GIVE ME MY FLOWERS WHEN I’M ALIVE

Give me my flowers when I’m alive.Do not wait till I lay still on that floor.The time other beings – good words on my corpse they pour.

Please give me my flowers when I'm alive.My ghost captures your face dripping with tears.My Father in heaven opens his arm to receive me from the mortuary layers.

Give me my flowers when I’m alive.Do not wait to scatter compliments at my vigil.The place other mourners will tell the gathering I was the real deal.

Kindly give me my flowers when I’m alive.I would appreciate your prayers over my body.But I would have wished every encounter between us had been a memorial on this journey.

Give me my flowers when I’m alive.Do not wait to share my success stories inside that pool of dust.The ground other mortals sleep in peace with no cost.

Peacefully give me my flowers when I’m alive.Only in life, I’ll enjoy the beauty of creation.I have one life. You have one life. Let true love be the mission.

Paul Conteh is a Sierra Leonean writer, Lecturer and Development & Public Policy Professional.He currently lives in Freetown.

BENEDICTION

when my reverend baptized me

he prayed for a joy that never ends

who still plays hide and seek in the dark

or is it just me and my gang?

music in the background

bonfire to the right, barbecue to the left

and milk to wash away all our anxieties

we’re at the point where we’re neither hot nor cold, neither young nor old

just lukewarm and brimming with anticipation of tomorrow’s success stories

Lumley beach teeming with lost souls

We shine in the dark to guide them home

Like fireflies and lighthouses and music of the late nineties

Late night vibes are the nicest.

Adeola Carew is Freetown-based writer and poet.

KOYA

When shall we meet in Koya

My beautiful Limba boy?

The Saharan winds bring a chill to my bones

Only your quirky smile can warm me.

Yae needs a new lappa and lalli for her nails. I’ll follow her to the market place and convince her to stay the night at your mama’s house. Don’t be mad if I ignore you. Our parents have eyes behind their heads. These women know what we are thinking before we open our mouths.

Never fear. When darkness descends and dampens their spirits. When drowsy, they absentmindedly gaze into the community fire , not listening to the children telling stories of bush devils and mami wata- we’ll sink into the night.

Holding hands, teeth gleaming

Hearts in our throats

Let us meet in Koya !

My beautiful Limba boy

We’ll make for ourselves a bed of fallen leaves

On the banks of the sacred river

Our bodies shall define Love.

Adeola Carew is Freetown-based writer and poet.

Life in the Slums

Mother came to the city with me and my four brothers through a wood van,

We stopped half way to Freetown and walked and ran,

with a sound ban, bann, bann, began, pan pan…

The very scary sounds of gun firing... Chasing us with bullets and machete…

I saw children’s hands being cut off… full of petty, gutty and sweaty.

We ran faster than a car …to avoid being amputated, …by God, we ran far.

After many days of walking through the day light and the night, which sometimes made no difference,

as a day that should be bright would be seen dark, clouded;

We arrived in the city; it was a relief to have reached the city, but yeah...

we thought things would be brighter for us…

once again… but that was a dream that never came to pass.

What followed…a long time of struggle, of suffering, and pain,

sleepless nights and empty stomach… nothing gained

we had nowhere to sleep, no food to eat,

Sleeping in a field was our first and only choice

or was it to find a place rich people don’t wish to stay... they avoid

That was what brought us to what people called the ghetto, tenement, poverty-stricken, crowded, low neighborhood, cheap housing, a garbage patch, Hunter’s point, the wrong side of the track,

And popularly… known to all as ‘slum’...

But for us it was Heaven, a place where we found the peace that lacked...

Today, the catchall term “slum” is loose and deprecatory,

it has many connotations and meanings that persist,

and is seldom used by the more sensitive, politically correct, and academically rigorous, yet still …they exist

A second war began for us, in a place closer to the river, where rubbishes are being emptied,

a war with mosquitoes, flies, rats and pigs,

Flooding, no proper school, no proper health service, no proper planning… We don’t have homes in slums but houses,

for our focus is survival, finding ways and means …

to put food on the table like Konsho beans…

they can make you go for a day, or even until the next day

People recognize you by the way you talk and act,

 that simply tells them where you are coming from,

 “Ugh, you smell like someone coming from the slum”

You are nothing in the eyes of people living in the brand and well-structured communities you see,

for as long as you are living in the slum, even if you are the next President or First Lady to be.

I’m only fortunate to see my honorable or any government stakeholder in time for election,

after? No one cares about us, …it feels like rejection.

We are being extracted from being a citizen but we have a right to light, life to shine, to rise…     

Living in such communities can kill great dreams and breaks in pieces what seems…a possibility.

Please let me find my level here in the slum, that’s where I belong “for liquid finds their level”.

BUT …for all I care I’m a strong woman and I can rise up,

Powerful leaders of tomorrow… wake up, wise up

Don’t let our future break down

Let our voices be heard,

Because we care about our communities,

Encourage and help us to go and fulfill our dreams and ambition,

Because our vision...

Is what makes us visible.

The greatest hope I have is to go back to my slum community,

to help them stand strong,

walk together to change that page

and build a better life for all of us… to reach that stage.

For life in the slums…still we rise.

Fatmata Shour is a dancer and actress living in Freetown, Sierra Leone.