
2018. She collected her published works on a
blog: https://marthamagenta.com/
Broken Links
Sid has been on his own since Sylvia left. He’s always talking about going
places when he’s fixed his motorbike. He has plotted his route on a map in
red marker. First, the Portsmouth to Cherbourg ferry, then south through
France, across the Pyrenees, down through eastern Spain and into Morocco.
Then he would go along the East coast of Africa. He tugs on a spliff.
Summer is nearly over. I ask him what happened to his plans to join
friends at an ashram in India. He says there are too many war zones in the
way. He would have to leave the bike and take a train to Moscow . . . or
take a plane . . . but he really wants to go by motorcycle. But the bike has
been in pieces for weeks—the chain in a plastic bowl soaking in something
to get the gunk out; tyreless wheels in the hallway; black oil everywhere.
He rubs a ginger-stubbled chin with oil-stained fingers and mutters about
camshafts, cables and constant depression carburettor needles.
autumn breeze
the migration
of swallows
Narrow Road, vol 8, August 2019
7
Night Run
street lights
fight the darkness
a clenched fist
of wind slams litter
against a wall
neon light
splinters
across my eyes
like sun stabbing
through shattered glass
adrenalin
flows through me
like wildfire
eyes scratch off my back
like blades
the quiver
of crime-scene tape
blocks the road
the sidewalk
stained with blood
a plasma
tv screen
blares out
a soap opera
through an open window
Red Lights Vol. 15, no 2 June 2019
8
Selected Haiku
settling
on the peace quilt
cherry blossoms
International Sakura Award (2019 Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Haiku Invitational)
frosty night. . .
the horse’s breath
melts a star
Honourable Mention, 2019 Harold G. Henderson Haiku Contest
laughing gulls
the wind pushes me
into the sea
Blithe Spirit vol 29 number 3 August 2019
spring dawn
drizzle opens
a blue iris
Presence #64, Summer 2019
white villas
perched at the cliff edge
screaming gulls
Frogpond, Issue 42.2, 2019
Martha Magenta
March 13, 1949 - January 14, 2020
9Adeleke Rachel Tioluwani
(1998 - 2020)
Adeleke Rachel Tioluwani (loved being
called Richie) was a Nigerian poet who
had in one way or the other contributed
to the Nigerian literary scene with her
brilliant art.
From Mama, With Hate
I watch your teardrops become litres, as they flow with mine, forming a river. I
watch you sob even with my own bitter, clouded eyes. Now, I do not know
whose faults and whose regrets, who’s broken, who’s in pain and who’s ruined.
Mum… Let’s walk down memory lane together. I’d remind you how much love
in hate I saw, how much hatred in love I was shown, and how much I could
behold.
“Nooo! Are you the only one?! Should I not live my life anymore?! Go ahead and
turn into whatever you want to turn to. Wàá bá èmi náà nbè!”
I would shiver in pity, seeing so much disgusts in your eyeballs. Is this not same
woman that so loved me?
“Mu..mmy……”
“Má mummy mi. Don’t ‘mummy me. Don’t even….”
And then, you would break into tears. Tears were so close to your eyes those
days just as thorny words were close to your lips. You would make me seem
what I am not and, I would leave your presence with dry face and go shed a
million tears in my closet.
10That was the beginning of your change. What has happened to mother? You
stopped being my playmate. You said I was eighteen, that I could go do my
plaiting, could choose friends among my schoolmates, choose career partners
among the street mates, even church mates. That minute, in your voice I found
hate. The harshness of your voice had bitterness in it. I couldn’t fathom the sober
part but I noticed it was therein. And some fear-inducing shouts that went very
far in creating a sane lout.
That day, I was sitting on the blue couch, the right arm was going to fall off. I
knew it but I was just there, absent in real life. I had brooded very far—very far
into our past. And then you screamed! It woke me to life—back to that life of
hardship.
“Ṣé bàbá ẹ ló ra shiaarr fún mi ni? Is it your father that bought that chair for me?
Are you going to destroy this again?”
You shouted like I had always destruct things in the house. But it didn’t even
come to my mind because although you saw the ears, my ears weren’t there.
Again,
“Àbẹ ̀bííííí!!!!!!!”
“Oh!” I sprang back to life. You wouldn’t even see the tears that brought out the
fear in my heart.
A slap! Tuaaaahhhhhhhhhh! made me jump.
I sat back when you left. What had happened to my own mother..?
…………………………………………………………………………
“Àbẹ ̀bi, don’t even… Don’ttttttt….”
Someone laughed. Was it you or me?
Oh! We both laughed.
I didn’t hesitate to disarrange your crows. The ones I had meticulously weaved
the previous morning when you were telling me Baba Sura was ‘chasing’ you
about in the streets. I laughed it off and explained my own plight. “No,” you had
said. “It is the power of your beauty, my dear lady.”
11With pride running through my veins, I imagined Bàbá Súrá chasing you on the
floor of Agbábíàká street, both of you playing 'casha-casha' as though he was
Bolu and you were Kafila, the neighbor’s little 'princess'.
I smiled.
Power, indeed.
“So, mum, wouldn’t you like to know the g….?
