Roots

by Lansana Sesay

Adulthood is a quiet storm—

the kind our parents shielded us from.

They bore the weight so we could rise,

now we wear it, chasing skies.

I am the first cap and gown,

a legacy born from hand-me-downs.

Master’s earned, no shortcuts taken,

yet the ground beneath me still feels shaken.

I do it right, stay out of trouble,

yet life won’t let me burst my bubble.

No stable path, no golden gate,

just waiting rooms and jobs that wait.

The dream they sold us feels surreal—

a game of handshakes, charm, and zeal.

It’s not just work, it’s who you know,

a system where true seeds grow slow.

Ten times harder, I still grind,

while others rise with half the mind.

But here’s the truth that keeps me warm:

God made me strong to brave the storm.

I am no quitter, I don’t bend—

I walk with purpose, not pretend.

And though I’m last now in this race,

the first shall wait, and I’ll take place.

To those who feel the same despair,

I see you, I’ve been standing there.

Your time is coming—mark these days,

as training ground for higher praise.

Steward small, prepare for more,

humble hearts unlock the door.

The real ones grow beneath the earth,

their power hidden, roots give birth.

You don’t always see their might—

they toil in silence, out of sight.

But when the sprout breaks through the soil,

you’ll see the proof of all that toil.

So hold the line, embrace the weight,

your bloom is near—just watch, just wait.

Strong foundation, soul refined—

what’s yours will come, in God’s own time.

Born in Freetown, Sierra Leone, Lansana Sesay holds a BS in Communication from Bowie State University and a Masters in Strategic Communications at the University of Maryland Global Campus. Sesay is passionate about entrepreneurship and community service and has expressed himself through poetry and spoken word showcases since 2014. Sesay also finds joy in art, cooking, adventure, and exploring new places.

So the Gaunt May Wither No More

by Oumar Farouk Sesay

We have done all things to build this nation.  

Toiled till our hands grew calloused,  

walked till blisters marred our soles.  

We have prayed till our knees turned to stone,  

fasted till our ribs played melodies of hunger,  

bathed in salt water, as if the ocean could cleanse our fate.  

We have voted—wutehteh for Tejan Kabbah,  

sung wata wae na for you for Momoh,  

chanted world best for Ernest Koroma,  

incanted Maaadaa Biooo for Maada.  

Before that, we screamed, "Jesus Christ!" for Johnny Paul Koroma,  

even before that, we sang of four pounds, four shillings Margai ate,  

then swallowed our echoes into the void.  

We have starved, thirsted,  

slept beneath trees that whispered no comfort,  

died in gutters that remembered no names.  

Lost life and limb to the Ruffians,  

witnessed wombs entombed, cradles turned to graves,  

fled—our footprints fading like ghosts on foreign soil.  

We have blogged, blocked highways with our rage,  

sung till our voices cracked,  

danced on streets slick with sorrow,  

cheered, cried, laughed

as if laughter could stitch what was torn.  

We have written—and been written upon,  

stomped—and been trampled,  

swum toward hope only to drown in despair.  

We have been jailed,  

hanged in her name,  

suspended between love and betrayal.  

We have been adjectivized—  

resilient, apathetic, stoic to prolong our suffering.  

We have been labelled, tagged, and morgued.  

We have robbed and been robbed,  

starved and stabbed,  

our bodies maps of wounds unhealed.  

We have been violated,  

standing, waiting, bracing for the next blow.  

And still, the seven fat cows devour the seven thin,  

again and again, their hunger never sated.  

The feast never ends,  

yet our famine lingers,  

until the fattened are retired 

so the gaunt may wither no more.

Oumar Farouk Sesay is a published poet, novelist, and playwright. He has been published in many anthologies of Sierra Leonean poets, including Lice in the Lion's Mane, Songs That Pour the Heart and Kalashnikov In The Sun.

'My First Love' & 'Yesterday I Slipped': 2 poems

My First Love

My first love is kinda strange,
Judge me not as deranged.

For when I was born, she stood tall and older,
Already adored by men much bolder.
But the warmth she gave, so tender and bright,
Outshone the lanterns in East End at night.

Her mountains curved, her waterfalls streamed,
Cascading down like a poet’s dream.
Dripping from caves and cisterns wide,
A beauty no heart could set aside.

Golden shores with a sandy smile,
Lush soil so rich, so fertile.
A queen once envied far and near,
In her prime, she shone so clear.

She holds my heart, my passion burns,
For her, I’d fight, take all my turns.
Head over her hills, I fell with grace,
She flirts, yet never leaves a trace.

J6 was a bother,
So I left for another, gentle like my mother.

Now in jealousy and rage, she weeps,
While men with guns and riches dig her deep.
Mumu boys, on cocaine highs,
Scarred her deep with reckless lies.

They dropped their loads and left behind,
A maze of pain for us to find.
Born of the ghetto, she lost her peace,
Yet in my soul, her light won’t cease.

Her beauty still ignites my fire,
Mature yet fierce, she won’t retire.
Fit and fresh, her spirit free,
She speaks to the wild inside of me.

Though we’ve grown and paths are shown,
My love for her is deeply sewn.
To hold her close is more than a dream,
For she remains—Sierra Leone supreme.

Yesterday I Slipped

My God, yesterday I slipped.

I fell so hard, my grip unzipped.

But it wasn’t just a stumble or fall,

The enemy struck—I lost it all.

I let my guard down, I played the pawn,

The battle raged from dusk till dawn.

Dear Lord, I’m human, weak at times,

Yet every path has different climbs.

Some live to steal, to kill, to rob,

But I to heal, to feel, to cheer a sob.

Different journeys, yet all the same,

Split by choices, tribe, and name.

Born to live and bound to die,

I chase my purpose, reaching high.

The goal is honor, shunning shame,

Yet tests in private stake their claim.

Without Your grace, I stand in vain,

But wallow not—I break the chain.

If I fall six, I’ll rise the seventh,

By Your strength, I’ll step toward heaven.

And if I fail, Lord, guide me still,

That I may walk within Your will.

Tomorrow, when I rise anew,

Let me recall what yesterday knew.

Let my steps be firm, my path be lit,

To know which turns and traps to quit.

So help me, God, to stand and fight,

And walk today in holy light.

Nick Asgill is a Creative content producer with a passion for developing African culture stories and youth talent in Africa and the Diaspora entertainment spaces. Born and raised in Sierra Leone, Nick found his way into the entertainment industry in London through the “Prince's Trust” Urban Voices program and was mentored by Nigerian entertainment trailblazer JJC Skillz. Nick holds a Bachelor degree in Media Production and has won awards in related fields.

What I Feel

What if I lived by what I feel?

Would I kill everything that makes me ill?

Would I be capable of loving everything that gave me the chills? 

There was a girl named feels

It has been years since I have healed

And I have been in the field

Seen it all, done it all

Now I wait on that ring, like it’s God’s calling 

So miss feels, why are we stalling?

I know you can’t help that I have fallen

I wake up every morning, tossing and turning 

Pillows bashing, like I’m smashing

Oh Lord, what is wrong with me?

See I know what I want, and I know miss right is out there

I won’t have to worry about her acting funny, like some of these bad bunnies

Some say they want me

Some say they hate me

I lied, they all love me

But I just want someone ready

I promise, I’m not a player

To them, I might be a pawn

Your value is where you shop

I can’t stop how some treat me 

So I’m vibing, setting boundaries, thrashing waps, getting my gwap. 

I guess I’m doing what I feel, until I meet miss feels

You know, the one that gives me the chills. 

Lansana Sesay was born in Freetown, Sierra Leone. He holds a BS in Communication from Bowie State University and is currently pursuing his Masters in Strategic Communications at the University of Maryland Global Campus. Sesay is passionate about expression through poetry and enjoys art, cooking, adventure, and exploring new places.

Krawo

As an Eastend pikin,

the only breakfast I knew 

was a hot pot 

of grandma’s kol rɛs

Spoons will break 

before krawo goes to waste

On the other side of a six-hour flight; 

My first breakfast in this foreign land,

Grandma’s pot is replaced 

by a microwave

wetin dis? 

Porridge!

Rɛs nɔ de? 

if na rɛs yu want, a go mek am fɔ yu!

No firewood, no smoke,

no matches, no struggle

My kol rɛs is piping hot 

in under five minutes

Love is starting your day 

with a taste of home

but this plate  

lacks grandma’s touch 

because as kwik as i de wam kol rɛs, 

microwave nɔ de mek krawo.

Abu B. Yillah is a London-based British-Sierra Leonean interdisciplinary artist with a primary interest in poetry and filmmaking.  Alongside his creative work, Abu co-curates the Sierra Leone Arts & Culture festival (#SLACfest), a celebration of work from Sierra Leoneans across the world.