Chinedu Dike's Profile
Before The Colonizers Came
A timeless plunder drained the hereditary soil,
As millions of our youth were violently uprooted;
Unrecorded legions perished in the inland wars,
Their memory buried in the bleeding loam.
Yoked by the throat in stark, wooden coffles,
Epoch by epoch they marched toward the sea;
Countless souls withered in the seaside dungeons,
Lost to the night before the floating prisons came.
Outland merchants brought a silent, blistering fire,
Unleashing foreign diseases across the sun-drenched plain.
Wasting sicknesses choked the mud-brick hamlets
To crush a world already broken by the iron lock.
The Atlantic commerce severed kindred ties,
Where rulers swapped their captives for imported firearms;
Some bartered breathing flesh for imperial dominance,
While fragile states conformed to merely stay alive.
The bleak accounting of the ledger and the chain
Stilled every song around the village fires;
Time-honoured brotherhoods dissolved in bitter rifts,
Engendering wounds that feed our current grief.
A heartless engine of extraction rolled
To twist the quiet symmetry of growth;
This grim design bequeathed a heavy shroud,
The global racism that all black peoples bear.
No motherland can lose its youngest strength
Through centuries of woe, and not be shaken at its roots;
The venerable citadels collapsed to stone,
And thriving empires sank into decay.
This slow, ancestral rot undone the thrones,
And snapped the shield beneath the jeweled crown;
Divided deeply in their fatal isolation,
The fractured nations fell to European colonization.
Scars In The Scrolls
The scrolls hold all the stains of ancient ink,
Where learned scribes mapped out the desert trade.
Upon the parchment edge, the spirits sink,
As cold accounts of human chains were made.
These ledgers recorded spices, salt, and gold,
Beside the weight of every stolen life.
A price was stamped on what should not be sold,
And penned away from all the bleeding strife.
Such chronicles described the palace floor,
And praised the rulers under northern skies.
But when they reached the heavy market door,
They closed their books upon the weeping eyes.
The formal charts concealed the severed name,
Where young boys broke beneath a brutal blade;
A stolen manhood and a lifelong shame,
To serve the empires that the market made.
Those pages cloaked the lust enslavers held,
When captive daughters served in forced embrace;
In hidden dens where darker fates were welled,
And weeping walls destroyed all hope and grace.
Nor did they print how, through the sun and storm,
Grim galley slaves endured the rotting stench;
Where feeding maggots made their flesh transform,
As lives were broken on the filthy bench.
And out in wastes, weak spirits fell away,
To face a slow and lingering death alone;
Abandoned on sand roads where shadows play,
Beside the salt mines where the dying groaned.
No scholar tracked the pathways of their grief,
Or named the wilds where tortured millions fell;
They kept the charts of trade and profit brief,
To screen the horrors of this desert hell.
Yet history bleeds through every faded page,
Where modern eyes can read the hidden scars.
The desert winds erase each empire's age,
But cries of anguish echo to the stars.
The ancient highways fade into the gale,
But library shelves preserve the heavy dread.
The diaspora sings a living tale,
The grandest book that time has ever read.
The Highways Of Grief
The yellow sands became a silent beast,
That crawled across the map on dusty claws.
It gathered human lives from west to east,
And ground them down within its golden jaws.
The caravan became a winding snake,
That shed a trail of white and broken bone.
It left a path of sorrow in its wake;
Millions of souls in bondage left to groan.
The sea became a wide and watery grave,
Where wooden vessels carried weeping cargo far.
The coastal winds ignored the plea to save,
And blew them underneath a foreign star.
The market scale was tipped by cruel greed,
Where blocks of salt were balanced with a face.
A tragic cycle planted bitter seed,
That grew inside the bleeding tribal space.
In foreign lands the earth became a forge,
Where human clay was hardened by the sun.
The fields were forced to yield a greedy gorge,
On stolen sweat until the day was done.
The heavy whip became a biting tongue,
That spoke in scars across the helpless back.
The spiked irons and the wooden gallows hung,
To crush the spirits that masters lack.
Yet thunder rolled across the toxic mire,
When broken spirits rose to break the chain.
They marched against the rulers of the empire,
And washed away the slime with crimson rain.
The ancient paths are covered by the sand,
But modern soils still nurse the hidden scar.
The exiled souls cannot be confined,
For out of darkness rose a morning star.
The Echo Of The Cradle
The ocean ports grew still but sorrow walked the land,
They harvested the human soul for private gain.
The home became a farm behind a heavy door,
A cold and endless trap of breeding and of pain.
They chose the young and brave to swell a master’s gold,
And placed a heavy cost upon a maiden's grace.
They stole the sacred milk of every broken home,
And traded innocent lives within the market place.
Young daughters wept as mothers in the early dawn,
With no protecting shield against a system's hand.
They nursed the babes of those who held the whip,
While their own helpless children vanished from the land.
The cruel routine tore apart the family tree,
And swept away the names of every generation.
A father could not save his own beloved line,
Or stop the sudden grief of forced separation.
Yet secret embers burned beneath the quiet night,
As people whispered vows to comfort one another.
They followed silver starlight through the heavy dark,
To find a peaceful home for father, child, and mother.
Though modern memory still wears a heavy scar,
The deep, enduring bond of kinship traveled far.
The human spirit rose above the cruel design,
Reclaiming all the freedom, radiant and divine.
The Shackle and the Cross
They brought different cultures, skills, and
deep faiths across a dark, sad ocean where
their old statues sank deep into the heavy water.
In the dark bottom of ships where chains rattled
and loud waves drowned out their families' names,
they held tight to pieces of their old religions,
hiding them away in the crowded darkness.
They met secretly at night in small groups.
They looked for God in strange, new lands
where just staying alive was a tiring, daily
battle against the scary, dark reality.
In Brazil and the Caribbean Islands, there were
way more enslaved people than white bosses.
Because of this, African religions grew strong
roots and totally refused to be wiped out.
They changed their beliefs to fit their new lives,
making strong, unbreakable faiths like Santería.
This religion bloomed beautifully in Cuba,
bringing light into their heavy, dark days.
Myalism and Obeah brought comfort to Jamaica,
while Voodoo became the main faith in Haiti.
These new spiritual paths spread quietly across
America, growing deep roots in many places.
These different religious groups grew,
carving out a safe space for people to gather.
They kept a sacred, untouched place alive
to protect the souls of those in chains.
Still, the constant pain of daily slavery and
having their homes and land stolen made them
search desperately for a deeper meaning,
forcing tired eyes to look for a new hope.
They began to look for hope in the Bible
after seeing the religious rituals of their masters.
This started a deep spiritual change
that happened very slowly over many years.
On paper, the slave trade was packaged as an act
of mercy to convert the faithless. In practice, it was
a fragile tyranny where terrified masters silently
suppressed religious education to prevent rebellion.
British plantation owners feared Christian baptism.
They worried it would mean they had to free their slaves,
since English law usually said you couldn't enslave
a fellow Christian, no matter where they were from.
Masters feared that Bible stories about freedom
would start violent uprisings. Owners dreaded
that if slaves connected with the Holy Spirit,
they would demand true liberty for their bodies.
Christianity threatened the bottom line because
it stole valuable hours of forced labour from the fields
and introduced a radical message of human equality
that spread like wildfire across the plantations.
The gospel message whispered that all men are equal.
This meant plantation owners could no longer easily
justify using the cruel whip every single day under
the fake excuse that God wanted things that way.
So, the leviathans passed laws to protect profits.
They stated that getting baptized changed nothing
about a slave's status. It did not break the heavy,
rusted locks of the iron chains holding them down.
With financial worries gone, white pastors used
the Bible as a weapon to prove they were superior.
They twisted the meanings of the holy words
to justify keeping humans in chains forever.
Preachers claimed in boring, repetitive sermons that
slavery was chosen and approved by God. They used
stories from Genesis about Abraham’s servants as
proof that owning people was a holy sign of success.
They quoted Leviticus to say it was okay to buy
foreign slaves. They held that the New Testament
writers never told the rich masters of the world
that they had to free their enslaved workers.
They ignored that early Christians had no political
power to protest against the Roman Empire. Instead,
they twisted Paul’s descriptions of how things were
into a permanent rule from God on how things should be.
They demanded total obedience from enslaved people.
They turned hard labour into a holy duty, messing
with the minds of workers who were torn between
wanting God's peace and wanting physical freedom.
Every Bible verse about kind treatment or fairness
was completely buried and ignored. Holy words
became active weapons against the workers, and
staying silent about freedom was a calculated strategy.
They twisted the story of the "Curse of Ham" into
a divine rule that justified slavery. They weaponized
Noah's ancient words from the Bible, falsely claiming
Ham was Black, without any proof in the text.
They branded an entire continent with a made-up sin.
This gave a religious excuse for terrible cruelty,
and the lie spread into books, church sermons,
and newspapers until everyone started believing it.
It left a terrible, deep scar on human history.
But after the successful Haitian Revolution, where
enslaved rebels overthrew the white ruling class,
sudden panic spread fast through Western countries.
British leaders feared a similar bloody rebellion.
So, they printed a massive scam in London in 1807:
the Slave Bible—a chopped-up book that literally cut
out every single mention of freedom from its pages.
The editors used scissors on the Book of Exodus.
They made sure Moses never stood before Pharaoh
demanding to "let my people go," and they erased
verses from Galatians about human equality.
They cut out the warnings against bosses who
use forced labour. They removed every single
verse that scolded owners for making people
work hard all day without paying them fair wages.
But this giant lie failed completely against
the natural human desire to be free. No scissors
or government censorship could touch the hope
inside the hearts of the enslaved community.
The chopped-up Slave Bible failed to crush their spirit.
As enslaved people looked through the altered pages,
they still discovered an all-powerful God who rescues
and a deeply caring Saviour who understood suffering.
The true scriptures never attacked their self-worth:
instead, they leveraged the Holy Book to debunk
hateful myths and triumphantly reclaim the basic
humanity denied to them by biased interpretations.
They proved they had a God-given right to be free.
They mixed old African traditions with their new faith,
meeting in secret prayer circles deep in the quiet
woods, far away from the watchful eyes of the bosses.
They talked about the real Moses and sang about
crossing rivers. They prayed to a true God who hated
slavery, planning smart escapes and safe paths to
freedom hidden under the thick leaves of the trees.
They mixed African dance beats and rhythms
with serious church songs to create new music.
This helped them connect with their old roots
and gave them the daily power to survive the cruelty.
Learning to read breathed fire into the scriptures,
turning Moses and Joshua into monuments
of genuine emancipation—undeniable proof
that the enslaved could flee their captors' malice.
Used as a weapon to enslave but revered as a guide
to freedom, the Bible spoke differently to different
people, masters searched it for control, but black
believers found a divine call to shatter their shackles.
A shared faith built a bond that couldn't be broken,
uniting different groups and spreading stories.
News of God's justice and ultimate rescue
passed quickly from person to person everywhere.
They believed God would punish the cruel masters,
turning their faith into a bold march toward freedom.
Churches became safe spaces to protect their culture,
defend their community, and keep hope alive.
Subversion Of The Womb
The Atlantic gates were locked by law,
but the violence only turned inward,
and the trade grew deep within the soil.
The human womb became a workshop,
a calculated mill of forced labour where
mothers were viewed as mere assets
and children were born into slavery.
Virginia became a central market
and Maryland grew into a dark zone;
human lives were treated as crops,
and families were harvested for cash.
Newspapers printed the daily prices,
listing young girls for sale and rating
them like farm livestock because
the market demanded constant growth.
Corporate ledgers tracked the births,
writing babies on long pages
right next to corn and tobacco,
counting them as basic goods.
An old legal decree ruled the land, stating
that the child followed the mother’s status,
which meant bondage became a permanent
inheritance and freedom was exiled by law.
The Southern fields demanded labour,
and the law classified the human soul,
grouping men and women with cattle
and taking away their basic rights.
This early horror laid the foundation
and sank deep into the nation's soil,
becoming the hidden, twisted root
where systemic racism first took hold.
When the old coastal ports shut down,
New Orleans became the grand market,
expanding the domestic auction block
as the internal trade found a new centre.
They bred human beings like cattle,
choosing for strength and for youth.
Forcing people to reproduce,
using raw terror to build wealth.
Young girls bore the heaviest load
as children raising children,
left with no protection from abuse
under a system of total dominance.
During the time of systemized bondage,
Black women were used as wet nurses,
forced to nurse and breastfeed the young,
nurturing the children of slave owners.
They were stripped of their autonomy
and deprived of the basic choice
to nurse and nourish their own blood,
their own milk stolen by absolute force.
Feeding another woman’s child with milk
constituted a distinct form of labour,
yet it was work that could only be done
by lactating women who had borne children.
As a form of exploitation specific
to the bodies of enslaved mothers,
enforced wet-nursing constituted
a dark aspect of women’s servitude.
Yet ultimately, the white mistresses
used wet-nursing as a calculated tool
to manipulate enslaved women’s motherhood
for the slaveholders’ own selfish ends.
This practice was a form of raw exploitation,
offering no compensation or recognition
for the forced labour of their own flesh,
denying them the dignity of a mother's right.
While white women held the freedom
to choose to breastfeed their own young,
Black women were denied that simple choice,
subjected to this theft for centuries.
Advertisements for enslaved wet nurses
were prevalent in nineteenth-century papers,
printed in American columns daily,
marketing the milk of broken homes.
White families routinely rented out,
bought, or sold enslaved women
solely to breastfeed their white infants,
making a market out of a mother's milk.
These inked descriptions listed prices
for a woman’s living body,
forcing a sharp, painful split
between mothers and their own infants.
The masters wanted total ownership,
taking both the mind and the hands,
trying to erase the human heart
and completely break the spirit.
Broadsheets broadcasted the prices,
pricing a woman's body openly,
putting a fee on motherhood,
and normalizing it into an everyday business.
White mistresses joined the business
to buy and sell human lives,
using ownership for social stance
and holding supreme local power.
The mistress turned anger into force
with the whip and the lash, creating deep
cruelty within domestic walls because
the ledger demanded total obedience.
Deep resentment grew in secret,
and silent hatred burned between them,
as the mistress envied the enslaved maid
forced into the white master's bed.
She sought to maim or hurt the helpless,
complaining daily that tasks were ruined,
hoping her man would cast her out
to the brutal toil of the open fields.
When that cruel plan failed to work,
she assigned the most humiliating chores.
She used degrading tasks to break the spirit
and secure her own absolute power.
Secret bonds in shadows grew,
defying strict lines of race;
bound by chains of control,
where bondman and mistress met face to face.
But these liaisons were very dangerous;
discovery brought swift destruction,
seen as a fatal, unpardonable threat
to the white woman's image of chastity.
The consequence of these forbidden crossings
rippled through the shocked community,
bringing public humiliation and shunning,
and sometimes extreme, fatal violence.
A missed period confirmed the pregnancy,
panic forced them to act quickly;
they needed a desperate solution,
before the secret comes to light.
Fear drove them to the woods,
searching for traditional herbal cures;
trying to erase the evidence,
to stop the changing future.
Fleeing was the final choice,
packing bags in midnight quiet;
slipping away beneath the shadows,
escaping the harsh morning sun.
Black men faced horrendous violence,
being killed by angry mobs with ropes and fire.
They put their lives in danger for their families,
meeting the brutal fury out in the open.
They chose to stay and stand against the crowd,
refusing to run so their kinship stayed whole.
They sacrificed themselves to protect loved ones,
paying the ultimate price to keep them safe.
The law shattered these secret bonds,
enforcing absolute separation.
It used bloodshed to maintain control
while creating a climate of constant fear.
The horrific system of forced breeding
completely destroyed biological families.
It showed no respect for ancestral connections,
wiping out entire generations of Black family lines.
In rare spaces where unions were allowed,
the enslaved held no legal standing;
they relied entirely on the farm owner's whim
to remain under a single, fragile roof.
Spouse visitation passes were strictly limited,
handed out only on rare occasions.
This kept distant husbands far from their wives,
turning human affection into a permitted favour.
Fathers were stripped of every power,
reduced to mere labourers and breeders,
unable to protect or provide for their own,
their sacred status stolen by force.
Father, mother, and vulnerable children
could be separated at any sudden moment,
indiscriminately sold to distant plantations
hundreds of agonizing miles away.
They were torn apart with no hope left
of ever reconnecting in this life,
a purposeful shattering of the home
to ensure the destruction of the slave family.
For those subjected to the breeding horrors,
the psychological impact ran deep,
going far beyond the physical punishment,
excruciating and violent in the extreme.
Being reduced to mere moveable property
inflicted lasting psychological wounds,
eroding self-worth and individual identity
through constant reminders of inferiority.
This dehumanization was reinforced daily,
spoken through language, codified in laws,
and stamped into the daily treatment,
leaving an open wound that refuses to heal.
The trauma rippled through the generations,
lingering long after emancipation came,
as descendants struggled with internalized pain,
shaping how they viewed their place in the world.
These brutal plantation realities reveal
a history marked by systematic pain,
where cruelty and exploitation echo still,
and modern society wears the heavy chain.
The ancient scars influence modern attitudes,
staining institutions and collective memory,
leaving a deep, generational ache
among diasporic Africans in the Americas.
Yet through the immense trauma,
the people forged a fierce existence,
refusing to be broken completely
and keeping their inner light alive.
The system tried to own the womb,
but lines of subversion fought back
as enslaved people resisted the rules
and claimed their own humanity.
They rejected the forced pairings
and chose their own hidden bonds,
finding love in the shadows
and protecting each other in secret.
Women learned the power of herbs
and used roots from the forest,
practicing clandestine mechanisms
to protect their bodily sovereignty.
Escape became a path to autonomy;
people ran away from the fields,
following the North Star (Polaris)
as they seek freedom beyond the South.
Generational pain severed family trees,
leaving a structural grief that echoes
today through a heavy and deep history,
but whispered alliances of hope carried on.
Solidarity countered the plot because
the human spirit could not be catalogued;
the bonds of survival outlived the ledger,
and the people continued to endure.
The Epic Of Sugar: A Global History
growing under a tropical sun,
deep inside ancient island jungles,
hidden in the dirt of New Guinea.
Ten thousand years ago in time,
human hands merely chewed raw stalks,
draining the sweet juice hidden inside.
Living roots travelled across the seas,
planted in the soil of new islands,
moving through Indonesia,
climbing the borders of southern China,
until the plant found a home
settled deep inside northern Indian valleys.
But the raw cane juice spoiled too fast,
ruined by the weight of heat.
So thinkers built great fires,
boiling the liquid inside giant pots,
driving the natural moisture away,
leaving behind blocks of sand—
crystals that survived long journeys.
Marching soldiers with Alexander the Great
stumbled upon these fields of grass.
The sweetness shocked their tongues;
they named it honey made without bees,
and a western craving began to wake.
By the sixth century after Christ,
the rising green stalks entered Persian soil,
thriving inside warm, rainy valleys.
Yet the triumph was destined to break;
Mongol hordes swept through the land,
destroying the vital irrigation dams.
Then came the sudden Arab expansion,
surging across the Middle East.
The crop spread along Mediterranean coasts;
under the rule of early Islamic caliphates,
rising empires built large-scale farms,
introducing the world to plantation models.
To keep the demanding stalks alive
in the blistering and arid desert heat,
rulers turned to the weight of chains.
Slavery entered the story of sugar.
During the medieval Abbasid Caliphate,
captives stolen from East African shores
were forced to drain the marshlands.
