A Nɔ Want Yu
No.
It's not because I'm having an affair with a wealthy married man who buys me pretty things and promises me he'll leave her for me; A nɔ want yu.
Yes, I know you're ABC and you do XYZ, you'll take me here and there and do this and that; "But a nɔ want yu".
Even though she'll give the world to be here with you, a jus nɔ want yu.
Your shoes; tanned leather, your collar; starched-stiff, your skin touched with that jc gloss and your back pocket bulging and screaming "you know say money no be problem"
But a still nɔ want yu.
Don't do that. I said no.
Don't call me that. No means no.
Careful now, your ugly is starting to show.
Don't ask me "Aw yu de mek so ba", because I already told you. A nor want u. Without an explanation or apology.
A nɔ want yu.
Rejected, jilted, self conflicted sexually frustrated turned angry, vindictive slanderous story teller.
"Bitch", "slut", "hypocrite" just a few untrue words you said out loud and to every idle ear to restore your shrunken ego, just because I said...
Ebun Tengbeh is a Lawyer and Poet based in Sierra Leone.
SELF-EXILED
Running to small boats to be compressed
In search of fulfillment for vain interests.
If we do this, we are called the smartest.
Those who die along, are mourned as the bravest,
And the survivors are celebrated as the luckiest.
Is this survival of the fittest, Or exiling of the weakest?
The trees have abandoned the forest,
And the birds have forgotten their nest.
The baby ignores its mother’s breast,
For the dirty fingers of a guest.
Tears more than the chin can arrest
And pain, more than the heart can digest
Now bursts forth in an untamed protest
For the patriotism lying unexpressed.
There is too much here to harvest,
For this land still lays blessed
With more in which to invest.
But the workers are all on a quest
In search of foreign homes to rest
But those who remain are obsessed
With thoughts of living in the west.
Irony is indeed at its best,
For while Africa is said to be the richest,
Her children still congest to the west
To be oppressed, or as they say: to be a pest.
Africans no longer beat their chests
Against contemporary foreign conquests,
Instead, we’ve turned Africa into a jest;
Running to small boats to be compressed
In search of fulfillment for vain interests.
If we do this, we are called the smartest.
Those who die along, are mourned as the bravest,
And the survivors are celebrated as the luckiest.
Is this survival of the fittest, Or exiling of the weakest?
Musa Christopher Smart is a young Sierra Leonean poet. He currently lives and writes in Bo city (Southern Sierra Leone).
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
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.
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.