“Hey! My dear, wouldn’t I what..? I was going to ask you already.”
You let out a broad smile. I quickly sat before you, my knees meeting yours. I
returned the smile.
“Do you know what they call TDH..?? No, you don’t.”
You were staring into the skies. I saw that.
I wonder how you saw my hand coming to your breasts. Like before, you
slapped my palm away.
“Tee, your dad was…”
I gave a wry smile, never wanted to hear the story again. I mimicked that exact
line— “He was tall, dark and handsome.”
"A heartbreaker. Baby, kind hearts too break heart. Your father was a guy every
girl sought.”
“Your head of class,” I put in.
“Yes. The most brilliant, very handsome except for his Klegs…”
“Those which the gap-tooth complimented.” I used 'compliment' just like you.
“Tolu, will you let me?”
“Oh momma! I’m sorry. Tolu thinks she has heard enough of it.”
“Will you just…”
“Please, tell me mum.” I gave that seducing smile.
12“You know he was sweet, tall, dark and handsome, brilliant, very kind, yet he
broke me. But, you don’t even know how he did. Kazeem indeed was man of the
girls; the guy for the ladies, but he loved me so much. I read that in everything he
did. Though we had this popular problem of premarital sex, I wanted a sweet
relationship, short courtship before marriage. He wanted a sweet girl, one to be
enjoyed before marriage.
We had this talk so many times. And one day after explaining to my mother,
Mum said I was 24 and could allow my boyfriend have it if I want him to; not
just keeping it for the sake of the noble sayings and preachings against
premarital sex.”
“But Kazeem was cheating and you had no problem with that.”
“Hehehe! Tueh! I did have some problems with that, but you know dear, the love
I had for your father. So, I was going to share the great news. How excited and
naive I was that I didn’t give a call…”
“And you got to his place and were caught off-guard. Nothing caught you
actually, you were just surprised he wasn’t on another lady as expected, but
home alone under the influence of alcohol that you knew he didn’t use to drink”
The look you gave that moment, I laughed so hard but you were still calm. I was
interrupting your story and acting like I knew it all. Then, you gave that where-
did-I-even-get-this- girl look.
So, I did apologise and you…you dropped it:
“Tolu, he raped me!”
“Oh! Wow!!”
Before the sobs would be heard loud, I moved closer and hugged you tight. I
could hear the pants of your heart. I pictured it too: a drunken man that was
your boyfriend forcing his harshness into you, his ideas, his sentiments.
He wasn’t even apologetic. Just as you had told me. So, you saw from that
moment he wasn’t someone you could marry; a bitter patriarch that would later
force his religion on you, which might end up hitting you for earning more
through your diverse businesses. You said you had seen him finish and wouldn’t
like to marry him although you loved him.
13You also told me how your father chased you to his house when he discovered
you were pregnant. How you stayed in Granny’s house till you gave birth to me
and lived an awful three years with him until you left. We talked of the hits
every day, the swollen faces, the emotional abuses, the verbal abuses. You were
losing your sanity, and then your gut got you out. We cried a million times
together. We cried a million tears. And I made up my mind to forever be there, to
be there for you and with you.
…………………………………………………………………………
But, you later wouldn’t let me.
At a point, I was feeling you were transferring old-time aggression, bitterness,
hatred, disgust to me. You stopped caring about my point of view, about how I
felt, about how school went, who I was going out with, my new teacher, the
neighbor that was always winking at me.
You did not care a bit. I even wrote to you mum, about the imagined family.
“out at eight
and never in till late
you go hustle for your kids
and care not how they feel
monies on the table
gadgets so stable
but hearts keep breaking
the love that made you work all day to keep us
why didn’t it spare some hours to nurture us?
the love that made you wake at dawn
why didn’t it make you return at dusk?
how you blame our shits on our teachers
and shamefully forget you’re our parents.
you could make it to parties but never our open days
you left our upkeep to social media, to peer group, to neighbors
to shape our lives and prepare our fates
at the end when everything turned out as 'planned'
you blame it on 'our bad habit'
dad, when did you ever had time?
even mum was a total stranger.
now, it’s late.
we’ve turned 'what we want to'
all thanks to Kate”
14I remembered how much you cried reading this. I thought there would be
change. Yet, the days still turned darker. Who would I explain to, that my
mother was inflicting pains on me; physically and emotionally? How could I
explain that what Papa caused you, were being rained on my poor head?
We used to have best moments. I could have told you about my silly, shameful
acts. 'Silly and shameful', you would call them but they wouldn’t have escalated
into so big, an angst. You could have scolded and admonished me. We could
have retraced steps and ironed things. But here, we sit. I still do not know who’s
ruined, whose regrets, who’s pimped, whose wound.
I cry for the days I was shunned. For letters I wrote but couldn’t give you. I cry
for the day I was tamed, by the little man I fell in love with. I cry for days you
never heard me, days I cried to Kate, who was so quick to give wrong advices.
I’m sorry for letting you down…but mum you were never even up. Did you not
scream and look down on me just when I needed you most? Did you not keep
from me whatever it was that always made you cry, that always broke you down?