They toiled daily in the shifting mire,
eating minimal food rations in the mud,
enduring conditions so stark and cruel
that they rose up in the Zanj Revolt,
shattering the fields with anger
before the rulers crushed their stand.
Sugar reached medieval Europe next,
arriving by the eighth century shores.
It remained an Eastern luxury,
treated with the reverence of rare silk,
far too costly for the common tongue.
Before the rise of the Crusades,
the trade remained small and quiet,
just a sand from Egyptian ports.
Because merchants brought tiny amounts,
it became an immediate royal obsession.
Wealthy nobility hoarded the crystal,
locking it safely away like rows of gems.
At grand coronations and elite galas,
artists sculpted sugar pieces,
castles and dragons built to amaze.
The turning point came with the Crusades.
In the final years of the eleventh century,
European knights marched to the Levant,
capturing territory in ten-ninety-nine.
There they found fields of cane,
falling in love with the treat,
carrying the hunger back to their shores.
Venetian merchants saw the future
in those green and waving fields.
They stopped acting as simple buyers,
moving to become absolute masters.
Assisting naval missions in the Crusade,
they earned dedicated land in Tyre,
controlling the supply lines.
Venice did not just ship raw sugar;
they mastered the complex art of refining.
They melted the crop over hot fires,
turning wet mush into solid white cones.
As regional conflicts grew in scale,
the trade migrated onto new islands,
taking root in Crete and Cyprus.
European powers quickly copied this design,
setting up Mediterranean plantations,
but cold, unreliable northern weather
held back the growth and the profit.
The human machine was forced to pause,
waiting for a warmer horizon.
Portuguese and Spanish captains sailed,
tracking the southern oceanic currents,
finding islands floating off Africa.
By the fourteen-twenties, a shift arrived;
Portugal seized control of Madeira,
discovering the tropical climate.
Here the industrial blueprint
first took root in the island soil,
feeding on captives from West African coasts.
Sixty years later, Spain surged forward,
conquering the Canary Islands for profit,
enslaving the local Guanche population
until an indigenous culture was erased.
Before the sixteenth century dawned,
sugar exports sailed home to Spain.
But boiling the sweet cane juice
required a massive amount of timber;
the industry choked on its success,
leaving barren hills where trees stood,
forcing the business further west.
The industrial mutation occurred
on the volcanic soil of São Tomé.
Constant rainfall and rich earth
created a tropical greenhouse
where a whole society was organised
around a single crop and forced labour.
Yet this violence bred revolt.
Hundreds of workers fled to mountains,
forming maroon camps in the rainforest,
launching night raids to steal tools.
Then a captive named King Amador
united rebels to burn the mills,
breaking the local island economy.
But the westward hunger had found
its deadly and historic pioneer.
In the autumn of fourteen-ninety-three,
Christopher Columbus stopped his fleet
at the Canary Island outposts,
taking bundles of living sugarcane,
sailing across the Atlantic.
Arriving later that fateful year,
he planted them in Caribbean earth,
spreading a cruel infrastructure.
But the native Taíno people died;
smallpox, measles, and warfare
decimated the indigenous population,
leaving the cleared fields empty.
By the sixteenth century years,
the Portuguese empire claimed Brazil,
forcing Indigenous Americans
into the labour of clearing jungles.
But millions died from imported sickness,
and the Iberian empires turned
their eyes toward Africa.
This transatlantic trade
was initiated by European crowns
to feed the expanding global colonies.
They opened the Middle Passage corridor,
bypassing the ports of Europe entirely,
transporting human lives directly to the fields.
The Kingdom of Kongo fell victim
under intense and ruthless pressure,
as sub-Saharan states were targeted.
Portuguese mariners dominated the trade,
using coastal forts to control shores,
taking the first cargo of human lives
in the year fifteen-twenty-six.
Spanish conquistadors created a demand,
but a strict treaty clearly forbade
Spanish ships from entering African ports.
So Spain relied on Portuguese contractors,
using royal licenses to buy human stock,
cementing an international alliance.
As the seventeenth century dawned cold,
northern privateers and smugglers sailed,
slipping past heavy Spanish galleons.
They did not fight for mainland territory,
but chose the small, neglected island strings,
dropping anchor in the Lesser Antilles mud.
The British claimed Barbados and St. Kitts,
while French flags rose on Martinique.
They planted early plots of sugarcane,
importing white indentured servants to clear dirt,
but the desperate labourers died fast,
falling quickly to yellow fever and malaria.
The high mortality left planters broke;
temporary workers failed to yield a crop,
leaving the fields a ruin without hands.
Paid workers proved far too expensive,
forcing the wealthy colonial masters
to turn to a work-force they fully owned.
While Caribbean islands struggled for labour,
the Dutch Republic launched a strike,
seizing rich plantations of Brazilian Pernambuco
to master the boiling house machinery.
But insurgent Portuguese forces rose,
reclaiming colonial control by sixteen-fifty-four.
Expelled and exiled, wealthy Dutch merchants fled,
escaping into the Caribbean with blueprints,
bringing iron rollers, copper vats, and credit
to engineer the sugar boom.
To lock this knowledge inside royal walls,
the British parliament passed Navigation Acts.
They barred Dutch vessels from colonial ports,
forcing local planters to build merchant fleets,
shattering open trade to secure imperial wealth.
Under the iron rule of Oliver Cromwell,
the state launched the Western Design,
wresting the soil of Jamaica from Spain.
The French surged forward with identical hunger,
seizing Saint-Domingue by the Treaty of Ryswick,
ready to install factory lines in the mud.
Meanwhile, across the seas, a different war raged,
forcing rival European empires to sit in distant rooms,
bartering territories to settle their global scores.
To end their war, the British and Dutch traded land;
the British took the town of New Amsterdam,
renaming that busy harbour the city of New York.
In exchange, they handed Suriname to the Dutch,
where the West India Company built its engine,
clearing wild riverbanks with the hands of the bound.
The Dutch blueprints transformed the landscapes,
turning quiet valleys into screaming factory lines.
They erected boiling houses like stone cathedrals,
where deep copper vats hissed over raging fires,
and iron rollers stood like mechanical jaws,
waiting to swallow bleeding sugarcane stalks.
The rollers could not stop, fires could not fade,
yet the fields remained a static grave.
By pouring thousands of African captives into fields,
they maximised output while cutting labour costs,
binding the machinery to transatlantic trade,
turning a struggling crop into fabled white gold.
The empires turned eyes to the West African coast,
where historical trade routes ran quiet and old.
For generations, local kingdoms bartered peacefully,
exchanging textiles, metalware, and cowrie shells.
But the hunger for sugar warped the entire shore;
merchants quickly discarded the ivory and gold,
discovering that human bodies bought far greater profit.
Vessels crowded waters, unloading firearms,
gunpowder, and alcohol straight to middlemen.
These imported guns sparked a loop of terror,
trapping sub-Saharan kingdoms in a vice.
Guns bought captives, and captives bought more guns,
all to supply the endless rows of Caribbean fields.
This trade launched the three-legged Triangle.
Large ships sailed to African shores to trade weapons,
before turning west across the terrifying Atlantic.
The grey sky met the dark water,
as strong winds pushed the heavy ships forward,
and the hulls groaned under the weight of human cargo.
On this second leg, the famous Middle Passage,
ships packed captives into dark, suffocating rooms,
moving millions across a wide and weeping sea.
No land was in sight during the endless weeks,
filled with the weeping and screaming of captives,
as the dead were splashed into the cold, empty ocean.
Between sixteen-hundred and eighteen-sixty,
over twelve million people were forced to cross,
where hunger and sickness crowded the tight decks,
and nearly two million tragically died in the dark.
The horizon stretched out forever, empty and blind,
creating a floating prison of wood and heavy chains—
a dark corridor filled with deep sadness and grief.
The survivors were marched into colonial ports,
sold like cattle to waiting plantation owners,
and forced into a lifetime of hard, endless labour.
When the ships were empty, captains reloaded,
filling them with sweet cargo for the journey home.
Sticky molasses sailed northeast to New England ports,
feeding factories that made cheap, dark rum,
which sailed back to Africa to buy more captives.
Raw sugar sailed straight to European cities,
refined in grand factories to make massive wealth.
Most of the kidnapped people from African shores
were sent directly into these burning island fields,
where powerful owners linked slavery to skin colour
to keep absolute control over human lives.
By writing racist ideas directly into local laws,
owners ensured an enslaved worker could never blend in,
making it impossible to hide if they ran from the fields.
The sugar farm became the world's first factory,
born in the mud but ruled by strict schedules,
where math valued a human life at just seven years.
This three-part machine worked with precise cruelty,
connecting global trade, farming, and factory refining.
This wheel of massive profit and deep human misery
funded banks and started the Industrial Revolution,
turning France and Great Britain into superpowers,
as field designs became blueprints for modern factory lines.
The American South joined this network much later,
growing sugarcane as the eighteenth century closed.
Though it was difficult to grow cane in changing seasons,
the business quickly took off in the mud,
made possible only by forced labour
in the dangerous swamps of the southern wetlands.
Because sugar had become the top product on earth,
it drove the entire global economy forward.
The cheap crystals filled every ordinary home
only because the engine of forced labour cut all costs,
leaving plantation owners with fortunes,
while the workers paid the ultimate price.
The enslaved people lived a tragic life,
working under guards who were quick to use the whip.
Workers dug thousands of deep trenches in the heat,
breaking and turning the heavy soil,
forced to toil from early dawn until the darkness fell.
When the cane grew tall, they used sharp machetes,
while the razor-sharp leaves sliced bare skin,
and poisonous snakes hid in the thick, crowded grass.
Children walked close behind the line to clear trash,
as heavy stalks were rushed immediately to the mills
before the sweet, raw juice inside could dry away.
Massive wooden and iron rollers, turned by water,
crushed the stalks to squeeze out the raw liquid.
Exhausted workers fed the moving gears by hand;
if a tired hand slipped and got caught in the machinery,
their whole arm was dragged straight into turning iron jaws.
Mill bosses kept a sharp axe close by at all times
to chop off the trapped limb on the spot,
cutting the arm away before the body was pulled in,
leaving workers broken and scarred by the machine.
The juice was poured into giant copper pots,
inside a dark building filled with choking smoke.
Workers constantly stirred syrup in the heat,
where a single slip meant falling into a boiling vat,
ending a life in the scalding, deadly liquid.
Punishments, hard labour, and sickness killed many,
because it was cheaper to buy new captives
than to spend money keeping existing workers alive.
The brave souls who tried to rebel against the system
were used by the masters as public lessons,
stripped, beaten, and tortured with punishments.
For food, the workers received only minimal rations,
farming rocky dirt during Sunday breaks
just to escape the constant grip of starvation.
Yet in the quiet of the night, away from cruel guards,
the hidden slave village became a home.
There, beside low and hidden fires in the deep shadows,
they raised families and protected their children,
whispering traditional African folklores and stories
to hold history close and keep a culture alive.
Instead of seeing them as helpless victims,
history now honours these brave Black workers
as the true builders of our modern global world.
The entire trading network was built on their backs,
and their massive importance to the economic machine
eventually brought the Civil War to a crisis.
Before sunrise each morning, a horn shattered the dark,
driving workers out into the damp fields like cattle.
But their sudden, courageous refusal to do unpaid work
shook the foundations of the slave-owning system,
breaking the economic spine of the conflict,
and shattering the legal shackles of the plantation world.
The winds of change blew fierce,
as captives rose up in seventeen ninety-one,
setting fields and mills ablaze,
shattering the plantation infrastructure.
By eighteen-hundred and four, they won;
Haiti stood completely free,
a republic born entirely of fire.
With the island business stopped,
prices spiked across global markets.
The sudden void shook commerce,
sending economic ripple effects
to competitors across seas,
shattering old monopolies forever.
Bowing pressure for human dignity,
Britain banned the trade in early nineteenth century,
abolishing the system just decades later.
Slowly, European powers followed their lead,
yet Cuba and Brazil kept the practices alive,
forcing chained labour until century's end.
To fill voids in empty fields,
empires brought fresh workers over,
drawing labour from China and India.
They used deceptive systems of bonded labour,
tricking workers into signing unfair contracts,
pulling them from their distant home shores
into the same unyielding tropical heat.
Their sweat merged with the legacy,
working long hours just to keep the crystals flowing.
Yet as the centuries turned over into the modern era,
the white grain travelled further into everyday life,
changing from a rare medicine and elite luxury
into an ordinary global product.
Sweet crystals built modern roads,
cementing order from bleeding fields.
Cheap sugar fed urban workforces,
sustaining Europe's desperate masses.
Mixed with caffeine from hot tea,
or steaming coffee and cocoa,
the cup gave synthetic energy,
fueling gruelling industrial hours.
Factory workers survived on glucose,
obtaining calories from cheap jams.
Today, granulated sugar sits quietly,
processed into the cheapest food,
an everyday staple taken for granted,
ubiquitous across our food supply.
The food nobody truly needs,
but everyone intensely craves,
worming into affectionate language.
We call those we love 'sugar, '
or hold them close as 'sweetheart, '
blind to the melancholy past,
proving the empire never fell.
It remains a highly valuable crop,
occupying vast land for little benefit.
Its final output today, past corporate profit,
is a dark plague expanding across the globe—
draining communal health and human vitality
through widespread obesity and diabetes.
Sugar acts as the nicotine of our era,
highly addictive and toxic to our biology,
driving heavy cycles of physical dependency
that buckle and strain modern healthcare systems.
The medicine of ancient empires
became a playground for the poor.
It is hidden inside almost all processed food,
masking true flavours of the earth.
Every culture adopted the crop,
weaving it into traditional recipes
until origins were wiped from memory.
This luxury makes us forget history
and the human cost of production.
We mix sweet powder into drinks,
blind to where the grain came from,
dissolving the ultimate price
in a single, quiet spoonful.
The Desert Roads Of Bondage
The ancient desert paths grew wide,
connecting northern ports to African lands.
Here, the camel changed how men traveled far,
fixing steady paths from oasis to oasis.
Where vital springs saved them from the dust,
six thousand kilometres of transit shifted,
bending as different kingdoms rose and ruled,
cutting straight across the open continent.
They followed rivers and the ocean coast,
building trading hubs beneath the Sahel sun.
An honest barter system ruled those early days,
when northern merchants drove their caravans down.
They traded foreign horses and blocks of salt
for gold and the natural wealth of the south,
before a changing era shifted the balance,
and entire landscapes altered deep and fast.
During the seventh and eighth centuries,
the faith of Islam spread across the region.
A vast empire rose to claim the land,
spinning networks that carried human chains,
as eastern armies marched across the earth,
expanding frontiers through military might.
By law, no fellow believer could be enslaved,
so forces targeted the non-muslim domains.
They took their prisoners straight from battlefields,
starting a cruel and relentless system,
until the most inhumane practice on the continent
became the dark enslavement of black lives.
Local converts to the faith gave their aid,
as distant courts demanded endless labour,
and traditional captives were no longer enough,
so traders stretched their nets across the wild.
They turned to active raids on peaceful homes,
kidnapping entire communities by force,
where the raiders plundered native villages deep,
slaughtering the men and breaking human spirits.
Robbing human beings of freedom and grace,
they marched the weak across the burning sand,
and this human trafficking flourished for years,
peaking from the eighth to seventeenth century.
The major markets grew in northern towns,
operating out of cairo, tunis, and tripoli,
where the nature of the barter turned completely round,
as west african gold supplies began to fade.
To keep the flow of vital foreign imports,
communities turned away from natural wealth,
and started trading captured people instead,
until mankind became a form of currency.
They served as primary payment for a debt,
locking the land in a tragic, vicious cycle,
where local rulers bartered away their own people
to buy the horses and the northern salt.
The massive numbers of the stolen souls
came mostly from West and Central Africa,
seized in violent raids and armed campaigns,
or sold away to clear a heavy family debt.
Some were punished for breaking local laws,
walking for weeks in lines of deep sorrow,
before they ever reached the gathering hubs,
where middlemen organized the vast desert fleets.
Nomads guarded the long lines of captives,
as massive camel caravans powered the trade,
traveling slowly through the chill of night
to escape the blistering heat of the day.
Moving quietly across the arid landscape,
the journey was a grueling, three-month trek,
where captives faced prolonged and lethal danger,
walking chained together tightly by their necks.
They carried heavy cargo on their heads,
while sudden sandstorms buried groups alive,
and the death toll climbed to tragic height,
where only the strongest could survive.
Hunger and thirst broke their fragile limbs,
until captives collapsed from pure exhaustion,
leaving trails of white skeletons in the dust,
where thousands of human bones lay scattered wide.
Belonging mostly to young women and girls,
they clustered tightly around dry desert wells,
in their last desperate effort to find water,
dying by the hundreds on the burning way.
Ten people perished for every single soul
that managed to reach the northern coast alive,
and before they entered crowded market stalls,
captives were forced to convert to Islam.
They learned new phrases and took foreign names,
while young men were brutally altered by force,
and the constant need for labour fueled the flame
through North Africa and the Middle East.
Reaching all the way to Istanbul's market,
where human lives were sold in public view,
women were highly vulnerable and desired,
paraded and examined in displays of shame.
The plain were sent to kitchens and fields,
while the beautiful were forced into harems,
trapped forever in non-concensual servitude,
living out their days in hidden rooms.
Enslaved soldiers trained for elite armies,
sometimes rising to high positions of power,
while the highly intelligent became record keepers,
acting as administrators for the empire's trade.
A special danger struck the youngest boys,
altered early to serve as harem guards;
the majority of them bled to death right there,
but the survivors brought a much higher price.
Domestic slaves in houses cooked and cleaned,
living in better conditions under their lords,
but field slaves endured the harshest labour,
building wells and dams around the clock.
They kept cash crops growing green in the sun,
while miners faced the worst conditions of all,
tearing gold and salt from the burning earth,
as they crouched in narrow, crumbling tunnels.
Breathing toxic dust beside empty water jars,
they lived in camps built far in lonely swamps,
where escape from those places meant certain death,
and deadly diseases swept through the tents.
The whips of overseers demanded endless work,
but the worst possible fate for men
was to be a helpless galley slave,
a life that was brief, miserable,
and filled with bitter filth.
Enslaved men were chained permanently
to their heavy wooden benches,
where they had to row and eat and sleep
through the wild and changing weather.
Because they were never unchained,
human waste coated their bodies and seats,
until sudden storms or the cruel crew
washed the filth away from the wood.
Under the constant lash of the crew,
their raw skin scraped against the rough timbers.
Untreated wounds rotted in the damp heat,
inviting infection and feeding maggots.
Death came sudden and widespread to the benches,
leaving the living to sit beside the dead,
helpless when naval battles tore the hull,
dragged deep underwater by chains to drown.
Before the desert became a road of grief,
ocean waves carried stolen lives away.
The export of human beings grew rapidly,
moving on ships driven by seasonal winds.
The center of ocean trade moved to zanzibar,
a vast maritime network spreading millions out
across the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf,
aided by local kings and swahili merchants.
This ocean trade demanded two captive women
for every single man taken from the land;
stripped entirely from ancestral homes,
young girls vanished into foreign spheres forever.
Deep in the heavy heat of Iraqi marshes,
enslaved East Africans, known as the Zanj,
were forced into the stagnant, toxic mud,
to scrape the salt and clear imperial lands.
Their skin was eaten by the salty slime,
living in crowded camps where hunger ruled;
left with zero hope or basic legal rights,
they were treated as disposable tools.
Then a leader named Ali rose,
preaching a message of social equality.
