Ada Obim.

It is yet election day,
But you have won your way
To ruling my universe.
With no thumbprints, or
Ballot papers,
You have rigged the very seat
Of my soul.
And with no Coronation,
You have become the Queen of my heart.

How I swept you off your feet,
Only Ndi APC can explain.
In you I have a lover, mother,
A cover, my umbrella, my strength,
My power to the people.
Ada Obim,
If only I was a member of APGA,
Maka Chukwu,
The taste of Okuko,
Will never leave your memory.

And in these days of subsidy, and scarcity,
Nne, gbacha nkiti,
I will fetch for you,
Dried angala and mushrooms from Akwete.
I will draw for you,
Everlasting water from the river of life.
I will thread the oil mill,
Harvest fresh cassava
And prepare for you,
A tasty pot of Abacha.
Allocated with onions,
Fried fish, garden eggs, kanda
Ugba, and utazi.
And after a jolly full stomach,
We lie side by side,
Gazing at the stars.
In HOPE for change or transformation.

And though we fight, or
Quarrel sometimes.
Ada Obim,
I assure you of zero opposition.
No tribunal, or appeal or supreme Court
Can nullify this love.
No need for re- election
No campaign, or rallies
No need for posters.
You Win!
Asa,
You have already won.
E dela aha gi, na Obim.     

                       
Poem by TSM.     

Voice

I want to write.
Of a generation slipping
Of a people without resilience
Of a get it quick and easy generation.
Of boys talking about
Girls and football
Of girls, talking about
Boys and dresses.

I want write about sons
Leaving home for club houses
About daughters  Leaving mothers
For brothels.

I want to write for the voices not heard,
I want to write with the voice that can only be heard.
I want write for the dashed hopes,
For the lively hope.
For the many injustice
Will my pen bleed on this sweet?

I want to write for mothers,
Whose breast gave suckling
But live not to enjoy that child.
I want to write of fathers, who tried their hardest,
Yet broke their homes with infidelity.

I want to write of a faithful wife
Now HIV positive
Her husband was not discreet enough.

I want to write of dreams
That will only be dreams
Of wishes that will never know reality,
Of fantasies that keeps
A grown man a child.
I want to write of truth that will never be told.

I want to write of a lost generation,
Of churches no longer a place of hope,
Of mosques no longer a place of prayer.
I want to write about this loud silence
About this silent noise.
I want to write about faith without work
And of work without faith.

I want to write for those on the pavements ,
of those in the villa.
I want to write to tell a tale
That will never be told
Of mysteries that can never be broken
Will my pen bleed on these sheets
For issues men will never know.

I want to write of husbands who left
Willing wives for mistresses
Of strange women
Who break homes.
I want to write of wives
Who left good men
For rough rich men
Of women looking for guarantees
Not possibilities.

I want to write of fathers
Who left, of mothers who stayed,
Of children pulling on mama’s dress tail.
I want to write about devotion,
Extreme fidelity.
About indiscretion,
Of sincere infidelity.

I want to write of fame and notoriety,
Of winter days that won’t end,
Of sad seasons that will not change.
I write of love unrequited,
Of blue days
And of green days
Of red days,
And of purple days.

I want to write about moonless nights
And sunless days,
About desired yesterdays
And delayed tomorrows.
I want to write of static todays,
Of ups and downs
But of more downs.

I write about preys and predators,
Of the rapist and the raped,
The victim who would
Never speak of it.
I write of her pain and her silence.
Of her heart and her hurt.

Poem by Daniel Omale

When I First Met You

When I first met you
I promised to be true
I promised to be good
Good and true to you
And you did the same too
.
But promises are not made
At the spur of the moment
There will be mountains of doubts
There will be valleys of fears
Even with someone you hold dear

A little stream of doubt
Can become an ocean of fear
Tearing at the fibers of the soul
Once shy, I became bold
But the love has gone cold               

Poem by Joe Umoh Etuknwa

Heroes of The Future

In the space of the heart
The feast was held
The heartbeat they hate
Still takes the height
In which they hunt
And all they hear
Is the fact so near
As the dreams  are rare
But feels so ripe
Even before the rain
How time reigns
Like there was never a need
In snoop for the  next
It smashed  the night           

Poem by Gloria.  A.  Ifiok     

The Moving Star

A story by Edith Okesinachi Dan Jumbo

University of Nigeria, Nsukka, was a dream come true for Ihuoma, who had always heard so much about the university. She stood one more time, to take a good look at the organized roads in the campus, with well-trimmed flowers on both sides. She watched, as students walked pass her. Some were carrying their small bags in stylish fashion, while some just carried piles of books close to their chest. The way those students dress was something else, some of the girls were almost half naked. She wanted to ask one of them the way to the Admin Block, but thought otherwise. 