Did you not hide from me your teary eyes every night? Even those drugs I see
you take morning and evening; did you not hide them? For fear or whatever it
might be, you made me feel bad for not helping you out from whatever it was,
just as you made me worse, deteriorating my pains and anguish with piercing
words being lavished.
You pushed me to drugs and never saw a sign—how much ruined I was getting.
You pushed me to incessant sighs and never worried what I had on my mental
health. What do we call what came between us? The Devil….? You were going to
give your best. Of course, you were giving it. Until, we had things turned out.
And I became your worst enemy. Isn’t that what it seemed?
You will give reasons. But then I would have gone 'too soon': To a place where
shame wouldn’t come after me and anguish wouldn’t be my most sought relief. I
will not live and relive, and I won’t even care if you leave because of this.
Bye!
Till we see no more.
#Richie
Adeleke, Rachel Tioluwani
1998 – 2020
15SUNDOWN
Sulola Imran Abiola
____________________________________
Sulola Imran Abiola (The Official Sulola) is a native of Oyo state, Nigeria; born and bred in the
bustling city of Lagos state. He is a poet, public servant, lover of arts and an optimist who
believes breakthrough in every life-sniffing situation. He writes across all themes and hopes to
get his works journey through far and wide someday. abiolaimran88@gmail.com
16Benediction
Ojo Taiye
not everyone can dream
some have bones heavy with regret
my body feels like a giant sunflower
my life is a room i don’t want to enter
speaking of rooms reminds me how often
i want to climb over the fence of sleep
o unbroken shush of white noise
a pronoun is a sort of withdrawal from wanting
some things return, others never really do
i drink my childhood thread & murder my tongue
i’ve come too far to realize my mask grows taller every year
there are veins living outside my body
what is night if not for it being a repetition of another
lost sunrise inside the quilt of my hand
i walk inside my memories holding an apple branch
i am told, it’s a blessing— the split-second
when we are sons a good mother just wants hold
the way it halves us, slice us & carves the flesh out of us:
the smell of my granny’s amaranth & chrysanthemum
i am the exit wound trapped inside an angel
the first dawn with a blade in its wind
every time i flirt with a girl
i say i know my way around this wound
whatever it means to be a lesser prey
17Simple Children or Wild Stars
in the widening field, i become a scholar of persuasion. i have done things i
shouldn't discuss in a poem: wild stars and a fragment of dream that
arrows in the mist. i don't want to spend the rest of my life planting salts,
seeding the ground with memories, if the road to a safe tomorrow is what
i'd rather do without. today, i am burning the names of boys shot at noon.
to wake when it's possible is a good thinking. each year, my nights pour
through me like complaints & the day becomes harder to live within. we all
have reasons for leaving and i go skyward. i will change your life, a little
emptiness says, to which i say please. it's hard to know the right way to
write the same poem over and over, i mean i must leave this animal of my
body, without touching the furniture.
_______________________________________
Ojo Taiye is a young Nigerian poet who uses poetry as a handy tool to hide his frustration with
society. He is the winner of many awards including the 2019 Kingdoms in the Wild Poetry Prize
for his chapbook All of Us Are Birds and Some of Us Have Broken Wings and the 2019 Broken
River Prize for his chapbook Cotton Silence, forthcoming in 2020. You can reach out to him on
twitter @ojo_poems.
18voice and eyes as flagellation
Taofeek Ayeyemi
before grandpa died, he used to say
when a parrot goes silent, check its throat,
fear must have built its nest therein,
its world must have been in danger. but
your silence is defined as a way a child begins
the act of stubbornness. so your mother says
"the husband of a stubborn child is cane."
but she forgets to add "eyes that carry
thorns & voice that strikes like thunder:"
every morning, father's voice breaks into
your body & stores dozens of thunderstones
in your ribcage. & at night, mother's eye cut
into your heart, so deep that your brain leaks
through it. your mind a pothole storing the
roadkill of the past. your present a bridge
leading to nowhere.
until you were reduced to talking to the only
person who understands your grief: yourself –
before whom you can only talk confidently.
last night, you were counting & dictating the scars
their insurgencies left on your body to your confidant,
a voice of a comedian sounded from the
television. the joke dulled your pain, so much
that you laughed,
so hard that the room shifted its gaze to you
& you realized you were the only one
who heard the joke;
the t.v. has been off.
___________________________________
Taofeek Ayeyemi (Aswagaawy) is a Nigerian lawyer and writer with works in Lucent Dreaming, Ethel-
zine, the QuillS, The Pangolin Review, Minute Magazine, Modern Haiku, Hedgerow, Seashores, contemporary
haibun online and elsewhere. He won Honorable Mention Prize in 2020 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Prize
and 2019 Morioka International Haiku Contest among others. His books "Tongueless Secret" (Ethel Press)
and "aubade at night or serenade in the morning" (FlowerSong Press) are forthcoming in 2021.
19exercise
Mark Gilbert
____________________________________
Mark Gilbert enjoys writing various poetic styles, prose of various lengths, and hybrid forms.
Recent work may be found in the excellent journals The Mamba, Prune Juice, Haikuniverse,
Human/Kind Journal, Failed Haiku, Better than Starbucks and Contemporary Haibun Online.
