November 20, 2019

Akachi Obijiaku

FOR THE LOVE OF OIL

They dig and dig until the streets stink and slip with corruption
Their pockets flow with gold but the community sees no wealth eruption

Villages perish from the pollution in droves
But they brush the children aside and recommend garlic cloves

The militants arrive to protect the resources
But then they grow greedy and rape the local women in the bushes

The Niger Delta has become a battlefield of money and lust
An epitome of sadness coated in lucrative promises and fairy dust

The imperialists roam around with the guards
Causing havoc and happily playing the race card

And the government?
They are a hardly a moral movement

Conscience is all but folklore 
Attempts to demonstrate control are considered a bore

A rogue collusion is what it is
Whilst those at the bottom get feasted on by fleas

Even with the fortunes being excavated
From miles away the desperation of the young can be heard 

It’s a crude war zone where even nursing mothers toil
And people fall on their knees for the love of oil

from Rattle #65, Fall 2019
Tribute to African Poets

__________

Akachi Obijiaku: “I lived in Nigeria for sixteen years, and then moved to the United Kingdom—where I’ve been for almost six years. What’s quite interesting, and only people who are in my position tend to understand, is how different the various cultures are across the world. Anytime I return to Nigeria, I feel like my time spent abroad was a dream. Everything is so different in Africa. The people, the attitudes, the way of living. Some good, some bad. So, when I write, it’s sort of like telling tales. There’s so much rich material from just watching life happen around you, and most times the stories sound like fiction, but you can’t make some stuff up—it really is surreal.”

Rattle Logo

November 18, 2019

Labeja Kodua

ILL NIGHTS

like winter evening saturdays
when you’re ill and your mum
is lazy but loving, and wants
to eat and drink at the same time
amber glass of brandy steaming
through fingers that touch a
wooden spoon and spew
hot liquid broth into your waiting mouth

from Rattle #65, Fall 2019
Tribute to African Poets

__________

Labeja Kodua: “I grew up in Koforidua, Ghana, and what I loved is the life in the language, how everything is imbued with personality, you walk around an angry road, with a joyful breeze, holding back a talkative coconut. The surreal qualities of the city are so characteristic of what Africa is to me. I would like to convey this in the poetry I write.”

Rattle Logo

November 15, 2019

Temidayo Jacob

MY MOTHER DIED WITH HER HOME

When my mother died,
she took home along with her.
Here, home is not a mere thing,
but a person holding different
pieces of peace together as one.

Father comes home every night
after spraying himself with alcohol,
with lips of heartbroken prostitutes
kissing his shirt, finding their way
into my father’s house like black ants.
They lick his skin and call him daddy
while he feeds them with fresh sugar.

My elder sister is the rag of the town,
every man uses her wetness to clean
up their already drawn dirty desires.
Sometimes, she becomes eatable too:
at dawn, she is a ripe mango whose
sweetness is being sucked out hungrily;
at dusk, she is a new tuber of yam whose
bitterness is being burnt out by fire.

My younger brother is the morning sun
whose brightness was washed away
by the rain that fell after my mother left.
He got tired of being seen as a shadow
instead of the light that births a shadow.
Last night, he became a swollen wet bag;
the well in our compound is a witness.

Here I am, in the smallest dark room,
using a pen to create a picture of all of us
with mother in the middle, holding us.
Hoping she will return home
even if she can’t return herself to us.

from Rattle #65, Fall 2019
Tribute to African Poets

__________

Temidayo Jacob: “I am a Nigerian student, writer, and photographer. I grew up in Lagos. I’m pseudonymously known as Mayor Jake. Poetry is sounds louder than thunder. My poems are based on real life experiences and societal happenings. I write poetry to bring light out of darkness and to show the darkness in light.” (web)

Rattle Logo

November 13, 2019

Pamilerin Jacob

ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION AS A VARIANT OF SKOTOTROPISM

I do not know how to ripen            when my lover undresses

this was not how we began            I have a history of ripening 

in public places—at Dominos when she rubbed my thighs

under the table, with her feet. in church when she hugged

me tightly, whispered I want it       her tongue flicking

my ear—I was born chasing light. never one to turn

eyes from the sun.                              so

where did the body learn this allergy     this 

aversion to turgidity     my lover undresses & I stay drooped 

like a towel       silent as a table.            no one teaches you

how to grieve an erection                    this is a side effect

of buying happiness from the psychiatrist           the meds

mistake your hardness for an obstacle              liquefy your resolve.