It was Ihuoma’s first day in school, and she did not exactly know how to behave. She wanted to jump out of her skin for joy, that she was given an admission to study Business Management at the University of Nigeria Nsukka, but then she didn’t want to announce to the world that it was her first day in the school. “I wouldn’t want to be called a village girl” she thought, as she remembered how she had been despised and called a village girl many times by her cousins.

Uncle Boma was a middle aged man, who had what one would call an angelic heart. He was the immediate elder brother to Ihuoma’s father, who had been sick of stroke for the past two years. Uncle Boma had always believed in Ihuoma’s academic ability, because she had always managed to top her class. “you are a very bright girl” he would always tell her, but Uncle Boma’s children thought differently of her. Okeke, his first son made sure that he convinced others that Ihuoma was a dull village girl, who could never compete with them.

When it was very clear that Ihuoma’s father could not afford to send his daughter to a higher institution to further her study, Uncle Buma, came into the picture and became the God sent to Ihuoma’s life. She moved to Lagos with her uncle and was introduced to another life of comfort mixed with pain. 

For some reasons, she just believed that her uncle’s children were jealous of her. Their father seemed to be getting more drawn to her than to his own children, even aunty Rose, their mother, showed it at some point, but she wasn’t a bad woman. She knew her children had a lot of issues with domestic training. People believed that she spoilt her children with too much pampering. They hardly do anything at home, and yet they seemed to have everything.

It wasn’t a surprise when Aunty Rose practically left the house for Ihuoma to run. She was always busy, and came back late. They had a house help who became Ihuoma’s friend because they were always working together trying to run the house. Things were a bit fair for Ihuoma until Okeke the “okpara” of the house decided to make it clear to her who the real owners of the house were.

She smiled as she continued her train of thoughts. Her uncle had informed her and Okeke that he wanted both of them to write the Jamb examination, he also wanted them to enroll in an evening class somewhere close to the house in preparation for the examination. Ihuoma could not believe her ears; her dream of actually going to a university could come to pass. She remembered the look on Okeke’s face when he learnt that his father wanted both of them to write the Jamb examination. 

“daddy, but I am older than Ihuoma, why can’t she wait till next year like Ada, to write hers'” Okeke had said then. 

“Ihuoma is already out of secondary school and very qualified to write the Jamb examination, Ada is still in SS3, and I want her to be through before she writes the examination.” His had father replied. 

Okeke had given Ihuoma that cold look that she had come to understand so well, but why he didn’t want her to write the examination at the same time he would be writing, was what she didn’t understand. Maybe it was a kind of fear, she really couldn’t point it out. Ihuoma realized that she was right when Okeke didn’t pass the Jamb examination. His fear of failing caught up with him, and that was not the first time. She had a mixed feeling for him of pity and bitterness. He really was her cousin, and she wouldn’t wish him ill luck, even if he deserved it.

“Won’t you look at where you are going" a voice from behind brought her back to the present. “Oh, sorry” she replied a boy who almost wanted to push her out of his way. She carefully moved away to avoid touching him. “Life is really a big place” she thought. “Firstly, I was a village girl, then a Lagos girl, today, I am a university girl, and tomorrow, the first female president of Nigeria maybe, God  bless uncle Boma”, she prayed for the hundredth time for her uncle, as she walked towards the Admin Block.

CREATIVE WRITING

Creative writing refers to that piece of writing which do not follow the regular way of writing. It tends to mirror life’s experiences and entertains its audience.

TYPES OF CREATIVE WRITING
Creative writing could take any of these forms:
 Prose: this refers to any written story of people or events. It could either be a fiction or nonfiction. Since the focus is on creative writing, prose could be defined as a story that is invented and not an account of something that actually happened.  Examples of this type of prose are: novels, novellas and short stories.

Poetry: poetry is any piece of writing with a pattern of lines which sometimes rhymes in sound. These lines could either be arranged in stanzas or verses. Poetry expresses thoughts, emotions and employs words which excite the imagination. Examples of types of poems are: epic, ballad, free verse, lyrics, dirge/elegy etc.

 Drama: This is a piece of writing which through dialogue is enacted on a stage by actors before an audience. The characters in drama imitate the characters, actions and speech patterns of people in real life. Some types of drama are: Comedy , Tragedy, Tragicomedy, Farce, etc.