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