His Silence
Too much has happened here
He has waged silent warfare
Socially learned neglect as norm.
Avoided glances and eye contact.
Shut doors and cellphone for finger tips.
His attention, his smiles, his affection-
reserved for those who do not make him feel ashamed of his own existence.
His conversation, his loving touch
for those who validate his struggle to climb to the respect table
where I should be but could never attempt/ing to reach.
Too much has happened here
He has left the smell of polite smiles at my efforts to be worthy of acknowledgement.
He has eaten in putrid quiet that reeks of anger at his childhood, while she has scrambled around looking for her way out in festive dishes and perfectly set tables.
I hear his fear in the hallways muffled by her regret and suicide attempts.
She has mopped over them with parent-teacher meetings, over investment in our lives or over loving everyone and the attached parts of herself.
Too much has happened here
We have fought over clothes and accessories
We have competed for titles that nobody told us were birthrights
We have placed the judgment of our worth in him, her and the institutions that massacred him and her - left them in present bodies, drowning in wells of broken down barely breathing unsure souls.
Too much has happened here
I left.
I have identified, then co-identified to find I mis-identified for the books to tell me not to identify at all.
I have nightmares of the boy I let touch me
Strum his curious tunes across the keys of my skin
To unlock his unreadiness and flee from too muchness.
I have nightmares of the love I felt for him and the disdain he felt of me.
His was always a lock I picked apart while the mirror in the keyhole made him cringe with memories of too much happening in his mother’s home.
He has replied emails and love letters with one word answers while he questioned everything about hating how much he needed to love me.
Too much has happened here
We wake up in sweat in the middle of the night
Panting
We hear whispers of failure and gossip about how we did not win the competition for titles nobody told us were birthrights.
Nobody ever yelled love at us
Nobody ever shook respect into our hands with stretched out palm.
Nobody ever painted peace in green walls around us.
I do not want to be alone in this apartment.
Too much has happened here.
-By mw.
Ten Long Years
For ten long years
we spared no one
on the theater of war,
where no glories were won,
only the wasted lives of our kinfolks
and the tired frame
of a battered nation,
where we were prey and predator.
From humble Bomaru,
agony rode through our veins
to the death of heroes and villains,
when blood relatives of this land
hunted one another
with apocalyptic grudge,
fighting to conquer themselves
in a land divided against itself.
We had forgotten the peace
once shared in the noise children made
when they played hide and seek
on nights illuminated by moonlight,
when adults sat around the fire
sharing legends of their land
and the illustrious heroes
whose bold steps cleared our path.
We had strayed too far
from the luminance of Naimbana
and the bravery of Sengbe and Nyangua
to where we became lab animals
in the murderous hands of intoxicated children
controlled by savage hands,
possessed by evil spirits
conjuring our bloody end.
When our neighbors
in green and blue helmets
arrived to keep the peace
our fire had burned too far.
Those with any life left
rose from cinder
like feverish zombies
groaning and trembling to life.
Now let our ruin be our rebirth
as life itself springs from death,
a new country consecrated with blood
germinates with zest and courage,
with a firm commitment
to never again
turn to violence
to settle scores.
-Joseph Kaifala.
Joseph Kaifala is a lawyer , scholar and human rights activist from Sierra Leone.
In The Sun
a good poem to me is like food when I'm starving
you're poetry
a book battered and burnt
but still legible
i read you
your skin is fragile parchment full of stories of your past
the tattoos on your neck are new
a rose choked by its own thorns
a dead man hanging from a noose
i read you
black boy i can't love. black boy i can't have. black boy i can't call mine.
i found your book buried in the ashes of an old fireplace inside a haunted castle
i brought you home with me into the light where you don't need to hide
behind tattoos, behind thorns, behind costumes of monsters
like you, i used to be starving too
but you,
battered, burnt, blue black boy
fill me
i read you all summer long
right here
right here in the sun.
Adeola Carew is a writer and poet from Sierra Leone.
Mi at sidɔm saful
Mi at sidɔm saful by Anni Domingo
1. Mi at sidɔm saful bikɔs a no se
pan ɔl we di wɔl tɔnɔbɔ ɔlsay
sɔm pɔsin dɛn de we de wok
de ɛn nɛt fɔ ol wi ɔl tayt
so natin nɔ go ambɔg wi.
2. Mi at sidɔm saful bikɔs a no se
pan ɔl we wi de bay wisɛf,
ɛn wi nɔ de niya wi kɔmpin,
wi ɔl na wan ɛn de fil ɔl
wetin wi kɔmpin de fil.
3. Mi at sidɔm saful bikɔs a no se
pan ɔl we ɔlman lɔk insay os, in wan gren,
di wɔl dɔn big. Wi de tɔk naw sɔm kayn we
wi nɔ mɛmba se go apin wan de. Ɔlman na
wan, ɛn wi bisin bɔt wi kɔmpin dɛm.