He recently won the 136th Caribbean Kigo Kukai competition and resides in the UK.
20Shall We Write?
Abdullateef Ridwanullah
Shall we write about the feeling
that tears through the mind like
thunderstorms flying along the sky?
The feel that precedes premium
tears the way thunderstorm
precedes heavy downpour?
Shall we write about the feeling
that paralyses the whole being
from the mind to the muscles?
The beast that tears apart
one's vigour into pieces of
shredded encyclopedia?
Shall we write about the feeling
that glows in the face yet is
seen as a darkest of aperture?
The fire whose brightness shines
elegantly and burns people's
vision and sight to hide itself.
Shall we write about the feeling
planted by the katzenjammer of this
world in the hearts of humans?
The seed whose roots dig deep into
hearts pausing breathe from within,
Shall we write about depression?
____________________________________
Abdullateef Ridwanullah is a third year medical student student of the University of Ibadan,
Ibadan, Nigeria. He is a Nigerian writer and poet that is passionate about having positive
impacts on people's lives through his works of arts.
21Insomnia for My Woke Feminist
Nnadi Samuel
i hail from a tribe of men who learned to hold back their grief at a very
tender age. maybe that's the only tangible reason i still wear my frown as a
default setting, despite the fault of crushing on other people's smile. a stern
frown isn't so much of a nice thing to behold especially in the afternoon,
when my face is an hourglass holding the sun's little secret. that way i am a
little free from those teenage girls uniformed as traffic warders, flashing
greenlights which turns out dim when an ngo files for their rape case. my
smile has never reached out to the sun. my chin bears me witness, i knot
my frown too long, it ropes me back to my very first tie in high school.
on my way back from work, i have to wave at my neighbor's child martha,
like it really matters i have to make it quite convincing, if not i fear i might
be the next man in a dimly lit cell, pleading guilty for attempted fondling
of an underage in my psyche. i know the name of every nubile teenage girl
in my street. i can tell a sylvia when her perfume plats me at the back. i
have to tuck in my neck just to say my "good morning" properly. i have to
make a buffet of their stale opinion, even if it means agreeing that capital
punishment should be labelled to every schnapps bottle a man corks in
between a female's thigh. failure to do this might audition me as an
intoxicated patriarch who knows nothing about being depressed.
a funnier scene is me travelling to my hometown toasted in between
working-class ladies in a public transport. i shrink the flesh in between my
thighs so well, sometimes i have my hangovers in a bout of impotence. i
am forever indebted to snakes & their candid posture of making little
spaces home. i rinse every baritone in my saliva, thinking it might remind
them of who i am, a man! and yes, we all own teenage girls in our lives
who keep blackmailing us for years in their shy winks, and each day we do
not pay our ransom in an indulging stare, we become privileged to sing
our own gratitude.
as i dress this manuscript, there is a man about leaving home, with a
prisoner's priceless bracelet cuffing the hair on his wrist, and he has to
button up the tears in his eyelids, because someone has to be blamed for
every shy girl reaching cloud nine. in the evening when he receives bail,
some girls would intentionally smear the weigh of their breasts on his shirt
& his reptilia has to pretend nothing bulged it, that it merely creeped out of
22it's own free will. in his office, a subordinate presses her hips to his crotch
and expects him to concentrate on making money instead of babies. in
every suya joint, there is a young girl begging for testing. one lustful stare
& you never have the peace of mind buying yours alone else things i'll go
sour for the evening.
and let's assume we have strived so hard to withstand all these, to swallow
all these bias that now forms part of our masculinity. we have one demand
though. when you finally have us behind bars. when you pluck more than
a rib from us to make the eve in you grieve too. when you accuse us of
invalidating your 2year old child, when you spray us life bullets from the
cartridge of your tongue, when you finally meet us wet and submissive,
lay us to rest.
do not behave like your woke mothers, do not bear false witness on how
many young virgins our pintles has sodomized. i beg of you, allow our
testis shrink in peace. stop counting the motels we dropped by for a short
rest. the young girl that just left the hotel before him, could she be his sex
mate.
do not accomplish your wet dreams of erecting a state's cid with the pole
on my thighs. what flashbacks did we ever trigger to travel back in time &
not ride you safe to cloud nine? where did our reptile ever go wrong in
kowtowing before your already wet prescience? what is the point of calling
the older ones amongst us sugar daddies, or have you not caused them
diabetes enough! have we not wee our bloods enough!
do not hold our grudge too long for abstaining too much, for being too
attractive, for shelving every of your misgiving on our triceps. forgive us,
for breathing 27,995 times a day. and do not say i never made my
intentions known here. i'll be 22 next year, guest editing hybrid stories on
devoted puns & patriarchy. & if it has a female character in it, i hope to
have her married at the end of the day.