He turned their collective agony to war,
making the swamps a hidden rebel fortress.
From there they launched swift, deadly attacks,
shaking the entire Caliphate to its core,
and for fourteen years this guerrilla war raged,
until the rebels built their own free state.
They minted coins and collected their taxes,
before the heavy imperial army crushed them.
The massive salt plantations were abandoned,
leaving the broken earth behind forever.
Further south, Mauritius became a trade hub,
luring East Africans with false words of work,
and cramming them into small, diseased ships,
where many died before ever seeing the shore.
For thirteen centuries the desert routes bled,
as West African empires grew heavy with wealth,
taxing the human cargo passing through,
building towns where scholars walked with merchants.
Forced interaction crushed ancient customs,
erasing native tongues and tearing tribal ties,
freezing technical innovation in the south,
trapping entire regions in dependency.
By the sixteenth century's morning light,
the ancient desert routes began to fracture,
as european maritime traders reached the coast,
trading firearms until the sand roads fell.
In the nineteenth century, the pressure shifted,
as the British Navy began to hunt the trade;
fearing detection, traders threw captives deep,
leaving chained men to drown out at sea.
British warships forced the markets to close,
but abolition was a slow and painful path.
The trade persisted in quiet secrets,
until the middle of the twentieth century.
From foreign waters to the palace courts,
the African diaspora took deep root;
leaving lines of blood and shared culture,
they built vibrant communities that stand today.
The legacy of those fourteen centuries remains,
a burning scar upon our modern world.
Perpetuating systemic inequalities across lands,
it drives a modern struggle with identity.
The Anatomy Of Gossip
We speak of betrayal,
Our most brutal teacher.
Language was born
To whisper tribal rules.
We map the boundary line
By watching others pay the penalty.
Vivid stories keep us safe—
Abstract truth made concrete.
Gossip demands a shielded space,
A private membrane.
The internet extinguished that spark;
No secrets are left in the dark.
Screens scatter our secrets,
Turning bonds into power grabs.
Text remains forever.
Typing transforms us into spies.
Terrified that servers track us,
Genuine fellowship says goodbye.
We face a cold, rigid world,
Entirely devoid of intimacy.
We nod and promise secrecy,
Already typing the next text.
Gossip is like candy—
Sweet to bite,
But leaving a hangover of unease.
We backbite for relief,
To restore fractured self-esteem.
We shrink a foe
To build a fragile alliance.
Selling juicy details
Makes us instantly more interesting.
A one-off comfort
Quickly becomes a toxic cycle.
We trade personal honour
For a fleeting thrill.
Highlighting weaknesses
Only exposes your own.
Pride manifests as faultfinding.
Flattery looks like friendship,
Just as a wolf looks like a dog.
Insecure minds drag names through dirt
To prove a fragile superiority.
A single tongue can blast a reputation,
Demolishing decades of work.
Take this warning to heart:
A person who criticizes others with you
Will wait until you walk away
To make your name the prize.
An angry countenance
Is your best defense.
Remaining quiet through blame
Does not equal guilt.
It denies the cheap thrill
To those who wish you harm.
Words are irreversible.
Manage what you share
Before you grow wild weeds.
Mocking the Free Gift of Grace
The wooden cross is gone,
replaced by glass, steel, and a digital screen
flashing the smiling face of the CEO-prophet
and his impeccably dressed wife.
They do not preach the gospel;
they execute a business plan.
The deed is in their name.
The board is stacked with close relatives and allies.
The lines between holy offerings and private accounts
are permanently blurred.
The church does not own the church.
The biblical model of elders—
meant to foster order, humility, and truth—
has been systematically dismantled.
In its place stands a corporate dictatorship,
where the pursuit of fame and fortune
distorts the New Testament message,
turning seekers into consumers of a lie,
and God's house into a spiritual Ponzi scheme.
"Sow your seed!" they shout,
brandishing tithing verses like clubs.
Millions of believers—especially across the Third World—
test the formula year after year.
They give for health, jobs, and miracles.
They default on bank loans,
they skip meals,
they watch their valueables get auctioned off.
The harvest never arrives for the flock.
The only people prospering
are the ones collecting the offerings.
"Your best life now!" the wolves promise.
But a Christian’s best life cannot be now.
If this earthly life is your best,
it means you are heading to hell.
If you are heading to heaven, this world is your worst.
Jesus did not come to satisfy human appetite;
He came to give you a new appetite.
The devil offered Christ the same worldly riches
that these celebrity preachers sell every Sunday morning.
The stench of materialism is foul.
They peddle the Holy Word for profit,
mocking the free gift of grace.
Desperate, sick people sow money instead of medicine,
believing staged testimonies and manufactured hoaxes.
When healing fails, and the grave opens,
the pastor simply shifts the blame:
"You didn't have enough faith."
"You didn't sow a big enough seed."
Meanwhile, Christianity's face is dragged through mud.
The headlines are a continuous loop of rot:
Financial fraud, embezzlement, sex scandals, and moral failure.
Superstars of the pulpit make the church a mockery,
living in grotesque opulence while followers starve.
They are not shepherds feeding the flock.
They are the raiders of the Lord’s Vineyard.
Africa: The Greatest Heist In History
A polite meeting in Europe,
after the abolition of their brutal
Transatlantic Slave Trade.
Emboldened by the Industrial Revolution,
by the crisp mechanics of Maxim guns,
the powers gathered to carve up a continent.
To justify the theft, they wrote a script:
The African is an unintelligent savage.
The African cannot rule.
So they wore masks of mercy,
preaching the Bible,
promising civilization,
while their ink bled across the map.
Berlin, 1884.
The redrawing begins.
Two decades of genocidal wars.
Kingdoms crushed by superior steel.
The greatest heist in human history:
Britain took the lion’s share—
Egypt to Sudan, Kenya to Uganda,
the rich weights of Nigeria and Ghana,
the deep mines of the South.
France marched from Algeria
into the bulk of the West,
sweeping up Senegal, Ivory Coast,
and the island of Madagascar.
Portugal, the oldest ghost on the coast,
locked down the vast frontiers
of Angola and Mozambique.
Germany seized the center and east—
Tanzania, Namibia, and Togo.
Italy took Libya,
but broke its teeth on Ethiopia.
Horrible King Leopold II of Belgium
took the heart—
the vast, bleeding Congo.
By 1914, only two stood outside the cage:
Liberia and Ethiopia.
The rest was enclosed.
Artificial borders.
Scrawled for European pockets,
lines blind to African realities.
The ink sliced through ancient grazing routes.
It severed trade paths.
It tore ethnic nationalities in half.
Unholy unions of strange bedfellows—
forcing enemies into the same room,
locking brothers on opposite sides of a fence.
Centuries of natural unity,
erased by a ruler.
They invaded for the raw skin of the earth:
Cocoa, coffee, palm oil.
Tobacco, rubber, gold.
Copper and diamonds.
Food for the ravenous machines in Europe.
Colonial soldiers arrived with fire.
Huts torched.
Livestock stolen.
Human rights dissolved in the soil.
The settlers took four-fifths of the fertile land,
leaving the native to starve on the edges.
Having built their strongholds,
they remodeled the local world.
They introduced a cruel gravity:
Work your own stolen land for pennies,
or go to jail.
Pay taxes for the crime of being a healthy man.
They silenced the old ways.
The consensus systems,
the long, patient debates of the elders
were thrown into the background.
Europe called them illiterate,
forgetting that a man does not need a pen
to understand democracy.
When the resistance died down,
the infrastructure appeared.
Not for the people.
Not for unity.
Only rails and roads of extraction.
Tracks built like veins,
running straight from the bleeding interior,
to the coastal ports,
where the wealth of Africa set sail,
leaving empty earth behind.
The Albino And The Machete
Guided by the whispers of medicine men,
Predators lurk in the tall grass,
Tracking pale shadows with cold intent.
Blades gleam in the dark, ready to strike,
Stealing a life in a single heartbeat.
Fear builds high walls around the innocent,
Breeding a slow, suffocating dread.
Yet, the hunger of daily life forces them out,
Turning every step into the open air
Into a gamble with death.
Horror strikes and steals the vulnerable,
Leaving shattered lives and stolen breath.
Even the quiet soil offers no sanctuary,
As graves are plundered and the dead
Are denied their final rest.
Dark myths feed a lethal delusion,
Trading human flesh for promised luck.
A sacred life is reduced to a commodity,
Driven by greed, bathed in blood,
Sold in the shadows of the market.
Enduring a lifetime of cruel mockery,
They walk through a cold, unforgiving world.
The killers walk free beneath the sun,
Shielded by the silence of neighbors
And the apathy of a blind crowd.
The Price Of Drugs
Curiosity
stretched out like a trap
pulling him past the borders of cool judgment
into a fractured state of mind.
Then—
the onset.
A sudden, elating tremor in the blood
surging upward
flooding every single cell with temporary euphoria
as skin tingles and goosebumps rise.
But the sedation is a liar.
The sweet reward narrows into an obsession,
a chronic disorder of the brain
dictating choices from the dark.
Look how easily everything slips through his fingers:
the job,
the dreams,
the friends,
the basic urge to eat, to sleep, to survive.
Subverting The Subversion
The ethnic jingoist stands proud and tall,
With virtuous hypocrisy masking it all.
He feeds the sycophants who bow and agree,
Deaf to the queries of what ought to be.
Power is a game of asserting his might,
In the strict, cold shadow of military light.
He builds up a team where mediocrity breeds,
Blinded to minds that a broken nation needs.
Unashamed of the bias, he loads up the slate,
Favouring the North over the South's heavy weight.
A pencil writes principles he claims to hold dear,
While his eraser wipes justice away out of fear.
The Federal Character, pre-rigged from the start,
Had already torn true achievement apart.
A crooked decree where all brilliance was erased,
As merit for tribalism was boldly replaced.
The populace watches in petrified fright,
Submitting to shadows in the middle of night.
While the land that is blessed with the treasure and seed,
Relentlessly wallows in the shackles of greed.
Nightmares Of Slumbering Africa
the recoiling phenomenon intensely illuminated
by the flame of Liberty.
Roused by the prospect of emancipatory freedom,
from the shadows of servitude, nations rise.
Their demand for a dawn long on hold
brings an end to the colonial yoke.
Africa thrills at expanding horizons—
an euphoria that veiled 'Danger Signs'.
Bequeathed dreadful webs of intrigue,
uneasy amalgams through coercion held,
they bicker over the vacated seat of power.
strategic realignments produce "the strongman":
a tyrant—backed by 'jackals'
and supported by a gullible public.
Hopeful assertion soon becomes a gaudy illusion.
the people into the grasps of democratic mobs:
cabals fueled by the sludge of Kleptocracy.
Good citizens sieved out of the system,
party loyalists take over their place.
political parties become private estates,
the legislative bodies subdued.
With the Judiciary effectively hijacked,
the oppressed has nowhere to seek redress.
Ultimately, the liberators turn into oppressors.
frenzied torrents of greed without care
institutionalize opportunistic banditry.
Raging economic crises follow,
and attempts to curb deficits upset lives,
sending a violated citizenry into poverty.
the prerequisites for political ascendancy.
Capitalist tendencies reinvent imperialism.
Ethnic rivalry promoted—one tribe favoured,
serious conflicts provoked.
has turned public enemy number one.
With the powder keg too close to naked flames,
BANG! It explodes with a vengeance.
demagogues with perfect sets of iron teeth,
whose stern miens wore the semblance of an undertaker.
They bait on sentiments to legitimize regime;
they promise to steer the ship of state,
they pay lip service to anti-corruption.
The violators of integrity of the state!
The embodiments of rot!
the marriage of convenience symbiotic in nature:
'You rub my back I'll rub yours.'
The wooed spiders, with keen knowledge of the web,
assume an oversight for the junta,
maintaining brazen squandering of resources.
they unleash an assemblage of horrors:
prison cells packed with innocent citizens,
rendition of dissidents tagged 'terrorists'.
Curfews enforced; checkpoints mounted;
free speech punished.
brutality sold as a pragmatic response.
The cowardly populace petrified,
in degrading submission blindly accepting slavery.
ill-gotten moneys laundered offshore.
Treacherously, patrimonies transferred abroad—
governments turning around to ask for loans
on the very funds illicitly moved.
human rights abuses of monumental proportions,
entrenched lack of accountability,
shameful history of nationalized thefts.
Since Independence, Africa has continued to stagnate
while the rest of the world forged ahead.
She has an unrivaled wild life,
pristine ecosystems with stretches of fertile lands,
rare incidences of natural disasters,
a resilient hardworking population.
hugely blessed with diverse mineral resources—
no other continent endowed with as much!
Yet notoriously, Africa wallows,
stuck in the vast abyss of economic woes.
Biafran Genocide: A Carnival Of Carnage
Met the wild, wild west, where lawless unrests bleed.
The mid-1960s fractured; the home-front gave way,
As a bloody coup ushered the soldiers to sway,
Etching deep ethnic borders in crimson array.
And a wave of grim pogroms in fury awoke.
A chaos of doomsday, a merciless flood,
That littered the North with debris and with blood.
To the East fled survivors, with death on their heels,
Bearing the trauma that history conceals.
A fragile truce faltered to hegemonic pride.
With survival at stake and their prospects denied,
The Republic of Biafra was born of that tide.
By famine besieged and by terror oppressed.
A carnival of carnage, where weeping grew loud,
Set the bright rising sun in a funeral shroud.
Though torrents of blood redrafted the nation's fate.
Through shadows of coercion, the fragments remain,
An uneasy amalgam, held tightly by pain.
Mandela — The Immoral Icon
The Peace Warrior of Mzansi — among heroes, a colossus!
Sun of the Nation, a rare gift of Providence.
Once entangled in the web of a racist succubus,
Unruffled, he declares before High Justice:
"It is an ideal for which I am prepared to die!" Silence,
pregnant with dreadful menace, in court ensued.
A beast of burden, consequent to an unshakeable stance.
In the slammer, the "Symbol of the Struggle" title he attained;
But the Apartheid demon persisted in its Treachery.
A "Coalition of Conscience" inspired the outcry for Liberty;
Plagues of sanctions shatter the manacles of Slavery,
Looming on the horizon—a sight of Equality.
From the abyss of darkness emerged the Institution:
The Immortal Icon and mastermind of the Rainbow Nation.
Mzansi And The Ballot Box
Millions queued before the arbiter of disputes.
Hopes ran high; duty and resolve held firm.
Hearts danced with the spirit of Emancipation,
Each shielded ammo more lethal than lead,
Ready to dislodge a fiendish cabal from power.
The teary night remained carved into memory's stone.
One by one, the weapons were discharged,
Dropped into the receptacle of Liberty.
There, they received baptisms of Freedom.
Inside the altar, tugs of war ensued,
As invisible fibres aligned their aspirations.
The Popular Will prevailed.
Bearing the deep scars of Apartheid,
The ancient tribes sang praise to dawn's new reign.
The Ballot Box came at a great expense;
At all costs, its sacredness shall be preserved.
These are the surviving heroes of Mzansi.
ANC AND THE STRUGGLE
January 1912, Mzansi brought forth a child
In a harsh political climate,
Destined to free her people,
Bound to cruel Fate.
Long Live Child Of Necessity!
Viva ANC!
His growth, fraught with perils,
But nurtured by sons and daughters of the soil,
Deprived of dignity and birthright,
Whose principal offence is not being 'White'.
Long Live Son Of The Soil!
Viva ANC!
His clarion call, an impetus to the Struggle,
Unifying localized forces of Freedom
Into a mass-based Liberation Movement,
Brought into the realm of Global Awareness.
Long Live Symbolic Leader Of The Struggle!
Viva ANC!
Fighting against enormous odds,
Together with hopeful but ill-equipped natives,
Onto the spirit he anchored Power;
Victory guaranteed on Resolve.
Long Live Son Of Hope!
Viva ANC!
Braving the slammer, torture, bullet...
Massacre of his warriors, the order of the day;
Energized by tears and blood of compatriots,
Civil Disobedience intensify with Sabotage.
Long Live The Indomitable Warrior!
Viva ANC!
At long last, triumph and jubilation:
Forces of Liberty topple forces of Oppression.
Embracing the "no winner, no loser" notion,
He calls for a "Rainbow Nation".
Long Live Son Of Liberty!
Viva ANC!
Long Live The Symbol Of Human Dignity!
Viva The Legacies Of African National Congress!
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Mzansi is the affectionate name for South Africa.
Depicted in the poem is the inspiring story of
The African National Congress (The ANC)—
as a Liberation Movement—from its inception
on 8 January 1908 up to its momentous victory
at the 1994 first general election.
Since gaining political power, The ANC
has increasingly changed from a Freedom
Movement to an ordinary Political Party.
For the suffering and disillusioned masses,
democracy has proved to be a mirage:
their once hopeful assertion of Black Rule
has become an anticipation of a flashy illusion.
The ANC, albeit a shadow of its former self,
has continued to maintain political power,
without pause, through the power of thumb.
POETIC MASTERPIECE
Poetic Masterpiece: A Childbirth Of Profundity.
Like delivery of Divine Revelations,
Which favours calmness of the wilderness,
It is brought forth in the Creative Glory of Solitude—
An abode of Enlightenment in whose mirror of grace,
Purest passions reflect out from shady reality
To gratify the inflamed curiosity of the Inward Eye,
As it wanders around the source of enchantment,
Seeking, in expanded awareness, to capture
The essence of a phenomenon shrouded in mystery.
In a blessed, serene mood with passionate intensity,
Mind labours hard to replicate images being
Unveiled in the exalted realm of thought.
With illuminative wizardry that nudges the limits of speech,
The wordsmith, graced with the breath of poetic creation,
Gives life to words—
Freeing them from their rigid implications.
Soulful words that sway the soul of the reader,
Leaving the excited spirit with an enigma to ponder:
Such is the sublime nature of every Poetic Masterpiece.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Poetry is a free flight of creativity in the serene beauty of a transcendent world. It emanates from the deep recesses of the subconscious mind.
Painted on the canvas of a "POETIC MASTERPIECE" are the intricacies and essence of poetry as an art, or what one may refer to as a critical probe into the essential nature of poetry.
In the poem, I have portrayed ingenious works of poetry as extraordinary creations—conceptualised and birthed in their authors' sublime moments.
Intuitively, it is known that when creative energy is ignited by passion while in a blessed, serene mood, the poet or poetess, poised for their artistic creation, sometimes begins to hit transcendent moments. They rise above the limitation of their physical level of consciousness to be favoured with "The Breath Of Poetic Creation".
During those impulses of inspiration, words are wedded with amazing skill and finesse to create sound, visionary clarity, and impact on a complex reality that is not easily accessible to the senses—a phenomenon that, in any other forms of writing, may prove quite cumbersome to depict.
A sublime perspective, a delicate crystallization of the purest passions while in mental solitude, and exquisite care in the rendition of words to utmost justice are the indispensable tools for a masterful poetic design.
The prize is an exclusive preserve of the devoted, intricate mind.
The Phoenix Strangler
With promise of a job,
He lured her into a cane field.
His gentleness, a veil of sanity.
Lurking in his mind,
A perversion of sex instinct:
'Bind her! Torture her! Kill her! '
Deep within comfort zone,
Suddenly brandishing his bludgeon,
Countenance wearing mercilessness—
Sight of which imported terror into her spine.
Desperate plea for mercy fueled his excitement.
Menacingly, her clothes he demanded.
Hissing in agony like pine tree,
Gnashing her teeth before the incubus,
She stripped!
Her nudity assaulting his senses,
Eyes flaming with lust,
He took stock of the bared flesh:
'Beautiful! Submissive! Horrified!'
Bound and gagged,
Fantasy translating into reality,
All hell broke loose...
Urge gratified,
With her undergarment around her neck,
He sealed her fate.
The sixteenth victim of the unhinged mind:
Single mother of two, horrendously murdered.
Not long after, no sooner had he got home
Than the long arm of the law tapped his shoulders:
DNA found on the victims had matched his.
Karma forced to be lenient,
He lives, albeit in confinement.
No Death Penalty In Mzansi.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Mzansi is the affectionate name for South Africa.
The Phoenix Strangler - Sipho Mandla Agmatir Thwala (born 1968)is a South African rapist and serial killer. He began his year-long rape and murder spree in 1996. His modus operandi was to lure local women into accompanying him through the sugarcane field near the town of Phoenix in KwaZulu-Natal Providence with the promise of employment as domestic servants in hotels. Once they were deep within the cane field, Thwala would attack the women, bind them with their undergarments and then rape, strangle and bludgeon them to death. Afterwards, hoping to destroy any physical evidence of the attack, he would set fire to the cane fields.
Thwala was arrested in 1997 after South African police matched DNA found on the victims to DNA taken from Thwala in 1994 when he was arrested and acquitted for a rape charge.
On March 31,1999, the High Court in Durban found Thwala guilty of 16 murders and 10 rapes and sentenced him to 506 years in prison.
Thwala is currently being held at CMax penitentiary in Pretoria South Africa.
The Obsessive Agony Of Lust
Your primal passion is a flaming ferocity,
The raging fire consumes your dignity,
And shame is put to slumber.
Seduced by the wayward twin of Love,
Power of deviation subdued,
On the pathway of despair you tread—
A burden too heavy to bear.
Mind drowning in bitter-sweetened sensation,
Onto an elusive dream you strive to hold fast.
But alas, it keeps vanishing like a mirage in a vast
Desert: a volatile mix of hope and anxiety.
Raving lunatic you've become,
Seeking savage desire's fulfillment—
An ugly reflection of nature, devoid of contentment.
Lust: a nightmare in the lonely bed of infatuation.
The Evil Face Of Religion
of Religion have been littered with awful tales.
The Abyss Of Drug Addiction
lured away from the savvy of cool judgement,
he breaches the boundaries of reality
into a realm of altered awareness.
Overwhelmed by a rapid onset, an elating,
buzzing sensation—the "opioid rush"—
emanating from deep within and surging
along a vast network of veins streaming
euphoria to every cell of his entire body,
with warm waves of pleasure flushing over
the tight, tingling skin, raising goosebumps
and releasing all negative emotions.
Mouth numbed, limbs heavy, and eyeballs
rolling back from an hitherto unimagined
state of bliss, he savours the calm explosions
of the pulsating bubbles in his jubilant head.
After a magical moment of sheer, orgasmic
rapture, he drifts into a dazed sedation—
during which he's spellbound with wonder while
wrapped in a cozy blanket of contentment.
He falls in love with the insidious drug
and begins to relish its sweet rewards,
in a seemly pattern of use that is put
in the shade to protect his best interests.
A stake in normalcy that seeks to restrict
his use of the opioid exclusively to parties.
Slowly but surely, however, he gravitates
toward regular, recreational weekend use—
soaring and drifting in wonderful ripples
of pure delight, feeling mellow, stress-free,
and satisfied in an illusory paradise of
forgetfulness where reality is left behind.
Bit by bit, as time goes by, his body builds up
a tolerance for the sedative, prompting
higher and more frequent doses to feel
as well as to sustain the desired effect.
This happens because his body adapts to
the drug by quickly breaking it down and
eliminating it from the system, making it's
effects shorter and weaker than before.
At this stage of his substance use, he can still
control whether, where, and when he uses.
He is still able to abstain from the narcotic
without experiencing significant distress .
But over time his body begins to exceed its
limits in responding to the drug, causing him
to suffer from unpleasant side-effects that
emerge a while later following his last use.
The initial, transient therapeutic effects of
opioid are now waning, followed by the
emergence of adverse withdrawal symptoms,
which manifest as, cravings for the opiate,
flu-like symptoms, fatigue, stomach cramps,
irritability, muscle aches, cold chills or sweats,
among others, with his discomfort growing
right alongside the urge to use the stimulant.
The onset of these uncomfortable physical
effects marks the onset of his body's
dependence, as he now relies on the drug
to stave off the distressing affliction.
He has bitten the bait of pleasure, oblivious
to the hook beneath it. The once casual user,
who thought he could quit the habit at will
without stress, now must use just to feel normal.
Although his opioid use has become ingrained
in his daily routine, he continues to maintain
his employment, limit his intake, and without
fail take care of his everyday responsibilities.
However, his growing tolerance to the narcotic
necessitates a steady increase in quantity of
the substance being consumed and duration of
use—not just weekends but every single night.
Before long, a new affliction begins to fester
within him: the psychoactive substance
tightens its grip, transforming his physical
dependence into a full-blown addiction.
This psychological dependence on the narcotic
is accompanied by behavioural and emotional
problems, coupled with anxiety disorder, leading
to a complete loss of control over his drug use.
The opiate has become something he needs to
sleep or to fully wake up, and his sleeping pattern
has also been altered; he is frequently up at night
and intermittently dozing off during the day.
As the dosage of the potent compound increases,
so do the visible signs of his addiction to it and
other symptoms of withdrawal, making his
craving for the drug increasingly more intense.
As it is, he needs several hits of the opiate to
make it through the day. All at once he wants
to use! He begins to look forward to using.
He would ingest the drug in risky situations
such as while at the wheel of his car, or on
his job—always desperate to use so as to
avoid the painful lows, as well as to revel in
the bliss of the drug's comforting warmth.
At times, he would skip work "chasing the dragon,"
pursuing the out-of-reach elation levels of
his initial ecstatic highs, swinging between
feelings of intense euphoria and dysphoria.
Always, his body would afterwards crash well
below the baseline, barely capable of catering
to his basic daily needs. For long, the habit had
ceased to be the fun that it was intended to be.
Like a vicious cycle, the relief from the opioid—
which is not justified by external reality—
is being obtained at the cost of worsening
addiction and a growing increase in distress.
This distress peaks whenever he has low levels
of the drug in his system. The more he indulges
in it to calm his racing thoughts and panic attacks,
the more its comfort zone seems to be desired.
Quite disoriented in the rigours of his vice,
he strays in the abyss of drug addiction:
a dark, weary place where priority disorder
is dictated by events outside of his control.
It is this corrupted impulse control that causes
his unhealthy obsession with the narcotic,
rendering him incapable of articulating rational
thoughts. It is a chronic brain disorder.
In this harmful diversion away from reality,
utmost in his mind is the insidious drug—
over and above his job, his goals, family,
love, friends, hobbies, and personal hygiene.
Oddly enough, the foremost essentials of life,
like sleep, food, and water, are also not spared.
He could be feeling ill, and he won't care.
No other thoughts can cohabit in his world.
Emotionally invested in his fantasy world,
the destructive substance has kindled in him
an inner turmoil, setting off an overriding
feeling of emptiness that aches in his heart.
The habit is much harder to lose than it was
to find. An ongoing effort to wean himself off
the drug is being crushed by a dysphoric mood
and a sickly feeling that intensify in severity.
These horrifying symptoms of discontinuation
syndrome are a result of the drug's induced
disruptions in the biochemical processes of
his brain's system of reward and punishment.
(The human brain has around one hundred
billion individual nerve cells, or neurons, which
form a convoluted network that has over
one hundred trillion connections, or synapses.
Information travels around this vast network
all the time, allowing the brain to direct all
the conscious and unconscious activities
in the body—both simple and complex ones.
The brain responds to new information from
the nervous system by releasing chemical
messengers called neurotransmitters, which
pass signals from one neuron to another.
Neurotransmitter signaling is a crucial part
of all the brain’s functions, and changes in
the way it sends signals can alter one's way
of thinking, feelings, or perception of things.
There are at least 100 different kinds of these
chemical hormones in the brain. But the most
important ones, when it comes to addiction,
are the stress and the feel-good hormones.
Stress hormones—mainly adrenaline, cortisol,
and corticotropin-releasing factor (CFR)—play
a critical role in the initiation, maintenance,
and relapse phases of addiction by activating
the brain's "anti-reward" system, which leads
to withdrawal symptoms. Repeatedly high levels
of these neurochemical messengers increase
vulnerability to substance use by intensifying
stress and cravings, diminishing impulse control,
and causing the use of more drugs to feel "normal."
They worsen addiction severity and trigger
relapse by provoking negative emotional states."
Neurotoxic substances are also really good
at not only messing with one's levels of happy
hormones—primarily dopamine, serotonin,
and endorphins—by overstimulating their
release upon intake of such potent compounds,
but also by exploiting the brain's capacity to
vividly remember unnatural highs and motivate
itself to find more of their sources in the future.
Dopamine spikes to release pleasure when good
things happen to us. It reinforces enjoyable
sensations and behaviours by linking things that
make us feel good with a desire to repeat them.
Serotonin regulates social behaviour, impulse,
mood, and sleep. It plays a key role in staving
off anxiety and depression, as well as fostering
focus, calmness, and a sense of well-being.
Endorphins are natural painkillers produced by
the body to help us deal with emotional and
physical stress. They work by blocking pain signals,
thus reducing one's feelings of pain and distress.
So, in a normal, healthy body, happy hormones—
including oxytocin and GABA—work together
in harmony. This balance controls pain and stress,
stabilizes mood, and drives motivation and pleasure).
In a moment you will see how neurological
changes in the reward system of his brain—
occasioned by prolonged abuse of the opioid—
have turned his natural needs into drug needs.
Rather than a mild, blissful flow of the brain's
happy hormones, as is experienced while
one indulges in a palatable food, on receiving
great news, or while engaged in any other
kinds of novelty that fill us with a delicious
pleasure, the opiate—whose chemical structure
is similar to those of endorphins which are
released by the body to suppress feelings of
distress or physical pain—mimics these natural
painkillers. They attach to structures called
opioid receptors found on cells in the central
nervous system and other areas of the body,
causing these receptors to block pain signals
from reaching the upper part of the brain that
interpreters it as pain. While at it, the narcotic
triggers the release of endorphins to reinforce
its painkilling effect, and serotonin hormone to
block stress signal from reaching the brain as well—
thus modulating how the brain physiologically
adapts to adversity, anxiety, and depression.
The opiate also induces a quick secretion of an
excessive amount of dopamine, which courses
through the pleasure pathways of the brain,
overwhelming the reward centre of the organ.
It is this huge outpouring of happy hormones
in the region that elicits in him a sudden burst
of energy, a pleasant state of mild drowsiness,
mental alertness, the euphoric high, etcetera.
This already powerful, rapturous effect of the
insidious substance is further magnified by
the drug's temporary blocking off of stress
hormones in the reward system of his brain.
Therefore, it dulls his emotions and worries
by suppressing any feeling of sorrow, regret,
guilt, fear, loneliness, or distress. Upon intake
of the mood-altering drug, he would feel
warm when cold, calm when angry, bright
when grumpy, filled when hungry, glad when
sad, and relieved when in physical pain, with
almost a total refrain from the tendency
to look at anything in a negative manner.
If he's in a severe withdrawal before using
the opioid, he would feel as if suddenly
he's being catapulted from a place of worst
misery to one of greatest joy — like being
lifted away from hell to heaven in a flash.
This dramatic result of the psychoactive drug
makes every normal thing appear better,
and brings forth a deep sense of satisfaction,
as though all his needs have been met.
However, this almost perfectly desirable body
and mind experience is an artificial feeling
that only lasts within a matter of hours.
When the drug's enjoyable effects wear off,
the brain—which has grown used to the steady
supply of happy hormones—cannot adjust
all at once. It goes into shock as it gets stuck
in overdrive, which results in the withdrawal
symptoms. It is so because his brain, whose
system of positive reward is being frenzied,
seeks to counteract and accomodate for the
sweet thrills of the drug's euphoric high. It does
this by not only attempting to drastically reduce
the number of neurons that are able to respond
to signals from the feel good hormones, but
also by working hard to stop their production
and release into the reward pathways, while
overstimulating the release of stress hormones.
Just like an immense surge of happy hormones
elicits unnatural levels of euphoric pleasure,
a huge spike in the flow of stress hormones
produces in him torturous withdrawal symptoms.
These unwanted side-effects, whose rise and
fall are subject to drug levels in the system,
are the debts he has to pay for the supreme
bliss that is relished during his opioid highs.
Another flip side of frequent happy hormone
surges is that they result in the brain's inability
to respond to any stimulus other than the
ones triggered by neurotoxic substances.
This is clearly seen in his lost of interest in
things that he once enjoyed, since his brain
suffers from lack of happy hormones which
influence one's ability to be in a good mood.
It is all about his brain seeking to maintain
Homeostasis: a normal, healthy body function.
Once he is able to emerge from this penance,
he will feel good again with no need for the drug.
Because the drug has also thrown activities
in the control region of the brain into disorder,
his whole thought pattern, impulses, and
behaviour all radically change along with it.
It is this reprogramming of his brain that has
altered the interior reality of his mind in ways
that result in him going into "survival mode"
in the absence of the drug during withdrawal.
While in this irritable, aggressive, and erratic
state, he would forego anything and everything
to obtain the dangerous substance. He thinks
of his drug use the same way an individual
who is parched with thirst thinks of water.
This desperation in seeking out the drug as
a vital lifeline is due to his compromised brain
"believing" it needs it as a matter of survival. 76
A habit he had maintained in the beginning
because it made him feel extremely good
has tuned against him, quite often coercing
him to use primarily for the avoidance of pain.
The destructive drug, as dear and painful
to him as an imbecilic child is to its mother,
(he) continues on the foreboding route
for which he has no power of deviation.
Despairing in the clutches of drug addiction,
the neurotoxic compound traumatizes him:
it infuses poisons into his nervous system,
and it keeps him in a state of mental chaos.
He keeps saying to himself, 'I'm going to
quit for good after using one last time.'
But that remains to be seen, as the drug
goes on dulling his inner light day by day.
In a downward spiral that astonishes those
acquainted with him, he loses his job, his
car is repossessed, and he's evicted from
a nice home that had been stripped bare.
Drowning in unpaid bills and desperately in
debt—having blown an entire life-savings on
the drug—the loss of everything, along with
his few remaining friends, leaves him in ruins.
The dangerous drug has evoked a negative
ripple that is felt throughout all that he's
part of. An awful realization that settles in
with cold clarity, eliciting a lurch of dismay
over his dire ignorance about the narcotic,
which has resulted in this ugly entrapment.
In deep, sorrowful thoughts consumed
with self-loathing, he puts a curse upon
the day he first laid eyes on the hard drug.
With the best resolve he's able to muster,
driven by exasperation to kick the habit,
he attempts to make his will like stone.
This facade is soon razed by his urgent need for
the opiate to stave off withdrawal. Burdened
with a weight of guilt and shame that cannot be
faced, he retreats into the haze of his own misery.
With more problems and stresses than ever,
he plunges from a troubled life to no life,
completely losing touch with reality as his
addiction assumes a more dangerous form.
His fixation on the opiate has taken a turn for
the worst. Besides his compulsive need to use
it to ward off withdrawal and to experience
its euphoric high again, it has become more
crucial than ever for him to keep his emotions
constantly desensitized to life by numbing
the agony of living to ease the passage of days
with purchased relief from the sedative.
Locked in this highly destructive pattern of
drug abuse, he would stop at nothing to feed
the dangerous habit. He would cheat, steal, lie,
or betray—no matter who—to get his "fix".
Like a cancerous growth that metastasizes
to other regions of the body, his enduring
burden has spread way beyond him, chipping
away at the wellbeing of those around him.
As frequent and ready targets for theft, his
loved ones always have to watch out for him.
It is a resentful relationship in which they can
never feel at easy with him around the house.
Money, jewellery, tools, gadgets, or any other
marketable and easy-to-carry household items
that are not safely locked away will go missing.
For days or weeks at a time, he, too, will vanish.
He would eventually return like the biblical
'prodigal son'. Always, he has found the door
open after such periods of avoiding home, even
on occasions when he had been chucked out.
In the many months since losing his source
of livelihood, he had been pushed into
four different rehabilitation facilities,
but as yet has failed to clean up his act.
Two of his stints in those healing centres
immediately followed hospital discharges for
opioid overdose. On the last occasion, he was
found passed out in the family's bathtub.
Timely arrival of the paramedics had saved
his life. Notwithstanding, a nagging urge
to 'use' continues to feed and reinforce
the habit after each discharge from rehab.
It's been most upsetting to the parents who have
had to watch him visibly change before their
eyes—from a healthy, level-headed son who had
always had his act together, to what he is now.
He is, as it is, a thin, patchy-skinned loner with
a baffled demeanour, who buries his head
in low self-esteem to conceal his frequently
dilated and glassy pupils from mutual gaze.
Nothing points more to the hopelessness of
his family's plight over the ravages of the
stigmatized disorder than a lack of effort on
his part to take steps to change his condition.
It is a harrowing experience for the grieving
household, whose resources, along with their
compassion for him, have been completely
exhausted, with no more tears left to shed.
The unfortunate family, on reaching the end of
their tether, confronts him with an ultimatum:
to get his life together or finally face the music.
Sorrowfully, they all watch him leave home.
His further descent into the final stages of rock
bottom has been swift. He starts off by crashing
on fellow addicts' couches and floors without a
pillow, but his welcome quickly soon wears out.
Now among the ranks of the homeless, the hobo
would wake up feeling dope-sick. His entire day
would consist of begging and petty thefts to
raise money for the opioid, all in order to assuage
a torment that it could dull but never eliminate.
At night, even on stormy ones, the rough sleeper
would crash wherever there was shelter,
never worrying about waking up the next day.
This nightmarish existence on the street has
provoked a string of run-ins with the law.
Nabbed stealing on ill-fated occasions, he is
brutally manhandled in a most indecent way.
Emanciated, hungry, and sick, the erstwhile
ray of hope—who once had a strong sense of
self—is currently a filthy, nervous wreck who
views life through the lens of opioid stupor.
Much beyond his capacity to solicit assistance,
his hurting family proceed to rescue him yet again
Under the humbling load of drug addiction,
he staggers into another rehabilitation centre.
But the frequent slippery climb to recovery
is never easy. It's yet another chance for him
to submit to a slow and delicate therapy on
his brain, whose structure and functions are
badly impacted by years-long use of the drug.
The healing process is a labour of discipline
and commitment, coupled with patience,
in order to allow the brain to adapt back
toward normalcy by gradually regenerating
and rebalancing itself. In this gruelling task,
he's expected to learn to care for a body that
now must struggle to work in a different way.
Desiring to put their lives back together, many
druggies have been able to crawl their way out
of the sinister shadow — a big chunk of them
through the guiding light of structured help.
Amongst them were 'walking corpses' who,
possessed by their 'enough is enough', were
enabled to find the inner fire vitally needed
to rekindle the cold embers of self-image.
There's the fella cast adrift, feeling like a lost
cause with no positive "him". He is mourning
his forced abstinence from the vital boost
that has always helped him cope with life.
He'd been through the process several times
before, but never in those periods had he,
for once, been capable of detaching himself
from the fog of mental apathy and confusion.
