Happy World Poetry Day

 

Poetry is an interesting genre of literature. It is a great way to express yourself. Different cultures of the world somehow have poetry embedded in them. This is why poetry should be paid attention to, as a unique way of expression.

You might like to know some things about poems:

1.      They are written in lines and stanzas

2.      They have rhythms which give them that musical feeling

3.      They mostly feature the use of sound devices such as, alliteration and assonance

4.      They feature some figures of speech

5.      Repetition of some words is employed for emphasis in most poems

6.      Poetry also employs the use of imagery to enrich its language

Some common types of poems;

1.   Free verse poem: As the name implies,  it is a poem with no particular structure. Most free verse poems have run on lines.

2. Octave: This is a poem or a stanza of eight lines

3. Acrostic poem: This type of poem spells a word with the first letters of all its lines

4.  Rhyme Poems. Poems are interesting to read, when some words rhyme in sounds

5. Sonnet: This is a poem of fourteen lines.

      

     Light Up

Making people happy makes me feel

Responsible

Sometimes this is hard but

 

Determination always wins

Although it appears futile

Never give up on passion

 

Just like a glowing light

Uniqueness stands us out

Making us special

But only when we move

Out of the ordinary

 

I am sure you can figure out what type of poem this is.

Happy World Poetry Day!

A Twist of FATE

 

The Journey…

Hope smiled with tears in her eyes, she couldn’t think of anything else, except that he was going away and she might not get to see him again. She hesitantly took a step then took his outstretched hands and hugged him. She couldn’t explain what happened to her in that short moment, she just knew she quickly pulled away.

    “I wish you the best,” she said.

    “Yeah, me too,” Lanre replied, with a sad look in his eyes.

    “You have to leave now Lanre.” She started to walk inside the compound.         “…And thank you for coming,” she added and disappeared inside.

This is a story of a young girl, who lost all her family members in a ghastly car accident and was left all alone in a cold world. Hope Eze, came out of a coma, to realize that she had to live and survive without a family. Her life took a turn after she met Mrs. Bakare who decided to take her in, like a daughter. Everything was going on fine for her, until Lanre Bakare, the only son of the Bakares showed up.

Hope was faced between two decisions of going for what she wanted and what she needed.  She headed in a direction which launched her into the next phase of her life. It was a journey of pain, sacrifice and a twist.

 

 

Edith. A. Dan Jumbo 

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Creative Writing Online courses: Creative writing Basics

Creative writing is a broad subject which covers various types of writing ranging from fiction, non fiction, plays, poetry, lyrics, etc. You cannot afford to be casual about your writing if you are a writer or a creative writing instructor. Nachy Writing Academy opens its free online courses to help sharpen the writing skill and also put you in a better position to teach this subject. The free courses covers the first stage in our curriculum.

Creative Writing Basics


If you are interested in learning the craft of language, then click the download link below to download the lessons. Remember, it is not just what you write, it is how you write.

Creative writing course: lesson 1
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The Eye of Reward

A story by Edith Okesinachi Dan Jumbo

1

Mma Sets Out

It was a cool evening, in the village of Ohafia.  Most of the villagers had closed up on the activities of the day and were planning to retire to bed. The night always seemed longer in the village because the villagers slept early and the palm trees almost everywhere made the night appeared darker than it should be.

Mma picked up the firewood she had tied in a bunch for the aged woman who lived some houses away. She always saw Nne, as she was popularly known, most times when returning from the stream.  Mma was the first of three children, but she was known to be very industrious and liked helping people. She followed her mother to the farm, and would push the wheel barrow from a long distance to their house. She often begged her mother to allow her give some of their farm products to some less privileged ones around them. Everyone loved Mma, because she was so compassionate.

When Mma decided to be fetching water and getting firewood for Nne, some of the villagers frowned at it, because they believed Nne had some evil omen about her. Nne was childless and lost her husband the previous year, but instead of the villagers to pity her, they blamed her for being childless and for the death of her husband. They accused her of eating all her children in the spirit world and later killing her husband.  Some even openly called her a witch. Mma knew that it was a mere accusation, probably because Nne was not from Ohafia originally, until after marriage.

Mma’s mother, however, had a different opinion of Nne, in fact, it was as a result of her testimony of Nne that made Mma decide that she would always help Nne as much as she could. When Obiora, Mma’s mother was newly married, Nne stood for her like the mother she lost when she was still a girl. She always advised her and would come to bath her child whenever she gave birth. Mma got to know about this much later as she grew and decided to help the old woman more, after her husband died.

Mma quickly went inside to inform her mother that she was going to Nne’s house.