_________________________________________
Nnadi Samuel is a Nigerian, 20year old graduate of English & literature from the University of Benin. His works have
appeared in Artifact magazine, Inverse Journal, Awakening Review, The Collidescope, Jams & Sand magazine &
elsewhere. He was shortlisted in the Annual Poet's Choice Writing & was the 2nd Prize Winner of the EOPP 2019
contest. If he is writing, you find him reading out memes on Facebook @ Samuel Samba. samuelnnadi4@gmail.com
23VILLAGE ROAD
(Africa Haiku Sequence)
Adjei Agyei-Baah
the float of kapok
in harmattan winds -
village road
village road -
the caked droppings
of cattle gone ahead
crossroad
stopping for each other
a dung beetle and I
countryside encounter
a smiling cowherd
bares brown teeth
end of day
returning peasants trudge
under log load
____________________________________
Adjei Agyei-Baah is a PhD student and promoter of haiku poetry in Africa. He widely
published in journals and anthologies across the world. His published haiku and senryu books
include Afriku (2016), Ghana, 21 Haiku (2018), Piece of My Fart (2018), and Trio of Windows
(2018).
24Love is in the Air
Hemapriya Chellappan
My husband is working from home and I am working on a haibun.
Me: What day is it?
Him: It's today.
I roll my eyes so hard; I almost see my brain.
Covid-19
he loses his sense
of humour
Become
Standing at the edge of the lake, I capture the first rays of sun on my
camera. On some days the world feels like its own mirror image.
zen morning
a hush descends
over the hills
25Rain in a Rice Bowl
Beside the TV is an aquarium, home to guppies and goldfish. Occasionally
my almost three brother and I stop to spend a few minutes by the tank to
drop tiny balls of food. Sometimes, our contemplation by the tank gives
away to a game we play. One of us, the player, will touch the aquarium
and lead the fish to an artificial cave inside the tank. A fish will notice the
fingertip and follows our directions. If you are to make the fish go near the
cave; that's the game.
summer night
we fall asleep
counting stars
26Broken Dawn
Bryan Rickert
Hemapriya Chellappan
blackout—
walking with a candle's
nervous flicker
dancing shadows
rhythm of the rain
after the storm
in the cold air
a tang of blood
settling dust
a tear in the curtain
let's in the moon
morning after
the clatter of my teeth
shifting through debris
the wailing of sirens
and survivors
27One Way Trip
Bryan Ricket
Hemapriya Chellappan
winter clouds
not even a shadow
of myself
a cup of soup
to ease my demons
saying goodbye
the arctic winds
a slap to the face
emotional baggage
where will this
night bus take me?
in the wee hours
a nameless town
another sunset
a boy sells the last
red heart balloon
____________________________________
Hemapriya Chellappan is a haikai poet, illustrator and haiga artist who resides in Pune, India.
She took to Japanese literary short forms in the summer of 2019. Ever since her works have been
published in various international print journals and e-magazines including The Heron’s Nest,
Wales Haiku Journal, Hedgerow, Acorn, The Cicada’s Cry, Prune Juice and other notable
publications. Her work has also appeared in Living Senryu Anthology and podcasts. When she
isn’t daydreaming she writes jokes, sketches landscapes, hums old songs and makes excellent
tea.
____________________________________
Bryan Rickert lives in Belleville, Illinois USA. In the last number of years Bryan has been
published in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Acorn, Presence, Akitsu Quarterly, The Heron’s Nest,
Prune Juice, Failed Haiku, Contemporary Haibun Online and a number of other fine journals
and anthologies. He is also the editor at The Living Senryu Anthology. His haiku collection
“Fish Kite” is available through Cyberwit Publishing.
28Thorns and the Light in the Tunnel
Adeoye Mar'yam Olayemi
What happens when you feel frustrated, devastated, unwanted and
abandoned by the people you love? The answer is not farfetched: being
devastated, unwanted puts you out of position. Ask sexual assaulters what
happens at the scene of rape when they are incapacitated. Ask an ex-
prisoner what happens the moment he got into the gaol. Ask a little child
what happens when abandoned by his parent. They are out of position. We
as human are mentally and physically influenced by the people with whom
we come in contact with.
When I think about people who were elevated through their challenges as
a result of courage and strive for success, many individuals come to my
mind. Topping the list is Matrix Lilian – a young girl who rose to stardom
through thorns and root knots. While growing up, at the age of seven,
Lilian lost her parents to a motor accident on a visit to her uncle in Benin.
This incident led to her staying with her newly wedded uncle and his wife
who sheltered, cared and loved her.
At age ten, she was accused of their childlessness. She was maltreated, and
finally sent packing. She began wandering hopelessly around town,
searching for means of survival. She later found an abode with a drug
addict at a garage where she was turned to a sex toy.
Lilian was at the peak of taking her own life, when she was sighted by a
social worker who accommodated her as a house girl and lied to sponsor
her education. On clocking 18, Lilian got introduced to prostitution and
was frightened to drop all responsibilities on her if she refused. Because
she couldn't go into prostitution due to her moral consciousness and
aspiration for success, she started work as a sales girl at a canteen and
enrolled for evening/night classes. She used the monthly salary she earned
to sort out her accommodation at the social worker's house and pay for
lesson fees.
Lilian's commitment and desire for success baffled one of the social
workers, Layo who adopted her and sponsored her education. Few years
later, she graduated from university and became a reporter. She was versed
in her chose field that she got an appointment in the State House. Though,
29our decision to change will be tested daily, but our circumstances don't
have to define us; we can redefine our circumstances by our actions.