With the drug completely out of his system,
it starts to feel a lot like flu and hay fever,
and it appears to be getting worse by the day.
There's itching at the roof of his mouth,
in his sour throat, ears, watery eyes, and his
runny, stuffed-up nose, with a pin-pricking
sensation all over his body. There is also
frequent yawning, rapid, shallow breathing
from anxiety, and fits of sneezes that appear
and disappear all too often. He's trembling
almost non-stop and sweating excessively,
with goosebumps covering his itchy, sore skin.
It's like his body's thermostat has gone haywire
and is finding it difficult to regulate temperature.
He will feel hot, then cold, and then again experience
both high fever and shivering at the same time.
Muscles ache like he's been repeatedly kicked
everywhere: his arms, hands, legs, and chest.
There are migraine headaches, tremors, joint
pain, and his aching back is wracked in spasms.
He's feeling like there's an infestation of bugs
crawling underneath his skin. He's agitated
and worried, with a sense of impending calamity
that is keeping him short-tempered and on edge.
It's hard to move, but impossible to keep still.
He is plagued by weakness and dizziness,
but despite the constant feeling of fatigue,
he's finding it difficult to fall or stay asleep.
Tossing and turning for who knows how long,
eventually he would fall into a fitful doze,
during which the nightmares are full of terrors,
and he would wake up feeling totally drained.
At certain times, he'd scream out loud because
a wave of withdrawal comes on hard and fast.
Very much aware from experience that it will
definitely go from bad to worse, sends rushes
of cold anxiety right down to his aching bones.
The onset of gastric problems marks the point
at which withdrawal symptoms begin to peak.
The debilitating sickness gets really menacing!
Explosive diarrhea and vomiting, almost to the
point of fatal dehydration, make him a slave to
the toilet. He can feel his stomach clenching, but
has zero appetite for any kind of food or liquid.
He keeps rushing to the toilet, except there's
nothing left inside of him. So, he dry heaves
until there's no strength left to do that, and he
just hangs his head there in choked desolation.
But withdrawal from opioids goes far beyond
the physical symptoms: it also involves mental
and emotional challenges. It's a psychological
roller coaster that includes all sorts of oddities;
depression, hallucination, and chaotic and suicidal
thoughts. Even though he's constantly being
assured that within a short time he will start
to feel good if only he could commit himself
to getting better, yet the continued worsening
of his sickness appears to indicate otherwise,
as more and more symptoms keep pooping up
all the time to cohabit with the earlier ones.
Meanwhile his pain intensifies right along with
the escalating urge to use the opioid. As “dope
sickness" peaks, he begins to experience almost
all of the withdrawal symptoms simultaneously.
Nothing has ever come close to the torment
that opioid withdrawal brings at this stage.
Imagine a terrible flu joining forces with the worst
case of food poisoning, hay fever, and a high fever,
profound weariness, restless legs and arms, full
body aches, and a feeling of pins and needles—as
well as the skin feeling like it is crawling—and other
symptoms of withdrawal are all present at once.
This combined attack ebbs and flows, sometimes
sustaining peak levels for a while, during which
it feels like every cell in his body is crying out
for the drug and every nerve is on fire with pain.
Opioid withdrawal at its peak is a rolling mental,
emotional, and physical torture. The only thing
going through his mind during this entire time is
how just one shot of the drug will make it all vanish.
Despair rules his mind as he realizes he can’t
last with the habit or live without it. However,
he is in the early and peak stages of withdrawal,
when cravings for the drug are at their worst.
This initial withdrawal agony is the biggest hurdle
any user desiring to get sober has to jump in
the often stop-start journey to recovery. If he can,
somehow, find the courage to suffer through it,
in a matter of days, the physical symptoms of
withdrawal—such as spasms, overall body ache,
hot and cold flashes, gastrointestinal distress,
and heavy sweating—will be almost fully gone.
This makes the healing process less painful to
cope with. He will then be left to deal only with
anhedonia: the inability to feel joy that persists
for a long time time after dope sickness has gone.
During this lasting stage of recovery, feelings of
emptiness and melancholy are prevalent due to
the production cessation of happy hormones
and the inability of normal stimuli to trigger
their release in the reward system of the brain,
as the complex organ strives to restore a balanced
chemistry when the intake of a hard drug stops.
Anhedonia is marked by continued cravings and
a negative emotional state of mind such as fear,
irritability, restlessness, anxiety, and depression—
all of which will be completely dissipated
the longer a recovering drug addict stays sober.
He's been offered a way out of his captivity,
but he's unable to embrace the opportunity
with open arms because the changes caused
by adverse effects of the narcotic on his brain
have reduced the ability of the Prefontal Cortex—
that region of the brain responsible for both
reasoning and decision-making—to provide
cognitive control over his compulsive drug use.
The overall consequence is that his obsession
for the opiate is being driven by habit rather
than conscious thought, almost like a reflex.
In effect, his brain, which has been hijacked,
is now totally compromised. He is focused on
the sole purpose of seeking out more and more
of the potent drug, whatever the cost. This means
that the addiction, which convinces him the only
option available is to indulge, is blocking him
from seeing the available escape route. It has
shut off his ability to "get up on the inside" to face
the seeming overwhelming barriers to sobriety.
Like one in the grip of Stockholm Syndrome,
he has developed a type of trauma bonding
with the treacherous drug: the more it hurts
him, the more his irrational affection for it grows.
With his consciousness constantly revolving
around the psychoactive substance, he just
can't imagine a chronic user like himself
being sober and happy again without it.
That being the case, he fails to see any point
in struggling to remain sober when, during such
times, he is beset by an awful illness attended
by a serious depression that offers no relief.
Regardless of the wreckage of his past, and
everything that is dear to him, plus the very
essence of life on the line, he's left convinced
that giving up the destructive habit would
imply endless suffering and feeling deprived
for the rest of his already hellish existence.
More than any other reasons, he's incapable
of quitting because he's too powerless to resist.
In default of any dreams of ever recouping
losses that are manifestly out of reach,
the opioid with a firm grip on him serves
as a buffer to keep his ugly reality at bay.
All that he wants is to return to the 'loving
arms' of the opioid, very much aware that
the analgesic effect of its high, now that he's
in pain, can be one of the best things ever.
But even so, as tempting as the desire to walk
away from the healing process may be, he's
bitterly mindful of the horrors of street life that
loom upon him with such frightening aspect.
Inescapably trapped with no good choices,
he slips into a menacing fear of relapse.
In anguish withdrawal plagues him daily,
and it won't allow him a moment's peace.
Utterly incapable of rising from the ashes
to hold it all together—no iota of hope,
nothing to look forward to, everything out
of focus—his mind is spiraling out of control.
In a fit of extreme anxiety, the burning urge
to 'use' prods him closer and closer to the
brink of a nervous breakdown. And Suddenly,
his need for a 'hit' becomes most vital as.
Sweating profusely and trembling all over
with fear, clutching a pilfered smartphone
and forgetful of future suffering, the rehab
jumper hurries along the forbidden path.
All alone with the merciless companion,
with nowhere to go and no one to turn to,
wretchedly wretched in additive agony,
the junkie fades away into nothingness.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The Abyss of Drug Addiction" is written in 160 non-rhyming quatrains.
The rendition is a poignant story depicting the sad existence of many drug users. The verse uncovers and illuminates, step by step, the different stages of drug addiction and the mental processes of non-functional drug users.
The paramount aim of the work is to shed light on the sinister shadow of drug addiction. It unveils to everyone—especially teenagers and youth—the hazards of drug abuse and the vicious downward spiral it causes.
Just as the euphoric experience of each hard drug differs significantly, so do their withdrawal symptoms. Despite their seeming surface unrelatedness, whichever hard drug it may be, the creation of an illegal and dangerous dependency against the user's will is a common denominator.
(The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged sexual orgasm. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when heroin or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously.
In quite a disturbing hyperbole, a heroin addict described the drug's EUPHORIC RUSH as follows:
Colossal Miscarriage Of Justice
His body a mass of torn, bleeding tissue.
Cruelty stretched beyond limits of endurance;
The scourging was halted on the brink of death.
Numbed hands, unshackled from the pillar,
He collapsed on a stone pavement.
"Crucify Him! Crucify Him!" jarred the frenzied pack,
In paroxysms of rage that would pull down the fortress
Of justice. Roughly, He is brought back to consciousness.
Wrenching pain sent features convulsing in humiliation
As the smitten Crown of Thorns pierced His scalp.
The mocking crowd ridiculed, "Hail, king of the Jews!"
Surfeited with demeaning mimicry in the midday heat,
The Cross of Shame they hoisted on sagged shoulders.
In the loneliness of anguish, His staggering courage
Acquiesced to the summons by looming fate.
In the mob's rain of spit and spittle, He tottered away;
A trail of His blood traced the route to Golgotha.
Nailed to the cross on Mount Calvary, a loincloth
He wore, flanked by a duo on death row.
Parched with thirst, a sour blend was offered.
Looking down at the by-then jubilant crowd, He prayed,
"Father, forgive them, they don't know what they're doing."
"He is calling for Elijah," they joked, wickedly amused.
Human barbarity too much to bear, with a last gasp
Of breath, He wailed, "Eloi! Eloi! Lema Sabachthani?"—
A shriek of the doomed that rent the skies.
"It is finished!" Then gently came the words,
"Father, into Thy hands I place my spirit."
Head bowed, in utter agony, He succumbed to injuries.
His prosecution: a blatant perversion of legal rules
In hasty, nocturnal trials that snubbed the burden of proof,
Which had no room for witnesses for the accused.
A criminal action preceded by the unlawful arrest
He endured with manhandling and savage beating,
Even though no resistance was offered nor expected.
Unfairly found guilty of His assertion of messiahship
Under the Mosaic Law, thereafter, He is arraigned before
A Roman blood-court on a claim to kingship of the Jews.
Hellbent on having Him put to death, the initial charge
Of blasphemy was amended to sedition against Rome;
Thus, the religious was translated into a political charge.
Declared righteous by the one that betrayed Him,
What's more, He is adjudged innocent by the prefect—
A vacillating judge, unruly, eclipsed by the incited mob,
At whose behest capital punishment was handed down.
A travesty that shifted a villain's infamy to the Nazarene,
While freedom of the damned became the lot of the freed.
On no occasion had He robbed nor cheated anyone.
An upright gent He was, with a lifetime of clean record,
Who became a target for lynching in a sinister plot
Hatched by Jewish leaders, perturbed about His gospel
And rising popularity through mesmerizing miracles.
His Brutal Execution: A Colossal Miscarriage Of Justice.
Children Of The Street
In their faces a colourless gaping of life's adversity:
The hopeless grief of a hellish existence;
Malnourished, starving, filth and olfactory horrors;
Their humiliating nothingness clothed in rags;
Usually barefooted with low self-esteem;
Begging or rummaging through garbage for
Thrown-away foods to assuage pangs of hunger;
Oftentimes feeling cold that comes from being sickly;
Sleeping or indulging in cheap cocktails of toxic
Sedatives at the dark corners of the street:
These dispositions identify them to society as
"Children Of The Street: The Roofless And Rootless Kids."
The hapless minors squat in the open on the street,
Or at some ill-suited but out of sight places.
Day to day, they fall prey to all manner of violence
And abusive treatments, in hostile surroundings
Where childhood apparently has come to an end.
They're menaced by extreme weather conditions:
Be it scorching summer heat, severe storms,
Or bone-chilling, subzero temperatures.
They belong to nowhere and to no one:
No place to reckon upon as "home sweet home",
And no comfort, whatever, is found on the street,
Where the public spurn them with icy contempt.
'Children Living On The Street' is a global reality.
With the urban slums serving as notorious hotbeds,
Loverty accompanied by toxic homes account for
A vast number of minors who migrate onto the street.
Family break-up, parental demise, abandonment, war,
And other socio-economic or political changes that take
Their toll on them, also prod them into homelessness.
Left to their fate, the vulnerable kids miss out on
Physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual growth.
In the absence of needful support, they struggle for
Survival on the fringes of society—trapped in a cycle
Of destitution that only few are lucky to escape from.
Homeless Children, through no fault of their own,
Are denied the very essentials of childhood.
Unwanted and uncared for, they bear the brunt of
All sorts of contagious diseases, lice, and bedbugs
Infestations, plus the forever pestering flees that feast
On open wounds—with scant access to healthcare.
Stomachs plagued by worms, they roam the streets
Where no public toilets are left ajar to get in free.
Barely clinging to life, roofless kids hang on desperately.
With scarcely any human hands to wipe away tears
Of bitter pain, they gnash their teeth in extremities.
Many live and yield up the ghost on the street.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The poem is a forthright portrayal of the fierce wretchedness of Homeless Kids, as seen mostly in third world and developing countries (some parts of Africa, Asia and South America) .
Bear in mind that the vast majority of children who end up homeless, do not do so by choice. Disruptive home situations are mostly responsible for mere minors leaving the family house, to seek a sense of wellbeing that has eluded them at home on the street.
Street Connected Kids (Street Kids) fall into one of two groups: 'Children On The Street' or 'Children Of The Street'.
'Children On The Street' spend time on the street playing truant, hawking or being subjected to other forms of child labour - to assist in the household income. They're not entirely without protection from their families or guardians, to whom they return to at the end of the day to bath, eat, and sleep.
'Children Of The Street', on the other hand, are literally homeless: they're roofless and they're on their own. They're adjudged to be rootless because many do not know their families, and the ones that have left theirs homes view such ties in a negative manner. This group of street kids comprises mainly, abandoned, orphaned and runaway minors.
The street is the place where homeless kids live and struggle for existence on daily basis. Highly vulnerable to abuse, violence and all sorts of bad influences, they often suffer from depression, anxiety, and trauma. Physical injuries remain one of the leading causes of death among Children Of The Street.
Albinos On The Razor-edge Of Danger
headhunters are on the prowl.
They watch.
They wait.
They stalk—
while avoiding detection—
hoping to launch a brutal ambush.
Their bowie knives and gruesome machetes
(as sharp as execution-ready guillotine blades)
are poised to dismember any unfortunate victim
into bleeding fragments in a matter of seconds.
Faced with this looming menace,
many people with albinism remain housebound.
Swallowed up by anxiety and depression,
they live in a sustained state of fear;
they harbour a deep distrust of others.
Yet, when compelled by necessity—
they still, nervously, venture out.
These unavoidable, highly risky errands
can easily deliver them
into the grasp of a cruel fate.
The horrific butchering of albinistic people
in parts of Africa—solely to harvest blood,
internal organs, and body parts for rituals—
has left many victims decapitated.
Their limbs are severed;
ears and genitals, sliced off;
vital organs, gouged out...
often while the victims are still alive.
Some individuals have even been buried alive—
as human offerings to appease spirits.
Even the deceased are not spared:
graves are frequently desecrated
to rob remains of hair, teeth, and bones.
Myths suggest that the blood, organs,
and body parts of people with albinism
possess magical properties.
These elements are believed to yield
powerful outcomes when used in potions,
talismans, charms, or amulets
designed to bring wealth...
protect against harm...
grant extraordinary power...
or appease ancestral wrath—which is often
the root cause of the users' existential anxieties.
In societies where these superstitions persist,
the notion that albinistic people possess
mystical qualities remains deeply entrenched.
An increasing number of sorcerers,
and criminal opportunists, exploit this
multi-generational superstition to manipulate
people into committing human sacrifice.
To validate the efficacy of these claims,
these practitioners, who often pose as
traditional healers or spiritual leaders,
reframe ancient folklore about dark magic into
terms that appeal directly to their desperate clients.
Driven by profit, these witch doctors have effectively
placed a bounty on people with albinism.
This assigns a commercial value to human lives:
luring predatory individuals into a clandestine trade
for quick financial gain.
The tragic result of this bounty on albinos—
dead or alive, adults or children—
is the rise of highly organized criminal networks.
These syndicates include scouts,
grave robbers, kidnappers,
traffickers, and killers...
all operating within sinister schemes
designed to enrich the witch doctors
at the expense of their clients' desperate motives.
The ritual murder of people with albinism
remains largely driven by a desperate quest
to satisfy out-of-reach ambitions...
coupled with a widespread belief
that these sacrificial rituals work.
These superstitions are by no means
limited to the impoverished or uneducated.
Many clients who patronise these witch doctors
are wealthy individuals from various walks of life—
primarily politicians and entrepreneurs.
They believe that talismans made from
human body parts can help them win elections,
or boost business ventures, by mystically
influencing voters, clients, or prospects.
This belief—that people with albinism
possess magical powers capable
of guaranteeing success—is lethal.
In rural areas of some African nations,
where daily events are often attributed
directly to spiritual intervention, violent
assaults on albinistic people are rampant.
Criminal networks (contracted or established
by traditional spiritual healers
to procure these human "commodities")
hunt down and kill victims.
Based on a client’s specific demands,
the witch doctors determine which body parts
are required for a particular portion, charm, or talisman;
they then activate their criminal contacts,
setting off a chain of clandestine events
that culminates in severe mutilation or murder.
Homeless albinistic people, who often navigate
city streets and village pathways as beggars,
bear the initial brunt of these brazen assaults.
As these exposed targets are increasingly eliminated,
"albino hunters"—armed with knives, machetes,
and occasionally firearms—
have begun raiding secluded homes after dark.
They forcefully abduct—or kill and dismember—
their victims directly in front of family members...
who are frequently injured, subdued,
and left to watch in horror as the human poachers
sauntered off gleefully with their targeted remains.
The vulnerabilities within these communities
often extend to the most defenseless,
where misconceptions regarding innocence
are exploited for tragic ends.
Even in the light of day,
the paths to education and safety
become fraught with peril for the young.
Families face profound loss,
as protectors are often harmed
in the desperate struggle to shield their loved ones.
Reports document the immense suffering
of parents and their children, whose lives
are forever changed by these targeted acts.
Furthermore, false beliefs persist:
misguided notions regarding health and healing
that put women and girls at heightened risk.
Consequently,
these individuals face systemic harm—
a crisis of safety, dignity,
and the fundamental right to life.
In some sub-Saharan African nations—
where these superstitions create a high-value
black market—people with albinism face
a constant battle to evade bounty hunters.
Many disappear without a trace.
When remains are recovered,
they are routinely missing specific body parts
(depending on the desired spell).
Survivors are often left severely injured,
and permanently disabled.
In the most tragic instances,
victims are abducted and sold to trafficking networks
by their own desperate family members:
including fathers, uncles, or partners.
Across East, Central, and parts of Southern Africa,
active black markets drive the trafficking of albinistic people
across porous national borders.
Commercial trafficking networks can command
up to $75,000 USD for a "full set" of body parts—
an immense fortune in these impoverished regions.
A living person is valued even higher;
while individual organs, or limbs,
fetch thousands of dollars.
These exorbitant prices make this underground trade
one of the most profitable, and grisly,
forms of human trafficking in the world.
Ironically, in societies where people with albinism
are believed to be a source of good fortune,
they are at the same time demonised,
and targeted for violence,
because they are presumed to be cursed;
a belief fueled solely by their distinct appearance.
Widely perceived as bearers of bad luck,
individuals with albinism are frequently blamed
for epidemics, locust invasions, droughts,
floods...and other natural disasters
that are actually driven by climatic factors.
Dehumanizing people with albinism
makes it easy for society to justify their prosecution.
They face constant verbal, physical,
and psychological abuse
from communities that openly reject them.