“Mama”, she called, “I am going to drop the firewood at Nne’s house.”

“Okay Nnenne” her mother replied. Mma always loved it, whenever her mother called her by that pet name. “Make sure you don’t take long, so that you return before it gets really dark” her mother continued.

“I will come back on time Mama don’t worry, “Mma assured her mother. “I hate walking alone in the dark too”. With that, she carefully placed the tied up firewood on her head and started walking away.

                                                               2

Mma Meets the Prince

The crickets were already singing their night song by the time Mma got to Nne’s house. That reminded her that she didn’t need to stay long before her mother would start getting worried. She quickly dropped the firewood where she normally dropped them and looked towards Nne’s sitting room. There appeared to be someone with her, because she could hear a man’s voice.

“Good evening Nne “she greeted, “I have brought the firewood that I promised to bring for you”

“Mmasinachi, is that you?”  Nne asked. Please come my daughter. Thank God for bringing you now and thank you for the firewood. May the good lord in heaven, continue to bless you. Come my daughter, God really wanted you meet with the prince today.

Mma became confused. “Nne, what are you talking about? What prince?”

Nne came out, when she noticed that Mma didn’t move. “The Eze’s son Mma, he is the Prince and we were just talking about you”

“Nne, I don’t understand.” Mma said spreading her hands.

“The Prince came to see me and asked after the girl who always brings firewood for me, and you just came” Nne tried to explain with a kind of smile that said to Mma; “you should understand”

“But Nne, that’s nothing, I do that for my mother and you are like my grandmother” Mma said a bit uneasy, because she noticed the curtain from the sitting room has been moved. “Oh no, he is coming out” she thought. “Nne, I have to go now, Mama said I shouldn’t stay long” she said walking away, when the Prince‘s voice stopped her.

“Don’t tell me that you are running away from me” he said with a smile, now he was standing between her and Nne.

“No sir” Mma replied. “Good evening” she greeted in a shaky voiced. “Mma, what is wrong with you?” she asked herself. She hated meeting strangers and always shrank back from meeting people especially the opposite sex. Her mother believed, that it was a major reason why she was yet to be married like some of her mates. Although she just turned twenty few months ago, Mma still looked younger and  prettier than her age mates.

“I am Eyinnaya” he introduced himself. Mma quickly looked up at him and drew a lot from that quick glance. He was dark and a little bit above average height. He was dressed in a simple shirt and black trousers, one would pass him for just any foreigner in the village, because he dressed nothing like a prince. “He is good looking too “she thought. Mma, although inexperienced, knew a good looking man when she saw one. “ I have to go Sir, my mother will start getting worried if I delayed further” she said looking up at Nne, who was just smiling and saying nothing, hoping that she would help her leave on time.

“She is not just hardworking” Prince Eyinna said to Nne, “she is also beautiful and well behaved” Mma felt like the ground should open, she was now sweating and squeezing her hands. “Is he trying to make me uncomfortable or what?” she wondered.

The Prince looked at her hard for a few minutes then asked: “Will you marry me?”

Mma looked up at him, and suddenly, boldness came into her. “What if I say no Prince? Will you spare me?”

The Prince smiled “ I liked you, because every time I come to visit Nne, I see a big bunch of firewood and when I ask how she gets them, she says “Mma brings them for me”, but with this question you asked now, I see you as someone with a mind of her own” he looked harder at her now. “Of course, I will spare you if you say no, you are not my slave, but I don’t want you to say no, because I think I am falling in love with you.

Mma didn’t know what to say, she kept swallowing salivia. “Please, let me think about it” she said.

“Yes, my Prince, let her think about it, you know she was not expecting it” Nne finally spoke up.

It was a strange proposal and Mma didn’t know how to handle it. She had to let her parents know too, especially her mother. Something told her that her mother would be thrilled.

Mma was right, her parents were happy with the news, it was like a dream for her father, to be associated with royalty. The crowned prince of Ohafia was interested in his first daughter. It was a miracle. Mma finally saw reasons to accept the prince’s proposal after hearing words again from him, through Nne, who also spoke well of the Prince and encouraged her.

Coincidentally, Nne was also nice to the Prince’s mother and the Prince wanted to pay her back somehow, so from time to time, whenever he was around, he would visit her and give her a small gift. As time passed, it was time for him to get a bride, he wanted a girl from his village, who would be his queen and be by his side at all times.

For Mma, it was God at work, who would think that there was someone else out there who was indebted to Nne like she was, and to think that it was the Eze’s son. While she did everything she did  out of a good heart, an invisible eye was watching and paid her back with a man who shared her passion for people. Above all, Prince Eyinnaya was such a humble man, who never put his social class before the people. The people of Ohafia loved him, and it made it so easy for Mma, as future Queen of Ohafia.

Mma had to deal with the Queen's opinion of her social class. Keep following to find out what happened next...

Improve on Your Writing

What is the difference between one writing piece and another? What makes a reader stay glued to one written text and ignores the other? It is simple; the way in which language is used to communicate the ideas. 

Did you know that that there are traits every good writing should have which makes it stand out from the norm? One of such traits is the choice of words of the writer. Good writers deliberately choose and use words for special effects.

Nachy Writing Academy is born not just to discover the writer in you, but to also help improve your writing skill. We are committed to discovering, training and helping you write better.

Are you a teacher, school owner, student, or even a businessman? Then, you might just be one call away from improving your writing skill.

NACHY WRITING ACADEMY:  raising the next generation of writers!

I AM

I am

Energetic
Determined
Inspiring
Thoughtful and
Harmless

I am Edith

AMINA

A short story by Daniel Omale

photo credit: Africanquarters.com

“Move away from the wall!” 

Amina screamed in a suppressed voice like a desperate, mad woman. 

“Those devils might see you,” she cried. 

We have been hobbled here for three days, three dark days. Every passing dead day thickens the terror that gripped our hearts. Such morbid fear that makes the streaming rays of the noon day sun that drips through the holes on the roof stab our hearts with terror, such great terror that drives us to cringe ourselves into the darkest corner of this single room. This room that somehow has become our refuge, our prison and may be our grave. Death’s been everywhere in this village for three days and four nights, but Amina and I have managed to elude it only for this long. 

As I heard rasping footsteps approaching the door, I moved toward the window to get a peek through the eye-sized hole on the wall created by a raging stray bullet below the wooden window that we have tightly shut since we took refuge here that night. As I peeked with my good right eye, I could see nothing but dust, death and decaying corpse left bare in the open street. Although the rasping sound of steps was only a bold confused rat running around the abandoned school seeking for a hole to hide. But now every single approaching sound violent or stealthy drowns us anew in fire of fear. This was such a brutal baptism to feel death lurking around, daring you, mocking you, letting you know. ‘I’ve got you, you are mine.’ 

Such silent sound that echoes within the silence of your racing heart; such vicious voice that whispers in your ear every moment; ‘ I’ve got you.’ 

But four nights ago, life was normal. I had come to school as always bare-footed but desperate for knowledge. I was filled with a heavy hunger to learn. A passionate desire to live high and above the ignorance and illiteracy that is eating up my village and its inhabitants. It was mid-May. As I galloped through the dusty path that lead to my classroom, it felt like running toward the light hanging lamp-like in the horizon, like approaching the last point on a treasure map where the gold, diamonds and all kinds of precious stones are stowed up. I dashed into the classroom and Miss Amina was there the earliest as usual waiting patiently and calmly for her students. As I crashed in through the door and prostrated in greeting, she nodded her head in response, and beckoned to me to take my seat. I was always the first student to arrive school every day. Yet no matter how early I get to school, Miss Amina would always be there waiting. She is a young but a fountain of knowledge, she teaches Math, science and English Language in my school; the only school that serviced nine villages yet most of the classrooms are empty. Owing to the threat the dreaded terrorist group placed on our village if parents dared to send their wards to acquire a formal education. 

Amina told us once; “Don’t ever be afraid to come to school and learn, knowledge is power and you need that power,"she told us. "Gaining knowledge will make us powerful enough to put an end to all forms of confusion and problems we have around us". 

And when she spoke, we all sat still and drank. We drank of her voice, we drank of her knowledge, we drank of her wisdom, and she had wisdom in abundance. She told us to call her Amina, and not Miss Amina, that she was our friend. Amina broke down the walls terror and ignorance had built around our hearts and mind and set us free. She gave us the key to become conquerors of evil and terror. Like when I was able to read my first word: ‘Balarabe’ it is my name. I have never seen it written before. ‘It means a son born on the first day before Friday,’ Amina said.

Miss Amina taught me the magic of letter sounds, and she held my hands and showed me how to build words on paper with a pencil. I felt the joy of conquering the darkness of illiteracy. I felt the light of stepping into the world of western wisdom that the terrorist group threatening my village antagonize so brutally.

Just before the close of school; there was pandemonium, a chaotic confusion coming from the outskirts of the village heralded by the loud blast of machine guns, and the killing cry of terror. 