You can be like the little girl named Malala Yousafzai, a Pakistani activist
for female education and youngest Nobel Prize Laureate. Yousafzai was
born on July 12, 1997 in Mingora, Pakistan located in the Country's Swat
Valley. Welcoming a baby girl is not always a cause for celebration in
Pakistan, but her father Ziauddin Yousafzai, was determined to give her
every opportunity a boy would have. Her father, was a teacher and ran a
girls' school in the village which Yousafzai attended. But everything
changed when the Taliban took control of the town in Swat Valley. The
extremists banned many things like owning a television and playing music,
and enforced harsh punishments for those who defied their orders. And
they said girls could no longer go to school.
After the Taliban began attacking girls' schools in Swat, Yousafzai gave a
speech in Peshawar, Pakistan in September 2008, titled "How dare the
Taliban take Away my Basic Right to Education?" In early 2009, when she
was just 11 years old, Yousafzai began blogging for the BBC about living
under the Taliban's threats to deny her an education. In order to hide her
identity, she used the name Gul Makai. However, she was revealed to the
BBC blogger in December of that year.
With a growing Public platform, Yousafzai continued to speak out about
her right, and the right of all women, to education. Her activism resulted in
a nomination for the International Children's Peace Prize in 2011. That
same year, she was awarded Pakistan's National Youth Peace Prize.
Yousafzai and her family learned that the Taliban had issued a death threat
against Yousafzai because of her activism. On October 9, 2012 when she
was 15 years old, Yousafzai was riding a bus with friends on their way
home from school when a masked gunman boarded the bus and
demanded to know which girl was Yousafzai. Her friends looked toward
Yousafzai, her location was given away. The gunman fired at her, hitting
Yousafzai in the left side of her head; the bullet then traveled down her
neck. Two other girls were also injured in the attack. The shooting left
Yousafzai in critical condition, so she was flown to a military hospital in
Peshawar. A portion of her skull was removed to treat her swelling brain.
To receive further care, she was transferred to Birmingham, England.
30After months of surgeries and rehabilitation, she joined her family in the
U.K. Yousafzai gave a speech at the United Nation on her 16th birthday in
2013. Yousafzai highlighted her focus on education and women's rights,
urging world leaders to change their policies. She said that "the terrorists
thought that they would change our aims and stop our ambitions, but
nothing changed in my life except this: weakness, fear, and hopelessness
died. Strength, power and courage were born".
She received a lot of awards in acknowledgement of her work. She was
awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in December 2014 and became the
youngest-ever Nobel Laureate. She established Malala Fund, a charity
dedicated to giving every girl an opportunity to achieve a future she
deserves.
There's a saying that inside every individual there are six people: Who you
are reputed to be, who you are expected to be, who you were, who you
wish to be, who you think you are and, who you really are. Identifying and
understanding these will make you focus on what is important to your
growth and development, regardless of the challenges life presents to you.
And in any event, this zeal will help you bring life to yourself, always!
____________________________
Adeoye Mar'yam Olayemi (MOA Talk) hailed from and lives in Lagos State. She is an OND
graduate of Public Administration from Federal Polytechnic Ilaro and currently undergoing her
IT.
31Allergies
Jide Badmus
I.
I warn my mouth
not to squander smiles
because tears are stored as
ice cubes in lachrymal trays
& rain is bound to crash
an open air party.
II.
Here, electricity is
allergic to wind & water!
III.
The lame does not die
of a forecasted war…
but where I come from, we
don’t smell the leaking gas
—super firemen, we pray
for a miracle of rain
to thwart the fire.
_______________________________________
Jide Badmus is an electrical engineer, a poet inspired by beauty and destruction; he believes that
things in ruins were once beautiful. Badmus explores themes around sensuality and healing. He
writes from Lagos, Nigeria. You can reach him on Twitter @bardmus, IG @instajhide
32"DOES GOD LISTEN TO US?
Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan
I love to think God is always right, Okay, let's believe He knows and sees all;
Especially when His silence to men never Why then did the uncircumcised
mattered, wickedness
But I doubt He was present at Sri Lanka of Bokoharam and ISIS caught up the
When the goblet of holy war, was filled breath
To the brim with maidens' blood. of those who sought solace in his alter?
I never questioned His existence or essence I have prayed and prayed.
Until I asked myself, How does God decide when to make
"Was He also present when Leah became miracles?
A monotonous slave of a cemented faith in They say it's in His hands to answer us
Him?" when He considers it's best for us,
But did He listen at all to the cry of those
Does God listen to us at all? believers at their point of anguish?
Why then do faithful people
have their prayers unanswered Maybe He does His things when He wants,
Even at the point of death? And never when we need 'em most.
Maybe his opacity is wiser than my
Does He listen to us at all? wisdom,
Why then did He feast on silence, Or maybe I shouldn't have questioned
When that old widow lost her only child Him at all.
To the sickly hands of unbaked death?
