INDY PRESS

They came to me and sat with the devil

sharing a cuisine

and a hot bath and wine.

So I smirked

The gospel of politics according to my countrymen

My neighbours gather to pray for our nation, their prayers evaporating like water in familiar puddles our leaders couldn’t fix. One thing is sure: God is not deaf, but men are. Deaf men who laugh from ear to ear, watching their nation defrost like ice, staring cluelessly at the science […]

for Kunle Adepeju ii. Honour the dead beyond flickering candle light, beyond a minute silence, beyond the soft melodies of your dirge, beyond the thumps of your marching feet, beyond the dark shades, black wears, & the witty inscriptions, beyond the scented flowers placed by their graves, embalm their memories […]

For Kunle Adepeju (01-02-1971) i. Dear Countrymen, there is nothing stray about a bullet fired into the misty air to find solace in the soft flesh of unarmed citizens. There is nothing inadvertent when protectors of lives wear the garbs of hunters, cracking down on human games, silencing “demonic” voices […]

“Where do politicians go when they die?,” he asks with a teenage curiosity, locking eyes with his father’s.   Son, their bodies & souls are raptured to heaven — they seat close to God, fellowship with His angels & the twenty four elders, listen to soft hymns, dance to heavenly […]

  Let us pretend. Let us pretend that our leaders are palliating our suffering, that they are mollifying every sadness that grows in us.   Let us pretend. Let us pretend that our stomachs aren’t empty, that the worms in our bellies aren’t feeding on our flesh, that cataract of […]

It’s almost a year now since that night, when darkness crawled in like an innocent child, when the giant city trembled, quaking the ground across the seven hills of Ìbàdàn— Bódìjà sang a dirge to the ears of all; the neighbourhood chorused the grief in response. At that point, stories […]

  By: Bamijoko Favour I trees shed their leaves, a poignant reminder of time’s lonely passage; what was, is no more.   II the patter of tiny feet transfigures into the body of a pulsing teenage girl playing hula hoop on a street in Gaza, noon benediction calls, and she […]

By – Onymous wish I was better reading the signs cause damn she takes my breath away so much that I loudly exclaim my lost for words. A part of me says I assume and do too much, other part be noticing your deeds and all your moves Put your […]