'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.

Opposites

I am a soft flower

A pink bud

Plush petals

Covered in gentle dew

Under a blue sky

Little wisps of clouds

Fly by

Chased by the gentle cool wind

You are harsh

Like an emotion

Like a story

Told around the bonfire of Ananse and his antics

I absorb your negativity

Shocked, I find you ridiculous

You wound yourself

And in your wounding

Wounding me

I have been dreaming of rescues

By a prince who comes to kiss me

And you have been dreaming

Of dominating and tapping that

Adding notches to your bedpost

To show your bedfellows

Your proud scores

We are both stupid.

Rosaline Johnson is a poet, singer and law graduate from Sierra Leone.

Harmattan

how does one go back to the cold after seeing the sun?

too often we forget that the light casts shadows

and that her rays do burn sometimes

and her beams blind as they illuminate

that the devil is an angel too

sweet little devil with the broken halo

kissed me lonely and let me go

sweet little devil with the broken halo

kissed me lonely and made it so

how does one go back to the cold after seeing the sun?

after feeling her rays spill on me like the rain

after hearing her lips spill out my name

after tasting the sweet bitterness of her kiss

she smiled like the rain

don't ask me how.

but it washed over you,

it took you over.

i always find myself writing about her smile.

she was a poet's wet dream;

one could never capture her essence on paper.

but something about her compelled you to try.

so every now and again i find myself trying to do justice to the way how she brought out the sun.

the way she laughed made a man desire to change his life's mission -

'cause surely there could be no higher calling than making sure those bursts of heaven came in steady supply.

and i find myself rambling sometimes

whenever she deigns to trespass upon my state of unconsciousness

because for all her magic, she is not welcome here anymore

how does one go back to the cold after seeing the sun?

I've since been trying to figure this out

but i do not know how to not need her

i have never been one for moderation

i do not fall

i plummet

i do not bleed

i hemorrhage

this liquor burning through my belly holds no answers 

this burning in my lungs solves nothing 

pale imitations of the sun do not suffice it seems

how does one go back to the cold after seeing the sun?

I do not know.

but you left...

...and it's been cold here ever since.

Tarik Ali is a musician, writer and poet from Sierra Leone

Hair

I love your hair.

I love your smile when

I tell you so,

You blink your brown eyes,

And wave your hand,

Like you get that a lot;

But you don’t.

I know so,

So I tell you this:

I love,

Your bouncy curls,

Glistening in the same sun,

That loves your melanin,

As much as I do.

I could forever talk about,

How God took Her time

To create you,

But I know you’d never believe me.

So I’ll just admire until you see.

I love your hair,

But most of all,

I love the mindset

Underneath your forever curls.

Zakkiyah Ibrahim is a poet and student living in Freetown, Sierra Leone

Your Roses

I saw the roses you got me.

They were beautiful.

They had thorns,

Much like our relationship,

The red as deep as the lipstick I wear,

To impress you on dates,

The smell as intoxicating as yours when we hug.

But the biggest similarity you have with the roses;

They wilted and faded after sometime,

Just like you did. 

Zakkiyah Ibrahim is a poet and student living in Freetown, Sierra Leone