_______________________________________
Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan is a budding writer who writes from the soul about himself, his
life and the ebbing African culture. He is a penultimate medical Laboratory science student,
who hails from Ebonyi State, Nigeria. He was the winner of 2018 FUNAI CREW Literary
Contest. His works have appeared in the QuillS, Ace World, SprinNG, Inverse Journal, and has
contributed to many anthologies.
33The Flip Side
Olaewe David Opeyemi
Because loss is a gravid woman
who gives birth to children of griefs,
& when flame dies, it leaves a trail of ashes;
We never want to lose a person drawn to us by love.
Love is a protective charm we wrap around our heart&
We guard this garden with every rib in our chest.
Friendship is a house built on the foundation of love
& built to lintel, each block hinged together
by the plaster of trust. (Or so I thought)
I did not know that only the owner of a belly
knows what they ate last night,
that a man's heart could be an abandoned cave
that gives succour to venomous snakes
poisoning other men to grave.
I did not know that trust has been excised
from the menu of our restaurant,
that lips are now glossed by deceit.
I thought friendship should draw a permanent
tattoo on the contours of our heart &
Not fracture its muscles to unmendable fragments.
But you dug a pit & covered it with a mat,
I strolled from your mat to the pit.
My body became a map of bruises:
dressed with the scars of naive trust.
_______________________________________
Olaewe David Opeyemi is a Nigerian medical doctor and writer. He interrogates his life
experiences through writing. His works has been published by Parousia,Eboquills, BPPC,
Selcouth Station, CLH and elsewhere. He's winner of Dawn of Splendour Poetry contest
(Nov.2019) and Shuzia creative writing contest (Dec.2019). He writes from Birnin Kebbi,
Northern Nigeria and active on Facebook Olaewe David Opeyemi. Email:
opeyborn2rule@gmail.com
the QuillS, Issue 6 34The Harvest of Delight
Abdul Hadi Haleemah
Tonight, I choose joy, seeing the moon
as its rays dispel darkness,
sweeping around this countenance,
funny how the seasons change —
a day torrid with the harsh of sunshine,
another frigid with the subtlety of rainfall,
splashing hopes to every corner of the
earth. I choose the sating joy of wines
from the vineyard, turning my tongue
once sour into a mass of sweetness.
I choose joy, as I hide my tears behind
deluded smiles. Even with bleeding
wounds and cracks in the heart,
I learn to cover miles.
Tonight, I choose joy, having
tasted the fruit that hilarity yields.
_______________________________________
Abdul Hadi Haleemah is a Nigerian poet, creative writer and constant learner who hails from
Osun state. haleemahabdulhadi91@gmail.com
the QuillS, Issue 6 35The weight of sadness
Azeezah Olatunde
is the heavy bag
sitting and sagging
beneath
the soggy eyes
of the bereaved,
when grief strikes
and squeeze
depression
into her
heart;
is holding on
to a baby's shawl
like shed skin
as if the baby would grow
from its warmth;
is saying
ina lillahi wa
ina illahi rojihun
in a voice underscored
by unsteadiness like tattered flag;
is carrying a memory
in your womb
longer than
you carried
your child.
_______________________________________
Azeezah Olatunde (also known as PenTalks) is a Nigerian creative writer who writes from
Lagos. She has published some of her works with Know Islam, ISWOT, iWitness et al. She was
shortlisted for the 2019 PoesyWriters Poetry Contest. When she is not writing, she is reading or
listening to words. azeezatolatunde11@gmail.com
the QuillS, Issue 6 36Doubtfulness
Ibrahim Ajani Lawal
____________________________________
Ibrahim Ajani Lawal is a youngster of 20s, born in Nigeria and nurtures in Africa. He's a
creative Artist, Painter, Poet, who won the 1st prize in 'HYPER-REALISTIC DRAWING &
WRITING CONTEST, 2018'. Although, his creative prowess started long before he become an
English student in the prestigious northern institution named AHMADU BELLO UNIVERSITY,
ZARIA. To him, catching fun with didactic pun would change the weird world, sooner!"
higallery1@gmail.com
the QuillS, Issue 6 37Political Profligacy and Ethical Decay in Contemporary Nigerian Poetry:
A Review of Ezenwa Ohaeto’s If To Say I Bi Soja by Ambali Abdulkabeer
It is incontrovertible that literature and society are inexorably bound. The former,
through a variety of ways, reflects the latter. Literature is a critical tool that investigates
social contradictions with the aim of correcting them. In this way, Ezenwa Ohaeto’s If To
Say I Bi Soja joins the corpus of Nigerian poetry not only by baring the socio-political
realities of the Nigerian state but also foregrounding the viability of Pidgin in poetic
composition. In such a way that these two purposes do not conflict each other, the
collection re-affirms the position of the poet in the community of committed poets in
Nigeria in particular and Africa at large. Laden with mind-blowing imageries and
metaphors, this collection of poems continues the socio-political exegesis of Nigeria
contained in I Wan Be President. Ohaeto is unarguably in the same poetic canopy with Niyi
Osundare, Odia Ofeimu, Harry Garuba, Tanure Ojaide in his handling of themes and
style.