4. Mi at sidɔm saful bikɔs a no se
dɛm wan dɛm we nɔbɔdi bin de braskitul sɛf,
na dɛm de bifo naw. Dɛn nɔ de na grɔn igen,
wi abop pan dɛm. Na so wi ɔl de klap fɔ dɛm.
5. Mi at sidɔm saful bikɔs a no se
wi kin manej naw witawt bɔku bɔku tin dɛm.
Na pɔsin, nɔto tin dɛm, go mek wi layf bɛtɛ,
Ɛn tɔn dawt ɛn tabitabi to op fɔ tumara.
6. Mi at sidɔm saful bikɔs a no se
Dis lɔkdɔng ya so, nɔ min se wi fasin insay.
I mek wi at swɛl big so te wi ebul fɔ
pre fɔ dɛn wan dɛm we dɔn lɔs dɛnsɛf
ɔ dɛm bɔdi dɔn brok wit tumɔs wahala.
7. Mi at sidɔm saful bikɔs a no se
ɔl dis bɔku plaba go tap wan de.
Ivin na dis kres kres tɛm ya so
Wi dɔn fɛn tru sori-at ɛn ajo,
ɛn wi at de sing wit jɔy.
8. Mi at sidɔm saful bikɔs a no se
tide na bunya, ɛn wi nɔ no wetin go kam
tumara bambay. We wi ɔl sidɔm na os
di grɔn dɔn gɛ tɛm fɔ de mɛn insɛf.
9. Mi at sidɔm saful bikɔs a no se
ɔltin we de insay wi at, na di sem tin
we bin de fɔstɛm, bikɔs ɔltin na wan
i sidɔm na wi at, ɛn fasin wi to aw
wi tan lɛk dip insay, to udat wi bi.
10. Mi at sidɔm saful bikɔs a no se
wi dɔn gɛt bɔku bɔku tɛm. so lɛ wi
tinap, lɛ wi lisin ɛn memba se,
wi tranga, ɛn bay ɛn bay, wi go ebul
fɔ blo kam dɔng igɛn .
Anni Domingo is a British-Sierra Leonean actress in Theatre, Television, Radio and in Films.
Note: Ms Domingo would like to acknowledge Amadu Bangura and Esme James for helping with
official Krio orthography in this poem.
16 Years Later
16 years later
a mit dɛm na di sem ples we dɛm bi kam lɛf mi
Fritɔŋ Lunge Airport
as a kɔmɔt na di plen, e, a de fil ɔt
so a de drink bɔku wata, a nɔ de ask how much
ɔl mi anti ɛn ɔnkul dɛn se Abu na yu dɔn big so
bɔt dɛn ɔl stil luk di sem lɛk se na yɛstade a go
16 years later
ɔl dɛn pikin dɛn fes luk jɔs lɛk mi
sem nos ɛn chikbon with melanin slightly richer
dɛn nɔ wande si mi bifo bɔt dɛn ɔl de kɔl mi ɔnkul
16 years later
ɛvri mɔnin ɔf ɛvri de
ɔlman de grit ɔlman lɛk se wi na fambul
ivin we di san ɔt, a nɔ de si bɔku lɔng mɔt
‘padiman aw di bɔdi?’
a sam, tɛl gɔd tɛnki
16 years later
ɔl sɔm man dɛn gɛ fɔ it na bred ɛn bɔta
bɔt ɛvri salon man stil gɛt wetin i fasin
sɔm dɛn lɛk uman-lapa, sɔm dɛn lɛk bita-kola
sɔm man dɛn sabi sing we di ɔmɔle dɔn waka
LXG bin tɛl wi se, kaki nɔ to lɛda
bɔt stil dɛn bebi dɛn sabi chɛr am
16 years later
di slogan dɛn na di sem
tide fɔ yu, tumara fɔ mi
minɛŋ o, munɔŋ o, sabanɔ
Sierra Leone, na wi ɔl yon,
una mek wi ep wisɛf for improve Sierra Leone
mi fambul dɛm a no se, chariti bigins at om
so no mata usay a go, a nɔ go fɔgɛt mi salon
wɛlintin, kalba- tɔŋ, bay nyu rod ɔ ol rod
if wi de go wɛstɛnd, wi tek wilkinsin rod
Aberdeen, Lumley, wi kɔntri so lɔvli
16 years later
Taxi drayva stil wan olɔp mi chenj lɛk se a sabi dem
ɛn layt de stil kam ɛn go, lɛk dɛn JC dɛm.
Abu Yillah is a Sierra Leonean Filmmaker, Poet and Photographer based in London.