for Aisha Omolola (a 300-level ABU student who committed suicide and blamed parents in note)

Someone dug a trench here and left the
ravine to be filled with collected flood

When I write of depression, I put my name
In reverse order and watch the candle burn its middle
with abandon.

I swear, the hole in my heart is wide enough for another
sea crossing. The Poets of my generation write
about grief 

And we sit on the bank of Jordan waiting for the
stick of Moses to close the ocean behind us

This is what we found. A tiny light lead  into a small room
Where a girl paints her face red to conceal the colour
Of her rage 

The note she wrote had her letters pointing to a tree excavating
clay for the grave of  its own fruit.

In another room, We found a body bloating with the 
outward gale of a Styrofoam floating in soap acid


I know where this open, I only don't know where
This hollowness lead to

Each voice that talk about your death is an empty room  needing a touch of light

And In our silence, We listened to the wail of your mother like an arm stretched into the sea    as she last heard 
your name in the mouth of a shark.



Weird feeling,
feel like I was wired through,
oh another empty soul.

You wake up to a new day,
yea, the creator, God, you must thank,
still you are moody.

No one hurt you,
but some things hurt deep so inside,
deeper  and too spiritual.

Wish I was supernatural,
to heal naturally my thought and self,
mending my broken pieces with peace.

Alas! As a believer,
one must continue to receive life,
a journey quite slow, sometimes foggy.

Evaluating most times,
It’s time to evacuate,
sad, when I hear my story.

When your story I hear,
I run to God’s altar with thanksgiving,
praising him yet for my good pains.

BY: @penngriffen





Happy Christmas turned 

into envisage New Years, 

Many gathered to form entity 

They drank, but not enough water of life 

The year seems so perfect

Until the dragon grew weak, 

Three headed beast 

But non seems to succeed


By: Penn

Instagram: @penngriffen

[email protected]



Many crises here and there before

boasts of war and weapons of death,

little wonder death sent his emissary,



The economies are torn apart,

only the eastern wallet is growing,

down the western? It is torn bitterly,

deaths in Europe, America, everywhere.


Shall this become another score of deaths,

or to say God’s anger? Human’s greed,

taken o’ve mankind; biochemical? Natural?

Vaccine or Cure; both are miracles to live.




Instagram: 1884_African 


[email protected]





Crashed economies,

deaths in the fields of nations,

men and women facing this plague,

so strong and too potent to be treated.


Pharmaceuticals are silenced by its rage,

COVID-19, grown too strong for 2020,

should have just been called COVID;

many economies now simply broken.


Africa is rich with her herbs,

yet, the cold weathered hands clap still,

denying the organic concoction of Africa,

like previous plagues, drink Africa’s plants.






[email protected]

More of your blessed Breasts... By OGIDIOLU



Albeit, in my infantile
Amoral being breaching two bridges
Intruding tongue lingering
Caution not from my leaping lips
And the pampered twins
At the balcony of your chest
Lured my merry mouth
I pressed, I squeezed
And I did not
Know its noble name.

But today
I speak of your succulent breasts
And the two dark dots
I licked like candy
Pinked my troublesome lips
Black seeds they seemed
But my tongue whispered
They are flesh of the flesh
See;I sucked, I tapped
And the twilight of time
Bore me no grasp
For I knew not its treasured title.

So, let me hear
The breathing of your breasts
Melt my gentle palm
Sheepishly massaging
Deep down the follicles
Of your emollient breasts
Feed my mouth more
With your flourishing milk
They have despised your breasts
They fail all the tests
But, let me sip again
From the flowing wisdom
At your neat nipples
Ceaseless craving creeps me
Of your blessed breast
Mother Africa.

Ogidiolu Afrocentric

subscribe to our Poems newsletter