Divided into five sections with a total of 30 poems, this collection explores the Nigerian
state in its different strands. The poem “De Poem Go Talk” essentialises the poet’s
vision and valorizes the instrumentality of poetry in the fight against inhumanity,
corruption, injustice and whatnot. Poetry in this regard is likened to gun with the
potential to kill and fire off the inanities in the country. The metaphorical elasticity
imposed on it by the poet is indicative of the fact that the importance of serious poetry
with its power to awaken the people’s consciousness cannot be undervalued. This
therefore implies that the beauty of poetry depends on its being functional and relevant.
It should possess the purgative energy of purifying the society. While the poet is
justifying his claim, he communicates thus:
I wan poem wey go kill
Yo go take am shoot
E go travel hit target (12)
In this way, poetry becomes a viable tool to combat political ineptitude and social decay.
The tendency for social normalcy is hereby located within the orbit of committed poetry.
By extension, the poet explains the significance of literature. Like Osundare in “Poetry
is” and Gbemisola Adeoti “Poetry divine”, Ohaeto celebrates the significance of poetry
in the course of social regeneration. To him, serious poetry is one that makes people feel
conscious of their existence in the society as well as “bites” and “cuts” perpetrators of
evils. The importance of literature as a conscious-raising tool is hereby foregrounded.
The poet intones:
the QuillS, Issue 6 38I wan poem wey go bite
No bi poem like banana
Small time e go spoil
I wan poem like knife
Wey go cut evil comot
No bi poem like grass
Wey dey suffer everytime (13)
“How I Go Believe You” opens the second section of the collection with a satirical
undertone. Here, the poet unmasks the greed of the Nigerian political elite. The poem
subtly alludes to their flamboyant lifestyle at the expense of the hungry masses. It is a
testimony to the fact that Nigeria is a Nirvana for a privileged few who milk down public
resources without pity. The poet angrily condemns this meretricious attitude, advancing
that the country is mired in stagnancy orchestrated by avaricious politicians. The same
tone is sustained in the poem “We No Get Cook” where the poet considers the bane of
leadership in Nigeria. In a way, “cooking food” becomes a metaphor of leadership error
that defines the Nigerian political enterprise. The satire embedded in the stanzas therein
mirrors the military dictatorship which is known for its orchestration of frustrating
decrees that legitimize high-handedness and in-your-face corruption. Ohaeto is pointing
to the fact that the military is defined by cronyism and monumental graft. The military
takeover from the civilian government only opened doors for a stream of mindless
looters. He illustrates thus:
De second cook finish
Dem no greeam lick finger
Demm just kill am quick quick,
The third cook finish
Take am go give people oversea
Take de rest give him brides
We wear face green uniform (22)
However, it must be stressed that Ohaeto is patently uncomfortable not only with the
military but also the civilian government. The “I-can-do-it” attitudes of the former is no
way different form the monumental mediocrity that defines the latter. He thus paints a
convincing picture of a country that is fractured along political avarice and
irresponsibility. This finds more expression in the poems “As One General Pray” and
“Politician Na wind”. While we are presented with a soldier who is representative of a
corrupt system and selfishly seeks comfort to the detriment of the suffering masses in the
former, the latter is steeped in valid examples indicative of the fact that Nigerian
the QuillS, Issue 6 39politicians are annoyingly mendacious. Using the metaphor of wind to reveal the
duplicitous nature of the political elite, the poet comments as follows:
Dem say trap no fit catch
Wind wey dey blow
E get wind wey go blow
You no go see as e take pass
Politician na like wind
Dem just dey blow dey pass (34)
The metaphor of wind is apt as it reveals the instability as well as unreliability of these
politicians. The Nigerian political elite are professional in mendacity and use inflated
promises to buy mass support during elections. It is ironic that these politicians promise
to bring God when they cannot actually bring what the masses desire. This further lends
credence to the fact the political history of Nigeria from independence to the present has
been a distorted one, a history so far written by high-handed, corrupt military dictators
and avariciously irresponsible “democrats”. For the poet, none of them is better.
Similarly, the poetic candour which manifests in the poet’s explication of the bane of
military leadership continues in others poems. As Egya puts it, “the poets of
militarization era stand up to challenge the oppressive tendencies of the military leaders.
The poet’s weapon is nothing but the word, the metaphor and the paradox. Most of the
contemporary writers in Nigeria today witness the collapse of nationhood occasioned by
the coming of the military into power and their reactions have been to reprobate, with
every sense of duty, military despotism and its inhumanity in the society.” Treading this
patriotic path, Ohaeto in the long eponymous poem “If To Say I Bi Soldier” satirizes the
military while exposing the inanities that characterize it. The poet and lampoons and
gibes at the military despots and their insurgencies in the country’s politic. The
totalitarian nature of these cruel leaders whose nefariously unruly behavior has forestalled
the country’s development is here conspicuously condemned. Unarguably, the word
military is now used as metaphor for incompetence, avarice and whatnot. The profligacy
of the military is given prominence as the poet reveals that being a “soja” gives one the
undue access to the country’s treasury and makes one stand above the law. The needless
respect accorded to soldiers only worsens the situation. This is described below:
How I no go be Soja
I never get house for Abuja
I never get bodyguard before
I never receive better salute
How I no go be Soja
the QuillS, Issue 6 40You can also read