This irrational hatred means that heinous crimes
that are being committed against them are largely met
with callous indifference by community members;
furthermore, these acts are rarely deterred
by law enforcement officials,
many of whom harbour the same disdain...
and remain complicit through inaction.
The most painful betrayal albinistic individuals face
comes from their own relatives,
who may view them as a form of cosmic retribution.
The birth of a child with albinism
is almost always met with shock
disbelief, and humiliation
by parents and extended family.
Parents often feel deep shame
and fear the social repercussions of the birth.
Because these infants are wrongly viewed
as harbingers of calamity,
some are banished, abandoned,
or killed at birth to eliminate the imagined threat.
Even when families care for their child,
community pressure and entrenched customs
can force them to surrender the infant
for ritual murder.
Widespread myths combined with
patriarchal structures mean that mothers
bear the sole blame for the condition.
The hostility intensifies if there is no known
history of albinism in the family tree.
Countless women face severe domestic violence,
abandonment, or eviction by husbands and in-laws
convinced the mother was unfaithful or cursed.
While some fathers do break the mold to offer
protection and love, they remain the exception.
This widespread rejection leaves isolated mothers
and their children defenceless,
trapped in cycles of extreme poverty and abuse
without traditional familial protection.
Historically, individuals with albinism
rarely find accepting, pigmented partners
to date or marry.
Yet, despite fierce family objections
to what many label an "unholy union,"
some still choose genuine love
and marry their sweethearts.
By defying these brutal odds to tie the knot,
women with albinism, in particular,
face immediate danger.
They are routinely subjected to malicious,
whispering campaigns and direct,
perilous accusations of witchcraft.
Superstition falsely dictates that albinistic people
are possessed by evil spirits capable
of inflicting harm on the world around them.
Consequently, their kit and kin often blame them
for any sudden illness, untimely death,
or misfortune that strikes the family.
Both mothers of children with albinism and
women who live with the condition themselves
bear the brunt of this trauma.
In many communities,
these baseless allegations carry lethal weight,
where a simple whisper of witchcraft
is enough to trigger immediate banishment
or a public lynching.
As ultimate pariahs of society,
they endure relentless social exclusion.
Every single day,
they brave deprecating stares,
while cruel taunts and public harassment
follow their steps.
They face routine denial of entry,
or forceful eviction
from everyday establishments.
Shops, restaurants, taverns, hotels, and salons
turn them away through prejudiced owners.
Under such hostile conditions,
albinistic entrepreneurs rarely survive.
The toxic myth of bad omens cripples
their basic livelihood and security.
Families face immense hurdles finding rent.
Tenants giving birth to a pale-skinned baby
face immediate, heartless eviction
by prejudiced and unforgiving landlords.
The denial of basic mobility
adds another crushing layer of hardship.
Public transport operators routinely
refuse to stop or pick them up.
Most tragic is the betrayal
within spaces of sacred sanctuary.
Shrines, mosques, temples, and churches
cast them out and shun them.
Deep-seated prejudice and ugly stereotyping
infiltrate institutions meant to heal.
Ignorant healthcare providers routinely violate
the fundamental rights, life, and dignity
of albinistic individuals seeking medical care.
Scientific knowledge is corrupted
by cultural superstitions and harmful myths.
Hostility manifests as verbal abuse,
cold reluctance, and denied medical treatment.
Driven by baseless myths, pregnant women
living with albinism face severe isolation.
People fear transmission through mere proximity,
forcing expectant mothers out into the margins.
Maternity homes bar them from integrating,
stripping them of essential prenatal care.
They endure these hostile conditions
during their most vulnerable moments.
Fear reaches a cruel peak
during the moments of childbirth.
Nurses and medical assistants routinely
refuse to touch or hold newborns.
This outright abandonment leaves exhausted,
vulnerable mothers completely isolated.
They must navigate the aftermath
of intense labour entirely alone.
This systematic exclusion from medical care
directly contributes to high cancer rates.
Skin cancer devastates people with albinism
across the continent of Africa.
Denied vital preventive care and education,
many are left completely defenseless.
They face the brutal, harsh sun
with no protection or support.
Hostile myths haunt these individuals
from birth until they die.
They bear a heavy burden
of constant, painful self-doubt.
Every single day is grueling,
a struggle to find acceptance.
Societies view their very existence
with deep and hostile animosity.
Compounded by high illiteracy rates,
a vast majority are left in the dark.
They wonder why they were born too light,
with no answers to ease their confusion.
Mothers are left equally uninformed,
giving birth at home or fleeing hostile clinics.
They are routinely discharged without counseling,
left to navigate a genetic condition completely alone.
Scientifically, albinism is not a curse,
but a purely genetic condition.
It is characterized by a lack of melanin,
the vital pigment for skin, hair, and eyes.
Both parents must carry the recessive gene
for a child to inherit the trait.
It is a universal biological phenomenon,
crossing every ethnicity, race, and animal species.
The complete absence or deficiency of melanin
leaves individuals exceptionally vulnerable.
Without the body's natural shield,
they face painful sunburns, blisters, and cancer.
Extreme sensitivity to solar glare
severely restricts their visual range.
They navigate a haze of blurred vision,
experiencing a state of partial blindness.
Discrimination spans across the globe,
manifesting in varying degrees of severity.
In Western nations, individuals blend in easily
due to physical similarities to the population.
The bias they encounter there
is primarily rooted in visual impairment.
They face fewer social taboos,
but face hurdles like strict driving requirements
Beyond these institutional hurdles,
albinistic individuals are largely
integrated into mainstream society.
Robust state-support systems exist
to accommodate their visual disabilities.
Armed with these valuable resources,
they are empowered to pursue career dreams.
Free from lethal superstitions,
they enjoy normal, fulfilling lifespans.
Conversely, across Africa,
anti-albinism runs incredibly deep.
The systematic stripping of human dignity
cripples every facet of life.
Countless children are denied education
based on a false, cruel premise.
Families view schooling as a waste,
reinforced by high dropout rates.
These individuals are as talented as anyone else,
far from lacking intelligence.
Their struggles stem from systemic barriers,
hostile environments, and a lack of optical aids.
Educational stakeholders remain dangerously ignorant
of the specific needs of albinistic pupils.
They routinely ignore the profound challenges
that these students face daily.
Involuntary eye movements blur standard text,
leaving them unable to read or write.
Teachers fail to seat them at the front,
placing a debilitating strain on their sight.
The school environment is further poisoned
by pervasive stigma and systematic isolation.
Torment comes from peers and classmates,
who refuse to sit beside them.
Teachers join in the cruel ridicule,
leaving learners profoundly alienated and inadequate.
This psychological toll shatters self-confidence,
sabotaging their academic performance completely.
Compounding daily miseries is a terrifying threat:
abduction from school grounds for ritual murder.
Driven out by fear and neglect,
the vast majority drop out during primary school.
This forced lack of education systematically
disqualifies them from professional employment.
They are left eligible only for low-wage,
arduous and grueling manual labour.
These menial jobs require working outdoors
under the scorching African sun.
They are left completely unprotected
against cancer-causing radiation, their silent killer.
Through this brutal discrimination,
they are stripped of vital economic tools.
Abandoned by society and restricted by biology,
they are locked out of the workforce.
Only a negligible fraction of the population,
living in urban centres, accesses health screenings.
Countless others are completely unable to afford
basic, life-saving protective necessities.
Sunscreen, sunglasses, and wide-brimmed hats
remain completely out of reach.
With no public education on prevention,
the consequences are utterly devastating.
An overwhelming majority of people with albinism
die prematurely across the continent of Africa.
They pass away before the age of forty
due to the ravages of skin cancer.
Where individuals once only had to endure
the blazing sun and societal bullying,
recently they have been forced to retreat
deep into the shadows of their homes
to escape far more terrifying atrocities:
an escalating wave of sexual violence,
abductions, horrific murders,
and the ritualistic mutilation
of their bodies harvested for greed.
Yet, even within this supposed sanctuary,
they are never truly safe;
trapped in the dark, lethal grip
of magical beliefs and regional superstition,
people with albinism pay a catastrophic price—
theirs remains a fragile, haunted existence,
a life lived permanently
on the razor-edge of danger.
Trending Now
Most Rated Poems
- Satan.
- The Insight University.
- Wisdom.
- Don't think.
- Done.
- The Weight Of Unspoken Gold
- The Architecture Of Light
- sample string 2
- sample string 2
- History of my living days
- A ROAD NOT TAKEN
- The price of satisfaction
- Story of my life.
- A lone sadist.
- Mosquito
- A president after Obasanjo.
- Beautiful you
- Abimbola Adunni Adelakun.
- Ota bi ore ... Enemies like friends
- Pulpit of blood.
- Lakunle of Abeokuta
- Fear of the familiar
- Prestidigitation
- THE STOOL IS NOT YOURS
- Before The Colonizers Came
- Judge yourself
- THINGS FALL APART
- Scars In The Scrolls
- The Highways Of Grief
- THE SPARK WITHIN
- Irojo Ilesha.
- Debo Awe.
- Contentment.
- Before The Rain
- My library.
- One of us.
- Governor Ademola Adeleke: A knight in shining armour.
- He who pays the piper.
- The Echo Of The Cradle
- The Masquerade on the Power Line
- Cult.
- MEETING WITH GOODLUCK JONATHAN
- It's Never Too Late to Learn
- Owa Clement Adesuyi Hasstrup Ajimoko III
- The Whispered Word
- When the Spirits Demand Justice.
- Prophet Adejola Joseph.
- TELL PSQUARE
- Fact.
- Underrated.
- The Bell Still Rings
- Ilaje/ Isale General.
- Lionel Messi of Argentina.
- ON SEVEN SEVEN
- If I quit.
- When I am no more.
- Modenine Mode9.
- My poem.
- Deola.
- Way back.
- When next I come.
- Greatness.
- Money.
- Saddest thing.
- Strangest thought.
- Uncommon Sanity, Common Vanity
- The Shackle and the Cross
- Subversion Of The Womb
- The Epic Of Sugar: A Global History
- The Desert Roads Of Bondage
- The Anatomy Of Gossip
- Veiled Allegiance
- Mocking the Free Gift of Grace
- Africa: The Greatest Heist In History
- The Albino And The Machete
- The Price Of Drugs
- Subverting The Subversion
- Nightmares Of Slumbering Africa
- Biafran Genocide: A Carnival Of Carnage
- Mandela — The Immoral Icon
- Sad dream
- The sound of Break
- The sound of Break
- THE SOUND OF BREAK
- My twin brother
- African Medicine
- The Mess (A Danfo Poem in Three Movements)
- The Table Spread of Empty Cups
- Eleja Abdulganiyu Sofiullahi Biography
- BRAVE ENDS (For Nigerian soldiers)
- Behind The Smile
- THE WHISTLE OF DEATH
- LOVE IS NOT FOR ME
- A WORLD FULL OF PAIN
- SWEET HS
- THE CRY OF THE INNOCENT
- HOME SWEET HOME
- GREEN FIELD
- MOTHERHOOD
- THE MATCHES BOX
- IN SEARCH OF FREEDOM
- YOU ARE
- MY OWN BELLA
- CHRISTMAS 2027
- Born For My Heart
- A Sightless
- Blood On The Throne
- Think.
- Life is a time
- Life is a time
- Life is a time
- Letting go of my beloved
- Cowtail Valentine
- La pluie
- Nigeria.
- Sex.
- Nigeria my motherland
- Hope To The Hopeless
- Passing passage.
- Not Over.
- Ilesha Osun State
- Slave trade.
- Suicide
- BEFORE THE END, I AM GONE.
- ALL IS THE GREEN
- TA LO DABII RE(ALLAH)
- Earth, I’m out. Earth-like, welcome me, dear Earth, I’m out. Earth-like, welcome me, dear.
- ORILOWO
- The newly wedded virgin of Araromi
- The newly wedded virgin of Araromi
- Songs
- WAITING FOR A VIRGIN GOAT.
- Twelve Yards to Comedy: When Destiny Slips on a Banana Peel.
- THE TEARS OF UDIM ORO
- NEVER GIVE UP
- WORLDLY, CHURCHY HILL
- IN A GLOBAL MEETING
- THE FUNERAL IN NIGERIA
- GRAVE OF THE DARK SKIN
- Peace.
- ON HEAVEN'S THOUGHT.
- Grateful.
- Bible.
- Word.
- A Lamentation for the Poor Man in the Days of High Prices
- Northern Nigeria: Home of Hospitality
- Northern Nigeria: Home of Hospitality
- The Homeless
- Ode to January
- My Country
- Blooming gale
- AS A LAMB IN YOUR SHRINE
- GENOCIDE PRESENTED TO THE WORLD
- GENOCIDAL DANCE
- THE TRUTH ABOUT THE WAR
- DUST ON THE GREEN BIBLE.
- MORAL DECADENCE IN OUR SOCIETY
- Believe.
- Afterthought.
- A teacher.
- Pastor Goke Oyewola.
- Nigeria, My Motherland
- The Alarm Clock
- Four minutes
- Nkk
- Holy Spirit.
- Thank you Jesus.
- APOLLO: THE RED SIEGE OF SIGHT
- Northern Heroes
- The Wisest King Solomon
- Nigerian Leaders
- Fear-mongering
- Social Zoom trend
- Hunger and Insecurity
- Pilgrim cry
- African Marital Vow
- African Marital Vow
- Never Go Far
- Naija Poetry.
- The hope for a better tomorrow
- The Rose that Grew from Concrete.
- The Book That Knows Me
- Africa, My Motherland
- Oga at the Top
- Democrazy
- Death Is Not the End
- The Day Grace Died
- Graveyard Silence
- Black Wrapper
- When Death Knocked My Door by Raji Ayomide King of rhymes
- THE GOD THAT DIDN’T LET ME BREAK
- Invisible.
- Exceeding the limit.
- THE STREET WHERE MY NAME LEARNED TO SURVIVE
- THE STREET WHERE MY NAME LEARNED TO SURVIVE
- THE STREET WHERE MY NAME LEARNED TO SURVIVE
- What they didn't teach us in school
- 💞 “When the Wind Spoke Your Name” — A Poem Inspired by Love
- I WROTE THIS POEM FOR THE GIRLS BY RAJI AYOMIDE OLAITAN KING OF RHYMES
- I AM THE POEM BY RAJI AYOMIDE OLAITAN KING OF RHYMES
- LOVE AFAR (for Elizabeth Aondohemba Ikohol)
- BENUE MASSACRE
- BEAUTY BEYOND MY FACE
- Academic monster.
- Fame.
- Hatred.
- Derivational opportunity.
- Retired
- The Devil's Wind
- From Primer to Premiere
- Thank God.
- Traitor.
- My 5 Cent.
- Anger.
- Joe, The Grammarian.
- Home Home
- No Place to Run (A Cry for Benue)
- Child Soldier's Lullaby
- The Politician's Visit
- A Letter to Abuja
- Exiles in Our Own Land: A Lament for Benue's IDPs
- THE WEIGHT BEHIND THE SMILE
- THE TWINS OF CALABAR
- Shadows over Benue.
- ASHES AFTER THE FIRE
- The Road Within
- The Foreign Tears Factory
- When love travels
- No Child Is Safe In El fasher
- When Lagos Devours Her Children
- Peace, be still, for I Am with you!
- 463
- The Devil in the Policies
- THE SYRINGE AND THE SCEPTRE
- The Dust Beneath the Crown
- Igbo Landing: Where Chains Broke and Spirit Soared
- MADE A NEW IN CHRIST
- A VITAL PIECE OF A PUZZLE.
- FOR MY QUEEN'S PENNY.
- A Shoulder to Lean ON
- Biblical Journey
- FIGHT AGAINST ILICIT DRUGS
- A DENT ON THE LIFE FABRICS
- SHATTERED MIRROR.
- TWO HEARTS.
- AN REAR TREASURE , YET WEIGHTY
- FAMILY AND SOCIAL MEDIA
- Modern politics
- Vanity’s Veil
- Trump and the Nobel Mirage
- Last night
- The African Zacchaeus
- Treasured Skins
- When God Sends a Teacher
- A Warped Narrative
- Thorns of the Day
- The Refinery Farm
- Let it be
- Us
- A poet
- If I fail
- Bed of stone
- Justice
- Selfish
- Truth
- IFA
- NEPA
- 𝑾𝑯𝒀 𝑨𝑮𝑶𝑵𝒀 𝑪𝑯𝑶𝑶𝑺𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑴𝑬
- Bad Governance
- The Betrayed African Tree
- Afriland Inferno — A Hymn of Resurrection
- My Four Cousins
- Enough of the bleeding!
- MY FOREVER LOVER
- MY FOREVER LOVER
- Unmask the Ghost!
- Quarrel, the Keeper of Love
- When She Came Back
- The voice of many, God's command
- A Song in a Strange Land
- Lapalapa, I hate thee!
- Hope's Light
- Shadow cries the baby
- The Beauty of Brokenness
- The Silence Scream
- Snoring of Darkness
- IF I WAS YOU, I'D NEVER SAY GOOD NIGHT.
- Game of life
- REMINISCENCE
- Honest Heart, Behind Artistic Eyes
- Echoes of Self-Rescue
- Suffocated Soul; Buried Alive
- MY DADDY'S BELOVED
- Occurrence, Presence But Moving Ahead
- King but no king
- Hope In The Dark
- My Country
- Clavis Lucis(Key of Light)
- Echoes of Silence
- Cloudburst
- Letter to mama
- Naked Rain
- International Monkey
- Black Dance
- Love Limerick 2
- Nirvanic silence
- THE VOICE
- A ROADSIDE LAMENT
- Like Rain On Dust
- A bleeding heart
- Love
- In your Grace,I Find Eternity
- Shame On You
- Shadow Of Prayers
- Lost
- THE LAST WORD
- Agony of Motherhood
- Her Pen,Their Freedom
- How I Relocate Shadow In Sky
- The loss of two precious souls
- BULLETS BEFORE BREAD
- Like Rain On Dust
- Every Time You Smile
- Venom
- Self reflection
- Man of Honour to Prof Wole Soyinka
- Once You Hit A certain Age
- Corona virus
- The Distress Of Wreck
- Wailing Is Not Enough
- Confused
- The Hardness Of Life
- Ingrate
- Night
- Write
- Adejola Joseph
- The Rights of Peace
- Upside down
- Desperate
- Dreamer
- Malia Obama the illustrious queen of America
- Love
- Mama
- Where to?
- Demilade Ayomiposi Malia Joseph
- Book and ministry
- Casket
- Free me
- Life goes on
- Never let go
- One night stand
- Some vibes
- Fate
- Cracks on the walls
- When there was a country
- Better than the best
- Mirror
- Envy
- Secret
- Bars of rage
- Blind
- Black poet
- The alchemist
- The mighty word
- I see the shadow in the dark
- Heartless feeling
- JOY IN THE JOURNEY
- Childhood's joy, life's strife
- Our Brain Child.
- “SUNRISE OF MY PEACE”
- We Were Born To Live In Peace
- Freed Wheeling Khartoum
- Sudan Has Torn Down
- Love Limerick
- NGWonders
- Mouthless
- Mzansi And The Ballot Box
- ANC AND THE STRUGGLE
- MY DEAR COUNTRY
- A NEW NIGERIA
- Surge of emotions
- GREY CAPSULE
- GREY CAPSULE
- LITTLE LOVE
- POETIC MASTERPIECE
- The Phoenix Strangler
- The Obsessive Agony Of Lust
- The Evil Face Of Religion
- The Abyss Of Drug Addiction
- Colossal Miscarriage Of Justice
- Children Of The Street
- Albinos On The Razor-edge Of Danger
- Holy Satan
- Unborn Me
- Arise
- Never quit
- Bedbugs
- Pant and Bra
- LiFe
- INEVITABILITY OF DEATH
- Unbroken Spirit
- Failure and Success
- We are shadows
- Youth struggle
- ENVY-THE HIDDEN FLAME
- Syntax & Struggles
- Difficult Generation
- Let Us Beseech the Throne
- We Are Here
- Tiktok
- Tiktok
- We Are Here
- Echoes of Truth
- THE CATTLE STICKS THAT BECAME GUNS
- FLAME INVOCATION
- Stray bullet?
- THE POWERFUL NIGHT[LAILATUL QODRI]
- THE MIGHTIER PEN
- The irony of love
- THE MATCH
- RISE AGAIN
- CHANGES
- The Three-third of Ramadan
- Not your timing
- The Unspoken Truth of Man
- A Delicate Dance of Bond
- HAIKU TO A FORGOTTEN LOVE
- Fighting the Shadow
- THE SUN WILL SHINE AGAIN
- Oscar Winning Tears
- Untitled poem
- Today
- Untitled poem
- Words speak
- Jesus saves
- Silence voices
- Untitled thoughts
- Addiction
- Zambia
- QUERULOUS SPARKS
- THE RENAISSANCE
- THE DAWN
- Life or coin
- Origin
- Forbidden poem
- Come Dance With Me
- Past, Present, and Future
- A New Hope
- Anaemia
- Pen and Paper
- AND I SHALL NOT BE AFRAID
- ALIYU MY FRIEND
- UNCERTAINTIES
- DARE NOT TO BE LIKE ME
- WHO WILL SAVE HUMANITY?
- THE TALKING DRUM
- WE ARE BEWITCHED
- THE ECHOES OF SOLITUDE
- Black is Gold
- Where to oh Nigeria
- À J a N I
- Bá'núsọ
- Àsìkò
- Let's Celebrate
- Crowned Lion
- ❤️HOPELESS LOVE ❤️
- THE WINTER
- Toxic lover
- Screaming in silence
- If love was book
- If love was a book
- Love hurts
- TIME FADE
- A Second too late
- On The Run
- NOTHING IS UNCHANGED ABOUT HER
- SWEETEST PRINCESS
- HELL OF LOVE
- I'M AFRAID TO LOVE AGAIN 💔
- Nasty me hypocrite
- CANCER
- Time and Chance
- Black
- An icon
- One Nigeria
- The Audacity of Hope
- New Yam
- Silence
- Mágùn
- Aloneness In a Crowd.
- Babym
- Love's Embrace
- Twilight Whispers
- SONG OF SONGS
- THE FIRE WITHIN
- IF IT WAS A POEM
- My Rainbow Queen
- Marry a poet
- Battle Of The Muse
- The Veto Power Pandemic
- I'm The Larra Maaradiin
- Forgive
- Breaking Self-Imposed Barriers
- All I Know Is Jesus
- Fear of Failing
- Reminiscing From a Heart Break
- O WISE MAN
- THEY ARE CALLING MY NAME
- Lost in the Abyss
- Love is strange
- Coffee
- NMA
- THE GREAT WARRIOR
- THE ESCAPE PLAN
- THE PRETTY IMAGE
- A BUNDLE
- BREEZE DANCE
- Release me
- Legitimate
- Young but Gone
- CACTUS
- Maria
- Love’s Eternal Beacon
- Untitled
- Picture not perfect
- Fictional
- LOVE POEM
- IF LOVE WAS A BOOK
- untitled thoughts
- AFRICA
- HUNGER
- WHISPERS OF DOUBT
- A Night's Serenade, Lit"
- CRUSH ON SOULFUL BEAUTY
- A visit
- LETTER TO MY LOVE
- REALITY OF LIFE
- PIECE OF ADVICE
- God’s Love
- Life.com: Lifecology
- Niggers’ Paradise
- THE LIFE I CHOOSE
- Lalata de Maga
- Merchant of Destiny
- Laara Maaradiin
- Painful bye
- Body shaming
- Mama
- A MAN CALLED GOD
- From Pound to Potter: A Tale of Creation
- Nestled Dreams
- Resonance of Redemption
- The Anointed Parrot
- A Maffy Wiffey Like The Maffling Mafflet
- Let it stay
- O Holy Night
- Greatest gbo gbo
- We died with them
- o I wish everything is perfect
- King David
- MY MAMA
- THE POWER OF FEMINITY
- Ghetto Evangelist
- The Seven Warriors
- Lovephire and Lifephire
- Rhythms of the Falls
- The great doom
- DODO SHARAM
- NWABALI AND TEAM
- LOVING THE SINGLE LADY
- Harmony of Life's Calabash
- The Melody Lane
- The speaking Rock
- Dream
- THE GOVERNMENT OF THIS GREAT NATION
- Purpose 🧩🪡
- Persevere 🧠
- Ashes
- A message for the messanger
- LOVE'S DILEMMA.
- KOINONIA
- C.L.U.E. Person |Cold ❄ Logical 🤔 Unemotional 😐 Evasive 🌨️|
- THANKYOU
- ONETIME IN AMILLION
- THE LAND OF EQUITY AND JUSTICE
- Autumn
- Name
- Where does it really get lonely?
- SAIL
- GO!
- SWEETLOVER COULD YOU BE MY SWEET LOVER
- IF YOU HAVE MONEY
- NIGERIA OF OUR DREAM
- INVITATION AND HYPOCRISY
- RAPTURE
- Sunday to the Saints
- Proud to Pray
- SERVANT OF THE LAND
- MY MOTHER'S A WARRIOR
- REMINISCE
- Salam Alaikum
- Rogation
- Love me now
- IT TAKES A WISE TO UNDERSTAND
- The World We Met
- YOUR MINDS DON’T MIND
- TINY DEMONS
- THE RAINFALL
- 1st Corinthians 4:15
- SAND
- CROSS
- DREAMY
- The I am That Is Not I am
- STREET!
- ONE DAY
- VERTIGO
- MOONCHILD
- ADAM IN EVE(The Requiem)
- ADAM IN EVE(The Requiem)
- ADAM IN EVE(The Musical)
- MORNING BIRD
- DIVERGENCE
- PSP
- HIDE AND SKIN
- THE KING’S WAGER
- EVENING DIRGE
- AT HOME WITH NATIVES
- ASOKORO THIS NIGHT
- POUNDO
- WALLS
- DEATHROPHONE
- DARKNESS
- CONQUEST
- Rejection
- I AM BLACK
- Where is our limit?
- The tears of a woman
- MONDAY TAHNAN
- MY RELIGION
- If and only if
- Distant love
- PAIN
- ONE NIGERIA,MY COUNTRY
- A COUNTRY CALL NIGERIA
- OH PRAY FOR US!
- The Great Depression
- Awesome Core 🏔️
- I see you 👀 | I C U |Intensive Care Unit
- Dancing With The Dancing Dance
- The Anointed Parrot
- The Anointed Parrot
- MAN
- Who I Love
- The Diamond Thought
- Fatal Seduction
- They tell us 'Don't, They don't tell us "Why"
- Decisions
- Moon light
- SHE SERVED ME A BREAKFAST
- 💘||••My Mom••||💘
- Title: Love's Embrace
- Title:- FREEDOM
- Nothing is little 💫
- My Pen Crime
- My Opinion about the World I live in.
- Heart Cry ?? ??
- A new beginning
- The Broken Age - (Deep Reminisce )
- Purest of heart 🤱 ♥ | Worth 30 million Euros 💶
- CROWN
- If Being An African Worth It
- Balance is the key ♎⚖️ 🗝️
- Time of life 🌪️
- I watched
- Save yourself 🌬️
- Fastest & Strongest 🐥🍼
- THE MAGNIFICENT CONQUEST
- SonRise 🌞
- Eternal Connections: Love's Enduring Glow
- Endless Affection: Souls United in Love
- Familial Bond: Unbreakable Threads of Love
- Sustaining Progress: Love's Guiding Light
- NURTURING LOVE THROUGH LIFE'S CHALLENGES
- LUCIFER'S FALL by Richie Kharis
- Growing Consciousness 🥀
- Forward is Forward 🐞
- Lust Sheep 🐑 | Lordship | How to find ur way back
- The Comfort Zone
- Push Through the Pain 😭
- Infinite Heart Song
- Eternal Embrace 🕯️
- Whispers of Yesterday
- Chronicles of Eternity ✴️
- AFTER THE SHOOTINGS
- Guard Against The Man
- A Young Poet by de bar
- Sadness
- WE MOVE
- UKRAINE AGAIN! 🙏
- FAIRY ROMANCE by Richie Kharis
- Harmony
- and so what!
- Lucifer
- Monday by de bar
- Running to meet Jesus (My Lover)
- Nightmare
- AESTHETIC OF NEW YEAR
- MY LIFE
- THE WAY I EMBARKED ON
- Heart Message
- Agony
- Schmooze Lifecycle
- Schmooze Lifecycle
- You Broke my Heart
- The Prey
- Lonely
- The Hypocrisy of Life and Death
- Nigeria's Flawed 2023 Polls
- JOHNNY WHITE by Richie Kharis
- THE REALITY OF SURVIVAL by Richie Kharis
- The First Kiss by de bar
- The Ant
- My Little Seed
- God, my Father
- MY UTMOST DESIRE
- The Pains of War
- Time Sojourner
- INVICTUS.
- OPEN LETTER
- JOY
- Veronica
- To Kill a Roach
- Whispers of the Wind
- Not Alive But not Dead
- Wall Paper
- Stillbirth
- Ẹẹ́rìndílógún: An ode to the 16th President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria
- Suffering and Smiling
- Lost Rhythms
- Celestial Symphony
- Eledumare, the Great Creator
- Broken
- Motherhood
- STRING BY STRING
- Walking through chaos
- Holding Unto Your Dreams
- Limerick
- Listen to the Quiteness
- Man And His Dream
- HOMEless
- Scars
- WHERE'S YOUR ORIGIN
- O DEAR LONELY PARK
- Nothing is Free
- STEP BY STEP
- Running to meet my Lover
- My Determination
- My Hero
- The Celebrated Murderer
- The Flames of War
- You are not me, I am not you
- HEY YOU!
- The Lands Of The Niger
- Meticulous Mind
- Meticulous Mind
- ALMOST HOMELESS - AN ADDENDUM
- Flaw
- War
- The Horse behind
- The Spec in the Eyes of those who see
- Funky Junk
- Nah Single I single
- MY BELOVED COUNTRY
- MY BELOVED COUNTRY
- THE WORLD WE LIVE IN
- Every Shade Of Blue
- The Texture Of Wood.
- Writers
- Beyond Eyes
- Lone
- Poetry
- Who is wrong?
- Backhand, Sixth Sense and This Dilemma
- When Will Morning Come?
- Reflection
- Ode to a Step Son
- Fear
- The fake smile
- CHESS ♟️
- TEMPTATION
- If I disappeared, would anyone care?
- Nigeria
- Death......oh death!
- ELECTION DAY
- In Justice
- Goodbye
- Magún (Thunderbolt)
- Welcome to Nigeria
- Jogodo
- A sight of scenic beauty
- A Black Sailor's Song
- What love can do
- Life : My journey
- The Preacher
- NEMBE
- Before the Reaper Come
- A Depressed soul
- Election Resolution
- UNDER THE COVER OF DARKNESS
- Naira Redesigned, Chaos to Nigerians
- LIFE EXPERIENCES
- DIRTY PEACOCK
- ASHES
- Sexual immorality
- BROKEN
- Consciousness
- New Day
- Money
- The Blank Book
- Bold step
- Let go
- Sonnet
- My never falling love!!
- Reflection
- My life is in the pen
- A love for all time
- You are the one!!
- Oh samira
- My country!!
- OT Guy
- Envy vs Jealousy
- Tell Yourself the Truth
- Take your lamp O' mother
- Ajókê
- Neither me nor you
- My Journey::;::::::Ara'a tun ra ri
- Every-where soundEvery-where
- No woman no cry!!
- My prayer
- Why do the bells of Christmas ring?
- Iféøluwa
- Share it
- My mother
- I did not die again
- I have tried my best
- Traditional love!!!
- Mr Jack
- Tears
- Dream to lagos
- Happy birthday
- TURUGUREM
- For Mount Osin
- Our Duty Not A Game
- Ode to Life and Love on the Highlands of Ekiti
- We are praying
- Truely I tell you this!!
- Happy birthday
- I met a new friend
- My lady
- A place A land
- Take me to where poet are!!
- Lie's
- Night
- Blind girl!!
- Walk to limelight!!
- Àbíku Omó
- Past!!
- I will dance with you
- Give thanks
- Why are you sad!!
- Treasure!!
- I love you so much!!
- I love you
- Nature
- He go soon see shege
- will you ever know me
- sad!!
- THEPEN OF A POET
- Death
- Back on my feet
- Chicken
- Buried alive
- Samantha
- Am a hustler
- If I could chose to come again
- Tell me if it was a crime
- Zaynab
- Pain
- Who will hold me tight
- Mother word's
- Traveler
- Day Dream
- Rich Dad
- My true love
- Letter to FIFA
- who or what should we love must
- Take your lamb O" mother
- My brother to war
- AWELEWA!
- Tomorrow is her birthday
- Am from here!
- Why did you choose me!!
- She is not my wife
- If I have a wings
- T challa is gone
- I shall tell you about ghetto
- She is my sister's
- Have seen Angel work on earth
- MY Greatest Regret in Life
- Letter to US Dollar
- Blessed
- We
- MAKER
- TOUGH TIME
- I Am Done
- An Orphan With Parents!!!
- Legendary Legends by debar
- Let Me Feel Among by de bar
- Love Only Can Heal Love by de bar
- Mr Royalty by de bar
- Pretence by de bar
- Reputation by de bar
- Talents by de bar
- That Country by debar
- That Emotional Eye by de bar
- The Shy Type by de bar
- The Struggles are being Neglected by de bar
- The unusual that has gradually become usual by de bar
- Them by de bar
- Tears Amidst Cheers
- The Author's Pen
- OWO MASSACRE
- Jungle justice
- Unrighteous Saints
- Jailer
- To Every True Nigerian
- Waiting on Love - Aduke
- The Freedom Gate
- My Conversation With A Famous Poet
- My First Drink
- THE GURU
- My Mother
- I DID IT MY WAY
- My Child
- My Lost Rib
- LAMARIN
- A Ride For My Dead
- We Are Born Free
- YOU SHALL SOON LEAVE US BUBU
- THE NIGHT SUN
- Drums and Crowd
- I don't think too much about love
- OLOKUN
- MY FRIENDS ON THE OTHER SIDE
- The Fulanis At Kubwa Train Station
- Letter To A Young Man
- Goddess Of Beauty
- My Faith Never Dye
- October one
- The life...the best.
- Backward Never I Dream
- THE GREATEST FATHER EVER by Richie Kharis
- Row row your boat
- My Cat Couldn't Catch a Rat
- GOLGOTHA
- An ode to death
- TOWN CRIER
- LOVE UNRETARDING
- In The Dark World
- ONCE A LOVER, NOW A DEVIL by Richie Kharis
- Quest for Yarinyan
- THE STORY BEHIND DIFFERENT RACES by Richie Kharis
- Edge of My Existence
- TEN LINES OF WITTINESS
- THE LONELY CROWD
- Damned Generation
- Love Making
- Women
- Romance
- A Greater Nigeria
- The Inquisitor
- What's Life?
- The Lane
- MY COUNTRY
- My Perfect Me Each Day
- Even When Greys Fall
- A She I Know
- WHY DO I FEEL THIS WAY?
- Emergence
- AKUKO GAGARA
- COMING HOME
- Shining Stars
- TRAPPED
- PAINFUL SMILES
- Pains are Beautiful!
- NIGERIA WILL RISE AGAIN
- OJÚLÓPÉSÍ
- WHEN THE SHADOWS STARE
- FRUITS IN THE VOID
- MOTH
- MIRROR (A CONVERSATION BETWEEN ADEDOYIN AND OMOLARA
- THOUGHT PROCESS
- MAYBE I’M IMAGINING THINGS
- UNTITLED
- CREATURE
- 7:30 AM
- STAINED
- CONFLICTED SOUL
- September 9th
- MOTIVE
- BLAME
- PEBBLE
- BLAME
- BURNING
- SILENCE
- DEATH LURKS
- Umasonim ~ Followed by Goodness.
- The Extraordinary of the ordinary
- THERE WAS A COUNTRY
- CHANCE
- The Nigerian Politician
- Do Not Stand By My Grave And Weep...To Làbàkè
- Give us this day our daily garri
- Political Promises(Believe)
- Differences
- The Lion Heart.
- The history of us
- Dying will to wield a change
- THE WISDOM YOU NEED
- Kpangeyi
- My Love
- MASSACRE INSIDE THE SANCTUARY
- NURSE
- Battle with impurity
- Waist Bead Lover
- Stranger-democracy
- A LOT IN MY TIME
- LET US SAVE NIGERIA
- MY GRAND FATHER
- IMAGINE THAT
- THE SONG OF LONELINESS
- THE NIGHT RAIN
- WHEN TWO WORLDS COLLIDE
- YOUR HUSBANDS
- THE NIGHT RAIN
- THE FUTURE UNKNOWN
- OUR KING'S DAUGHTER
- WHEN YOU SEE OLUCHI
- COULD YOU BELIEVE?
- IT IS TIME
- BOREDOM
- THE TALE OF YARI AND THE SPIRITS (I)
- MURDER IN THE CATHEDRAL (To Owo victims)
- OUR WORLD, OUR PAIN, OUR REMEDY
- Your vote counts
- FUNNY THING ABOUT LIFE
- The trials of jethro
- TOMORROW CAN ONLY WISH US WELL
- GOOD THINGS TAKE TIME
- Opportunity
- I wish
- MY JOURNEY AS A CHILD
- Wole Soyinka
- My society
- Silence Becomes Violence
- THE CORE OF CORRUPTION _ Richie Kharis
- A Letter to my crush
- Leah Sharibu the unsung heroine
- Akunna the Osu goddess
- The Cry of a wounded Nigerian
- Weep not Nigeria
- Nigeria the sleeping giant
- Nigeria My Motherland
- Nigeria
- A GOOD LEADER
- CONSCIENCE_Richie Kharis
- THE PAST
- Làbáké
- It's over mate
- Friends
- UNTITLED.
- THE ART OF LIFE
- My Roof, My Rules
- Mirror mirror [lll]
- Mirror mirror [ll]
- WARS OF TOMORROW
- MIRROR MIRROR
- Education
- The Girl I Called My Boo
- Ephobia
- Prisoner of Depression.
- The pain of the world
- Broken reality
- Silence
- If silence could speak
- Silence
- Sunset at predawn
- Marriage drama and its many genres - a duet
- Fpg contest
- One Loop
- Agape Love
- LIKE PETROL, UNLIKE PETROL
- Our old men
- Lullaby to Princess
- Collaborate to Succeed
- Electioneering
- I can't
- BOY SCOUTS
- Sweet Repose II
- Sweet Repose I
- The State of A nation.
- EFFORTS ON REELS
- GIORGIO BABONI
- I Am The Victim Of Myself
- Sabeta
- MY MOTHER THE IYELOGBE OF EDO
- .
- Olaiva
- Sometime in April (My Fallen Heroes)
- Lamps of Education
- Upward Bound
- 100 percent about me
- Memories of Mama
- A Prayer
- My Valentine's Anthem
- Love Me when you can...
