Blazing Hot (Issue 4)
THE SUN WILL RISE AGAIN by Noah Oladele
Memories are journeys we come into
beyond the walls of the mind –
like Chibok, closing in,
slowly, to an early embrace;
an embrace that chokes into
a fragile submission;
for we are all travellers waiting
for the first sign of light –
the sun, in orange, leading
to the prologue of things to come.
Like history moulding our lives
into a face, the sun rises into
a shape falling apart –
half on a Biafran imagination,
doting yellow on a hopeful chlorophyll.
The other half forms a memory
wafting through Maiduguri, Kano, Jos
to make a history of charred imagery
and splintered limbs.
But the sun also wishes to be seen
in colours other than a wailing gold
or a crimson that hovers
over a Borno market.
Colours are made of something attractive
like the communion of fire,
union of blue, red and green,
pummeled into a bed of ashes
and ashes are cycles of rebirth.
Healing begins as a green imagination
and bruised cactuses with
a body of pores and thorns,
self-healing from clotting sap.
The sun will appear as light
to these travellers, witnesses
of one collective symphony:
in a Lagos suburb, Jos, Kano
Sokoto, Rivers, Ibadan, Abuja
Sometimes,
all we need is a miracle
to understand the patience of the sea
and the healing scions
holding onto the tendrils of green.
for the sun will rise again and again
and again, to speak of soft beginnings.
Noah Oladele writes poetry and short story. He also finds pleasure in drawing and great inspiration from music. He is a 300l student of the department of English in the Faculty of Arts at Obafemi Awolowo University. He recently won the 1st Prize in the maiden edition of the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize.
BEAUTIFUL FATHER…LOVING HUSBAND by Chinelo Nwangwu
I am 11 and just about to finish primary school
It is 5pm and I finally ascend the stairs that lead to flat 13
I am eager to remove the sand from my cortina shoes and the Ugo C Ugo textbooks
Threatening to tear my bag and hunch my back
I hear it…
A constant thudding…
Small whimpers
Cries of please stop…I hear stupid…I hear useless…
I hear you and your stupid children always needing money for something
I am fifteen and have just kissed my first boy
Even let him touch my breasts
I am coming back from my little rendezvous with Tade
Trying desperately to be as silent as possible
Willing the gate not to make a sound…
I am sure no one will be around though..
she traveled and he is never home
It is then that I hear it
Eerie sounds like that of a child
Sounds not unlike those I made when Tade’s mouth
Enclosed around my left nipple
I peep and see that he is moving on top of a woman
His skin, a burnt clay is nothing like her perfect yellow
And just as I walk in
My father climaxes
But it is shocking that I am 19 when I notice the alcoholism
The constant smell of cheap bear..
The hidden bottles at different spots in the house
It is while searching for the bottles
That I see the documents
The arrest for drunk driving
The picture of the boy who was hit
The money paid to the family
The quick cover up
The efficient bribing
I am 21 the first time that I speak out
I am fresh out of Unilag
Second class upper in political science
Head filled with feminist theories and gender equality
And I speak out
After twenty years of silence
Of cruelty and wickedness
Of insensitivity
Of his total disregard for her
Of his failure as a father
And pathetic excuse as a husband
I don’t see him when he comes
I only hear the slap
I hear ungrateful…sorry excuse for a daughter
And he is kicking me…pushing me through the gate…throwing out my things
She doesn’t say anything , my mother
Just pretends nothing happened
And brushes lint from her skirt
I am 34 and a junior lecturer in a University
With 2 failed marriages and a cynicism and deep distrust for men
I get a letter and the spidery penmanship tells me it is my mother..
My father is dead she says..heart attack..knows I wont come..just letting me know
I don’t know if its her words that trigger it
Or if it’s the memory of the man that abused her
But I am crying..loud throaty sounds unlike me
I am crying but not for the man
I am crying for her
For her frightening silence..
Her love for a man who never loved her
I am 43 when I can stomach a visit to the old house
I am shocked at how unchanged it looks
Apart from the yellow paint peeling from the walls
Then the obvious look of abandonment since she relocated
The memories come and suffocate me
I can feel the tears forming deep in my throat
A vision of him naked…of hitting my mother…coming back drunk…throwing me out
I buy no flowers on my way to the cemetery
I am staring for what seems like hours on the plaque
Beautiful father…loving husband…missed for ever
The people beside me are shocked when I start to laugh at the irony
As I grab my bag and start to leave
I turn back and spit on my father’s grave
Chinelo Nwangwu is a 500 level student of Petroleum Engineering at the University of Ibadan. She was recently announced the 2nd Prize Winner in the maiden edition of the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize.
SUNDOWN IN PORT HARCOURT by Okafor Kingsley Chisom
her customer’s gaze lingers
longingly at first, on her
the way a hawk
does scavenging chicks
now, she names her new price
before he steps
hard on the throttle
and zooms away
leaving a trail of curses
in his wake
‘sagging breasts’, ‘cheerful giver’, ‘central bank’
she does not mishear
she adjusts her skirt,
pulls it further upwards
and waits for a new client,
her defiance waxes
elsewhere, it’s still night-time
another man spits out
in disgust
and rains abuses
on tonight’s skies
he calls the moonlit night
an insensitive brute
and the moon, a traitor
who steals the darkness
from every street corner,
why is tonight not
made of impregnable black?
why is it clothed only
in moon light?
no cheap sex in the shadows
nor peaceful street-corner sleep
he storms off to the brothel,
defiant,
he is homeless
shortly, a crowd will collect –
a gathering mob
(from far-away places)
that will grow slowly
like yam seedlings, sprouting
beneath the earth
into brown yam tubers
they’ll emerge like
fabled masquerades
from houses like anthills
drunk with violence
sparked by virulent words
dug out from back pages
of local newspapers
and from speakers of radio sets,
words flowing in defiance
like a rushing spring
over many rocks
running and screaming,
‘give us Biafra’.
Okafor Kingsley Chisom is a 400 level student of Nutrition and Dietetics at the University of Nigeria, NSUKKA. He recently won the 3rd prize in the maiden edition of the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize.