Fritong City

“bo which Depression ba?” 

 “Bipolar Disorder? na false life de kech da baby de!” 

 “na wetman sik dem dat, sam…” 

 “Suicidal Thoughts? noto we i belful? una ker am go church... if Ajesafe pray for dande ehnn!” 

-sang- that's the sound of my city, freetong city 

 the sound of mi country 

 Sierra Leone 

 Salone 

 we don't believe in mental illnesses  

 the kamajors, the rebels of the mind 

 say junta. j6. fet sef kin happen na the mind 

 eastern paddle: the chaos of the mind 

 crase man, Schizophrenia, na street;  

“na do deh do am. e tif fol... a god!” 

-sang- that's the sound of my city, freetong city 

 the sound of mi country 

 Sierra Leone 

 Salone 

 we believe in demonic possessions na di shukubly 

 young gyal, pass out na di shukubly:

“bo na debul ib am! 

 wap am! 

 nak am na di shukubly!” 

 but in truth, she suffers from Anxiety  

 and had a Panic Attack 

 but wi nor believe in dat 

 na di shukubly 

-sang- Ohh noo ohh noo 

 we believe in sermon pills 

 go to pastor, god go heal, intervene  

 e kam pa kam ariogbo go du in ting 

 -sang- that's the sound of my city, freetong city 

 -sang- the only place that we know 

 -sang- the only place we call home 

 home? home?

No 

 home understands my mental health  

 home never makes fun 

 of me  

 when the roofs of gloom fall  

 on me 

 home’ll follow me 

 into the dark, give hands 

 non-judgemental palms 

 “noto drama e lek. wetman or black man, sik no de choose… 

 sik nor get race.” 

 “wi for tek mental health seriously… see, firstly, wi for pay attention to the young wan dem mind state… castrate those things that could frustrate those beings… noto all tin for lef to god… put am dong, ask am where's the pain coming from… mek wi masam… you're not alone.” 

 that should be the sound of my city .

Victor Forna is a poet and writer living in Freetown.

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

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.