My school has three classroom building, and one administrative building; all constructed in a rectangular form without walls to separate it from the rest of the village. The Bushigas arrived the school on an open-air van shooting sporadically. I counted forty armed men shooting with direct aim at students and teachers they moved between class rooms,  killing everyone in sight. I asked Miss Amina to follow me,  and we entered a room where broken desks tables and chairs were parked. We shut the window and laid face-down on the ground. The attack lasted for five hours. The Bushigas killed all the male students and male teachers in sight and they took the girls hostage. The gory stories of their adventures with the female teachers and students cannot be relieved on these pages.

"I Am Light"

I am light, I am light

I am not the things my family did
I am not the voices in my head
I am not the pieces of the brokenness inside
I am light, I am light

I am light, I am light

I'm not the mistakes that I have made
Or any of the things that caused me pain
I am not the pieces of the dream I left behind
I am light, I am light

I am light, I am light

I am not the color of my eyes
I am not the skin on the outside
I am not my age, I am not my race
My soul inside is all light

I am light, I am light

I am divinity defined
I am the God on the inside
I am a star, a piece of it all
I am light!

                                                                             
poem by Sandra Ani

(c) 22nd October, 2019

Helen of Troy.

Beauty and charm,
Forged by the hands of the gods.
They say in her bossom,
you find bloom.
Yet in her heart doom.
They say the gods themselves,
set her on her path.
A path that criss-crosses
The path of all men.
A path no man will fully understand.
A knowledge
For which we forever
Draw arms,
Speaches and strategies.
The beast thinks he owns her.
And Prince charming to the rescue.
For blood and honour,
Or love.
For which do you battle?
Men will die!
Legions will fall,
And generations will follow...

Will she bring peace
After a life time of war?
Will she?
No man has adequate answers,
There is no end!
O! Helen of Troy.
What is the purpose of creation,
when you live to destroy!

For women the world over.
Poem by TSM.
(c)14 Aug. 2013

The Tool of the Writer

It is just not enough to put words down on paper, a writer should be able to establish his targeted audience, know the right words to use and know how to use those words to achieve his objective.

Building a rich word bank becomes important, as the need to express ideas better through words grows.  Anyone involved directly or indirectly with expression of ideas, whether written or verbal, should task themselves to have a rich resource of words.

At a just concluded teachers  training program   on “Literacy”, one of the facilitators, Miss Pepetual Chiwendu Igwe, expounded on vocabulary development, as one of the ways to help with literacy in the twenty first century. According to her, if educators would do their homework well, the students in their custody would gradually start building their own word bank.

Miss Pepetual Chiwendu Igwe on literacy

There are many ways of going round a subject, this is where creativity comes in. what gives a writer that unique expression, is his or her ability to use words in a creative way. Creative writing, is a product of creative thinking and creative thinking,  is a product of what the mind has been exposed to. Of course, there are many things that spur creativity, but for the writer, having a rich word bank is key.

Nobody wants to read a writing piece filled with repeated words, when there is something more appealing to read. Writings that are spiced up with choice words are more interesting and catch the reader’s attention more. Apart  from the information they provide, such writings educate the readers by giving them the opportunity to also learn new words.

To have your own unique voice, learn the craft of words and trade with them!

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.

Bright Tunnel

Baby steps
Milestones
I just desire to know
How does it feel?
I want to be a success surely
But on some days
I'm too passionate I let my dreams run themselves
Or maybe I'm just a being who wants to be herself
These steps do count
But I'd rather get the whole bunch

Poem by Chika Agbo

Sweet Dreams

My dreams, so sweet
Not how I sleep
But the me while I sleep still
Sweet dreams, so enticing
When my physical eyes are close to my inner sight
My portrait of a thousand years
Behold in a night's dream
Oh sweet dreams
How sweet and swift the journey to eternal seems
Sweet dreams so precious
Sweeps away the storms of life
Dreams so sweet, never want  to wake up.

Poem by Eunicent Yakoro

Little Foxes

They are hidden and often not seen

They are powerful and destructive 

They find expression without being invited 

Sometimes they rear their heads 

We fail to take note because they are so small

The little things about you that mar you 

Are not your friends don't let them stay

They are little foxes which destroy your vine

BRIGHTER END

I see the clear picture 

It speaks of a bright future

Laughter escaped instead of a cry

Knowing that life deserves another try

Don’t put the label on the garment

Else you have erroneous judgment

Whoever remains at a place?

That wants to end in the palace

It’s a journey that is taken everyday

Too slow to win they all say

Judgment time is not yet set

Don’t conclude on the trip yet

My map is a beautiful picture

Looking different, that is the future

Deaf my ears are to the word rest

Till the target is hit that reads best

Gold diggers often spell worn out

That is the price worked out

Dreams so beautiful is worked out