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.

'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.

Voices of Our Ancestors

by Fidel Alexander Massaquoi

we asked where it went wrong

why when we tried to move, they don't tag along

but with every corrupt act they were there

warning of the ill fate we will have to bear

the sounds of bullets flying

and of bombs exploding

those were the cries of our ancestors

we swore we repented; we swore we forgave

we, a happy family, and in our hearts have love engraved

but deep down we despised

making them bleed in our demise

the sirens wailing

the mass undertaking

those were the screams of our ancestors

we are growing we say

we have been purged clean, no chance we will go astray

but the vice of denial, not accepting who is not of our race

scaled our hearts, made our heroes shudder in disgrace

the steep slopes rolling

the dark clouds descending

those were the tears of our ancestors

"They can still make it right," they hope

we can still make it right, we know

with love as the sail, and our kids the vessel

the glorious days would inevitably be factual

‘cause their singing and dancing

the nation rejoicing

these would be the smiles of our ancestors.

Fidel Alexander Massaquoi is a civil engineer living in Sierra Leone. He enjoys reading fantasy novels and listening to rap music. He spends his free time (whenever he sees little of it) writing poems and one-liners. Follow his work on Twitter at @elfidof7.

Black Woman

By Rosaline Virginia Bundeh

A black woman is told:

your smile is dazzling and elegant but it’s too much

your laughter is stunning, but it draws attention and it’s too much

you are hard-working, you bleed your palms and bruise your knees, but it’s not enough

I notice you have two hands that bind softly but you act like they are on cuffs

you are beautiful, your skin glitters but it’s still rough

you are black, you are cultured but you are not black enough

being a black woman is tough

To a black woman, they say:

you talk boldly, you’re defensive but it’s too loud

you work tirelessly but you always frown

Some say: don’t look up, look down

others say: don’t look down, look up, don’t act like a clown

don’t stare, it’s rude, don’t look down it's dumb

you are too ambitious; you’re always chasing something like a crazy cat

you’re this! You’re that!

To a black woman, some say:

your stretch marks resemble the back of a tree and it’s not pretty

your curves are unique but your thighs are too thick

your thighs draw attention. They are too flabby

they define saggy breast as being slutty

they will say; you’re too humble, you’re too rude, you’re too fast, you’re too slow

society will always complain and want black women to act like a supernatural being

when they are treating her like a worthless thing

As a black woman

my elders will hurt me, but I dare not speak

men will touch my hips, and squeeze my thighs, force themselves on me and smile 

It’s our culture to be respectful even when they are breaking our bones 

or bruising our thighs or painting our faces black and red with a slap

men will rape you, but it’s not new, its most of my sister’s stories, 

they say: I am not that beautiful but I am always complaining 

I am an attention seeker, so I should stop whining.

Being a black woman is like being against the world

It’s like you carrying mother earth and fighting with the sun and moon

they will expect us to speak after cutting our tongue

society will say ooh no! It’s a girl

and they will shake their heads in disappointment 

even if we mop the ocean, they will still point out the tiny drops and say we are lazy or call us an embarrassment

they will send us in the dark, pluck out our eyes and say stop acting blind

We are Champions

Our skin is rich, fresh, dark, and soft, it glitters

Our greatness is about embracing our true selves regardless of the pains or heartaches

I’m a black woman with flaws but I’m me and I’m unique

 I’m a pearl

You are a black woman, you are tough, you are priceless, you are rare, you are worth a king’s ransom, you are valuable 

Being black is POWERFUL.

Rosaline Virginia Bundeh is a writer and public health practitioner currently residing in Freetown. She finds beauty in words and enjoys the trials of life. You can follow her on twitter at @RBundeh.