- Nigerian Politician
- Satan's Chronicle
- All I Have Left
- Barrenness to Adoration
- Sinful Imagination II
- LONG RIVER
- My Story of Southern Kaduna
- My Story of Northern Nigeria
- Afterlife in Anguished
- Marital Gift Snatched
- My Love Story
- Sacrilege
- Sinful Imagination
- MONEY
- The Fall of Man
- THE CLARION CALL I OBEY
- We are Journalists
- Not For You
- Deserted
- My Endocardium
- Deaths Harrasing Thoughts
- The idiosyncratic
- What If?
- I Am A Poet
- A crying child
- Anxious Outcast
- Kiss me goodnight
- To The Woman I Fell In Love With
- A Wish
- Fatherhood
- HARMATTAN
- Nothing last forever
- M.O.A.T - MY OGA AT THE TOP
- EVEN IN FREEDOM
- ON THE BANKS
- GOLDEN RUBBISH
- Black Girl
- OUR BROTHER HAS GONE MAD AGAIN (To those enduring the madness in town)
- My Country
- The lazy bird
- Where I want to live
- Silence
- I'm scared of you
- GRACE
- *****
- Thoughts of you
- World of words
- Another bed of lies
- Hidden Things
- THE YOUNG BOY @61
- A Regretful Mistake
- We Are The Snails
- NATION BUILDING
- ,
- STAKE
- Cam...
- I choose You
- I Hate To Tell You
- LETTER TO MY SPOUSE
- DREAMS
- BUT YOU SAID, YOU LOVE ME
- Where does True happiness lie?
- IN OUR LITTLE SMALL VILLAGE
- The hidden force
- It is called acting
- How to love a feminist
- Die empty
- Unconforming
- Imagine
- EL ELYON(THE UNFATHOMABLE MYSTERY)
- Tell Us
- Those
- Gradually
- Làbáké
- A WOMAN
- BIRD'S EYE VIEW
- NIGERIANS OF MY TIME
- Thanksgiving
- Paradox of existence
- CHASING THE WIND
- Life Tracks
- Mulatto's Scar
- Never' Never Land
- Longings
- HUMANS
- THE KISS OF THE DEVIL
- Rainy thoughts.
- Dear Mama
- FAREWELL MESSAGE OF JULY
- AN ENEMY WITHIN
- COLD HANDS
- Afresh
- Twist
- Trust
- My Black Skin
- BREVITY OF LIFE
- A Nation in doldrums.
- Limit Line
- NO PLACE LIKE HOME
- LiNES WRITTEN DURING MY JOURNEY HOMEWARD.
- THE JOURNEY
- THAT THING
- Disorder
- Dear Music
- NO GOING BACK
- With Me
- Uncharted
- Pass me not
- *Why God Chose Me?*
- *Meant to Be*
- *WHO ARE YOU* ?
- *Seek*
- *A MAN AFTER MY HEART*
- *The Power of Youth*
- Regrets, Insecurities and Fears II
- THE PROBLEM MAN
- Miss Fortune's Misfortune
- The Real Lunatics
- Undying
- DON'T STAND AT MY GRAVE AND WEEP
- MOTHERS EARTH
- THE BROKEN APPOINTMENT
- HALF A YELLOW SUN
- POETIC JUSTICE
- LETTER TO AN UNKNOWN LADY
- LET ME BE
- SMILE
- WHAT GOOD IS A DAY?
- BE SENSY NOT JUST SEXY!
- SUCCESS GOT NO AGE TAG
- CUT SOAP FOR ME
- Book Of Hope
- Blissful Eyes Of Clay in The Multitude.
- Mortal
- Adventure
- SAVE A SOUL
- THE CRY
- Modern Marriage.
- THE SONG OF NAMCHI
- HAPPY FATHER'S DAY
- Abused
- BlESSING
- The Ancient Dance
- BROKEN
- Drift
- GARMENT OF PRIDE
- UNCENSORED
- IN SEARCH OF BEAUTY
- THE TESTATOR
- CHALICE
- WORD
- The fresh beginning
- A LETTER TO A NIGERIAN FRIEND
- CHALICE
- UBUNTU
- HOUSE
- Prayer of a dying girl
- For what?
- THIS IS WAR,LOVE IS LOST
- LETTER TO MY HUSBAND
- I Know
- The Day I'll Be Breathless
- The Journey Through The Tunnel
- I Believe
- Nitty-gritty
- HOW LONG?
- WE DANCED THE CULTURAL DANCE
- HAPPY NEW MONTH
- LIVE NOT LIFE
- MY CHILDHOOD DAYS
- SEASON OF IRONY
- Black and Beautiful
- Money and Sapa
- Shades of Penury
- PROUDLY AFRICAN
- WHERE IS THE LAND I COME FROM
- ISN'T THIS ROSEMARY?
- "Robbery"
- No Man Is An Island
- DARKNESS
- Silence
- TRY AGAIN
- ODE TO A TROUBADOUR
- WARSHIP
- TENANTS OF THE HOUSE
- HERMIT
- Hilltop Rose
- Glitch
- WE LOVE SOCCER
- TALES OF A NATION
- My Personal Dairy
- *Bleeding Nation*
- Time
- Anticipated Coming
- The greatest gift (mother's day poem)
- Become The Man You Plan To Be
- Your Voice
- Where do we go wrong
- When I'm no More
- TALENT
- THE LIFE I WANT
- A day shall come
- Morning
- The view from Ugele hill
- More about love
- Reminisces on the eve of my departure
- PLUG
- To my wife if I leave
- I am not dirty
- Aloof from your "crazy"
- Brigandage
- Dying declarations
- A flag at bay
- Getting hurt
- Ode to my TUTOR
- My Muse
- Do Not Go Nigeria
- A trip to insanity
- The warrior i became.
- DEMIDEVIL Night 7th
- Caged
- Felicity
- When I Am No More
- One Time Lovers
- Gift me a lotus tree
- A Poor Boy's Love
- Why must love hurt so?
- THE CURSED CROSS
- The danger I love
- Dreamer's dream
- Anchor
- This and that
- Sapa
- SILENT
- /maɪ mjuːz/
- HER
- Only Human
- Easy
- FRENEMIES
- BELOVED STRANGERS
- BEFORE I DIE
- OUR PUNCTURED PRIDE
- Just Give Us Hope
- The calling
- What legacy shall I leave behind
- Unfinished
- This and that
- Beauty from ashes
- OGÚN
- I'll go and talk to the President
- Messiah's coming
- LOVE THE GREATEST EVANGELISM
- As He Is !
- SAY THE WORD
- The Mystery of God's Love (ADITU)
- Never change the way you are
- Family
- Knowing God's Will
- A Minute
- It's Really Up To You
- MEET UP
- SERENITY’S SOLO
- Stay With Me Nigeria
- Stereotypic Nepotistic Politricks
- KOLA
- Frenemies
- MYSTERY
- A Proud Heritage
- Happiness is a moment's job
- MY WHOLE LIFE
- Executhieves, Sinators and Authorithieves
- I AM HAPPY TO BE ME
- Lone Wolf
- I L Y
- Do-Re-Me-Fo-Sa-La-Ti-Do
- The Voice Of God
- Forbidden Love
- The Mystery of God's Love ADITU)
- the day walks into the sunset
- Cry....And Let Me See
- Alone
- I Am Me
- meet me where the traffic jams
- Can You Sing?
- and then i left the room
- Abnormal man
- Backup Plan
- My Heart Still Hurt
- Never Leave
- A Lost Smile
- THE END OF THE TIDE THAT CAME
- A New Leaf
- As A Country Soweth. . .
- Covid 19
- My lovely mother
- BERCEUSE
- "On a Good day"
- Udi and the Animals
- LISTEN YOU UNRULY SON OF THIS LAND.
- Quotable quotes
- Imu mechien
- DNA TEST (The African way) For Tunde Thomas
- The Crowned King
- Scared To Love
- Ballad from the grave
- Fortitude
- THE ROAD TO THE NORTH, LEADS HOME.
- Religion
- Bad Government
- Take Your Bread With Love
- The Sunset.
- Kankara
- One angle from the basket
- The Human Rose
- Regrets, Insecurities and Fears
- Watch Her
- In every shade - the book
- ITEKUN
- The Failed Creation
- New Axis From Excavation
- Uncaging
- The first journey
- Vain Learnings
- Irony of Life
- Take Your Bread With Love
- Prayer
- Teacher
- Risk
- Living Water
- IGBOBONELIMI
- Child Heart
- Myself
- Who are you?
- Only You
- When We Hurt Someone We Love
- Time
- Walking alone..but not
- Trapped
- Dust....an understanding
- LOOSE ME
- I Know Of a Place
- IDAHOMI
- THE MINER FOR THE GOLD
- The Warld
- Sometimes
- Falling star
- I’m Sorry My Friends
- Sowing Creed
- TRACK LEFT UNMARKED (A RUINED GENERATION)
- THE WANDERER
- REVOLUTION
- Failed Fellowship
- Our Darling Lover
- THE MERGE
- XMAS AT BOUNDARY
- WE CAUSE TALL TREES TO SPRANG
- A Beautiful Suicide
- Stupid era
- Drop of tears
- LOVE ON THE WEB
- EVENING SUN
- LOVE EN TOTAL
- Unhappy Me
- ODE TO MAMBILA PLATEAU
- GOD'S HAND
- Let Me
- Bukky-Go-Round
- Stay at Home
- I
- ODE TO ANAMBRA WAXBILL BIRD
- NOT AFRAID (for Lekki massacres)
- Dirty Glasses
- The Call Of Nigeria
- A NEW NIGERIA IS BORN
- October 20, 2020
- THE GOWN OF TROUBLE
- NO MORE SARS NO MORE SWAT NO MORE POLICE BRUTALITY
- Pastoral
- Curiosity
- Top of the Ladder
- ENDING SARS
- BEFORE THE HARD CLAPPING (For those that died of coronavirus)
- Night Night
- MIRAGE ( A sonnet )
- GIRLS HIGH IN DESIRES
- This Time
- Virus
- Independent
- Covid 19
- ELERGY TO JOHN PEPPER CLARK
- MY GIRL IS UPSTREET GIRL
- HEARTS BREAK SLOWLY
- CEASELESS FLOW
- LOVE ME LIKE A RIVER
- HAIL HER
- A TRUE STORY IN THE NORTH
- RAIN HOW SWEET THE SOUND
- THE LAND WITHOUTH EASE
- WHERE IS THE OLD ME?
- A CHILD'S HEART
- OH GARRI, MY GARRI
- I CAN'T MARRY A POETESS
- DESERTED
- LIKE A PREY
- AN UNFORGETTABLE DAY IN THE NORTH
- SOMEWHERE IN THE NORTH
- THE VOID
- REUBEN UGOCHUKWU
- OUR JOY RESTORED
- NIGHTMARE
- THAT SEASONED NIGERIA
- A Squirrel Hunter
- National Youth Service Corps
- FEAR
- GOING HOME
- HOW LONG
- THIS HOUSE IS BREAKING
- NOT BY CHANCE
- IFEOMA
- MARRIAGE OF THE SOUTH
- I DIED YESTERDAY
- SIP FROM THE SEA
- I'm Black
- TRACK LEFT UNMARKED (A RUINED GENERATION)
- It's Raining
- JUST FOR A WHILE
- YOU ARE AMAZING
- CATCH THE LOVE YOUNG
- STREETS OF KAULA
- HAPPINESS
- Wind
- BEAUTIFUL WITCH
- The Architect
- The Earth and the Starry Heavens
- Take me to the altar
- Message to Myself
- I'm that black child
- And we danced not again
- Our Plea
- Doma’s Call
- Pandora
- Sour Libido
- The Lad's Cries
- BLACK'S WITHOUT WHITE'S
- Take a shot now
- The State Of African Leaders
- Knowledge Sleeping in our Department
- Her Voice On The Phone
- ONCE UPON A BEAUTY
- Another great mind lost
- Buried me not with the great
- If I Die Tonight
- Nigeria 🇳🇬
- My Rose 🌹 Lover
- On Love
- Sons of the slave masters
- Great Men Of Valour
- Launched in the deep
- Freedom In View
- Old Mrs Idunnu
- The old us
- Letter To The HEART
- Bullies
- Captive
- SENTIMENTS (A HEART OF BOLD)
- RANDOM FORCE OF EMOTIONS (LOST SOUL)
- Write Me A Poem
- I Have Found You Here
- Her Request
- MY DYING MOTHER
- WAITING FOR THE RAIN
- You don't have to be me to be you
- Fleeting Anguish
- FAKE LOVER
- Morning Glory
- BRUISES
- The Hope of Someday
- The raining days
- SMILE NOW
- A LITTLE PLANT
- Life is like melody
- Who is behind whispering?
- Covid-19's delicacy
- A Life For A Life
- Mama Africa
- Eagle eyes
- I'll write about i
- My mother
- Life in medical school
- What is home?
- My ex
- Ponder
- Lessons from the coronavirus pandemic
- Fragrance
- ASTOUND VISITOR
- Rise Again
- ALKEBULAN
- MEMORIES OF ME
- COVID19
- RONA
- Unspoken words
- Mr president
- Fallen
- BEAUTY OF LOVE
- Your wish
- My first kiss
- Why should I hire you?
- Goodfellas
- The Sonnet
- The Light Over Andoni
- Change
- Port Harcourt
- It Is Futile To Sneer At Alaké
- I Won't Forget You Even If You Limp
- Glory
- 1914
- To The End Of The World
- August Child
- A Million Charms
- Her Silence
- Excuses
- Grachi
- Keep Your Love Close And Your Sword Closer
- Dark
- Only The Brave
- All My Loving
- Heroine
- Paradise on Earth
- I Will Be Silent
- RAVISHING RABI
- AFRICA
- TRYING TIME
- 18 plus one...
- The world has gone to war
- Mirage
- APO TO AREA 1
- PANDEMIC
- VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN
- The Road
- Depression- A struggle
- Farewell in Harmattan
- The fear of tomorrow
- Stories Untold
- AWAITING HER CUM
- ...Here
- Bread for the wise
- Feel
- The Breeze
- Partial Exit
- Roses in a Vase
- Home
- DARKNESS
- There
- A LETTER TO MY LOVER FROM THE DARK
- THE REALITY OF MY SMILE
- MY WATERMELON
- Even When No One Does
- DEEPEST TOUCH
- THE JOURNEY
- JUSTICE
- ADDICTION
- Depression
- Virtue
- Drenched in esctacy
- The Coin
- IGARA CHICKEN
- OUR HUNCHBACK
- CORRUPTION
- The Stranger I Love
- The Man in my Youth
- My First Beautiful Beast
- Love, what have you done?
- IT IS A LOAN
- The Future
- POLYGAMY
- SAVE THE NATION
- Above the law.
- At our age (1st October)
- Because I Love
- PROSPERITY POWER
- MAINTAINING SUCCESS
- Belief
- m͠o͠t͠h͠e͠r͠s͠
- FAKE LOVE
- UNDER MY COVER
- LET'S UNITE DESPITE OUR DIFFERENCE
- Why you let me down?
- The Girl I'll Marry
- Lists of littlest things
- The Sound of Alert
- ....Serenade
- BIRD IN A CAGE
- HAND OF D
- DEATH
- My world
- STRIVING TO SUCCEED
- Moooooooo.........
- Your Best
- Nature's beat
- What if
- Anger trapped in a jar
- Recognition
- Blade of Secrets
- Akalamagbo
- DONATELLA
- Horrible Sight
- An End of You
- Limerick
- Hate Me Not
- SOLOMON GRUNDY
- Child Seize the Air
- Dignity
- Tragic Comedy
- Faceless
- The Renegade
- Which Way?
- Little world
- Renegade Of June 12
- Ogbanje
- Ode To A Beauty
- A Bicycle Learner
- Across The Niger
- Noises Of The River
- Things that I miss (Poem in four parts)
- Jagaban Borgu
- The Interment
- Lullaby
- The Bargain For Life
- The Locked Country
- LOVE U LIKE THIS
- Never AGAIN
- YOUTHiLITY
- Scars
- Distress
- A Funny Girl
- Ibara in the sun
- Poetry..
- The Black Woman
- Ogori
- Time
- Humble The Poet
- The Path
- Pleasant Sight
- The Wretched Of The Earth
- ROSARY
- REQUIEM MAY 29
- THRENODY
- WHAT IF I SAID I LOVE YOU
- REVENGE TIME
- Far beauty
- Letter To My Son
- A MAN SHOULD BE ALONE
- Drop The Picture, Pick the Nature
- Rain
- Eve of my daughter's wedding
- THE BOOK YOU GAVE ME
- DEAR
- Sonnet XXX: what am I
- Characters from the Grave
- Rainbow: An African Girl
- PRESS ON
- Nostalgia
- Silence
- AFRICA
- The Story In My Head (II)
- Remember Us This Way
- JUSTICE HAS BEEN BUTCHERED
- Why Should I?
- OSELUS (THE POLITICIANS)
- DILEMMA OF HOPE
- THE SOLDIERS HOPE
- THE PROCESSION
- THE MINISTER
- BLAME IT ON THE MONEY
- OUR SARS
- THEY SAY OUR SKIN IS DARK
- THE CONVERSATION
- UNLOCK MON CŒUR.
- DO YOU?
- I, Too
- Ours to Fare, not to Fear
- Imagine
- Butterfly
- RABBIT STEW
- *Fun era* *(Funeral)*
- An hole for you
- O Sambisa
- Never Far Away!
- Ire
- We've been waiting
- My Scars
- Song for things
- The Nigerian Sonnet
- Life & me
- ….. Not like this
- ...By myself
- UNIT TESTS
- Sa Ni Da Pa
- LONELINESS
- SORRY
- MONEY - SAHAJ SABHARWAL
- NOTHING MUCH FOR MINORS
- Relaxation
- EDUCATION
- MOTHER
- RESPECT
- Independent
- Split Horizon
- Not for you...
- SLAVES
- HEALING OF THE SOUL
- The Female of our species
- Democracy in Nigeria
- Die to yourself
- To love the wrong
- Dear Madame
- Makanre!
- At the steps
- To all those who were weird in class
- Ode To Fledging Stars
- Gracious Words
- Bodies
- Girls
- A woman shouldn't stare
- He is Risen
- Tales by Moonlight
- Caribbean Mind
- Time
- A Rainy Night in a Nigerian City
- Struck Dumb
- BEYOUTIFUL
- Who Is Who Africa?
- My Love
- Throwback Thursday
- DARKNESS
- Bring Back Our Girls
- PATHS
- A sick Egret
- I'm All Yours
- I remember
- We Are Never Forgotten
- Happy Sabbath
- Say no to drugs
- Forever And Always
- In Memory of Mrs A. O. Oloniyo
- The Butterfly
- Sometimes You Are
- Have I Told You Yet
- purpose for living?
- THE WAILING PEN
- Since the blood!!!
- Come back!
- Dream right!!!!!
- Bird in Bush
- When life kick you in the mouth!!!
- The Princess
- Young Lady
- Mother Teresa's Anyway Poem
- The Valley of Vision
- I see a new Nigeria
- I Love My Mama
- Agidigbo
- Virus of the Mind
- VACATION
- All About Girls
- A Soldier's Daughter
- I Am Not A Victim Of Breast Cancer
- From My Heart
- The Lonely Guy
- When the going is getting better
Recently Joined