luster peeling off my skin,

I miss the days     when 

staring at a mannequin   too long   could stir 

       uprisings in my shorts …   

from Rattle #65, Fall 2019
Tribute to African Poets

__________

Pamilerin Jacob: “I am a Nigerian poet and mental health enthusiast. My idea of fun is a bowl of chocolate ice cream and Khalil Gibran’s poetry. I hope to be a lecturer someday. I write poetry because it is the only place where the past can be stilled, looked in the eye, and torn into. A cat person, I enjoy listening to Thich Nhat Hanh’s talks on mindfulness.” (web)

Rattle Logo

November 11, 2019

Rasaq Malik Gbolahan

WHAT MY CHILDREN REMEMBER

The sight of helicopters circling the sky on mornings
when the sky broke into shrapnel, falling on our roofs as

we quivered out of the dread of being dead, as we crouched
behind the doors, the air emitting smoke, the cadence of bullets 

quieting the sound of the world, leaving us to stare deep into
the residues of blasted things, into the dreams turned to embers,

to things that slipped off our fingers as we held them, like a baby,
thinking we could revive some things out of everything we toiled

for, for years under the sun, far away from our families.
My children remember the mornings after our houses became ruins,

the sadness on the faces of those who managed to bury their beloveds
after the blast, those who resorted to singing a threnody every night

for years, those who dressed their hearts in grief as war buried
their dreams. My children remember their schools left as

wreckage, the streets where they walked before the blasts becoming
silent alleys, bereft of the usual talks of people walking home on

nights when the streetlights beamed steadily, illuminating the world.
My children remember the emptiness of waiting behind when home was

a grenade ruining everything, when home was a book full of the names
of the dead, the dying, the ones lost to blasts, the ones leaving home

for exile.

from Rattle #65, Fall 2019
Tribute to African Poets

__________

Rasaq Malik Gbolahan: “To me, writing poetry is an act of healing. I find myself returning to it whenever I feel broken by the tragedies of the world. In the process of writing, I learn new things about the world and the people who inhabit it. I try to weigh the occurrences that happen and how writing is deployed to react to it. Through the active presence of poetry, I try to document the lives of the unheard, the victims and survivors of war. In Nigeria and countries where there is perpetual war, poetry acts and reacts through careful documentation of these heart-wrenching events.” (web)

Rattle Logo

November 8, 2019

Zaid Gamieldien

EIGHT HAIKU

 

 

retirement home
wildflowers
in a vase

 

 

 

 

my conundrum
spider sitting
on the welcome mat

 

 

 

 

a ladybug
on her back
my shrunken grief

 

 

 

 

morning light
a boyband
of robins

 

 

 

 

little ant
on my pillow
the great explorer

 

 

 

 

power outage
we pretend
dad is Vader

 

 

 

 

morning downpour—
in my lidless cup
tsunamis

 

 

 

 

how quick the dragonfly
flutters through
the traffic jam

 

 

from Rattle #65, Fall 2019
Tribute to African Poets

__________

Zaid Gamieldien: “Can an African poet write about napping with the TV on? Can I entertain the lull of the afternoon drive home, or must my words reach the ends of a sunlit plain, where wild beasts roar into a golden sky? The truth is, I am a poet and I am African, and so I write as I am. I see haiku as ‘photographs of the senses.’ As an African haiku poet, I look for fleeting moments of beauty in ordinary life and try to relate nature to human nature as best I can. It is my hope to show commonality through these human experiences, or to simply express ordinary moments in new and interesting ways.” (web)

Rattle Logo

November 6, 2019

Jonathan Endurance

AUBADE IN THE BONEYARD

my father died bending like a dog
under the November cloud

unlike the stories we were told
about grief as a revolution inside

a tender throat     i grew up to learn
that even God has a thousand titles 

to his name & we only use the one
synonymous with grief when our

mouths are full of stories of guillotine
i have stories about ghost saved up

in my diary     this time no deception 
my mother never wanted me to know

i was born inside an eagle’s claws
i am saying every letter of my name 

has a sharp edge & blood gushes from
everything i touch 

i open my window into a field of dust 
the sun chokes on my shoulder blade

i invade the boneyard with holy books
& line the belly button of my father’s grave

with broken branches of cedars 
he smells like a lit cigarette 

there is always violence inside a crow’s beak
& for a body like this to inherit scars

that never heal     the sky falls back into
my mouth anchored by the stories that beguile me 

from Rattle #65, Fall 2019
Tribute to African Poets

__________

Jonathan Endurance: “I am a Nigerian poet and student of English literature in the University of Benin, Nigeria. For me, poetry has been a way of escaping emotional trauma. I write to set my soul free from the cage of bitter thoughts and sad experiences.” (web)

Rattle Logo