Kepler 452b by John Chidi
The world agreed on this point:
Africa lacked the will and technology
for space exploration.
When Nigeria announced a manned mission
To Kepler 452b in 2026,
It was hailed by all as a bold move.
Unofficially, snickers and guffaws greeted it.
June 6, 2026, it happened.
The shuttle was launched from Yasny Cosmodrome, Russia.
Sixteen hours later all communication with it was lost.
Four weeks after, the shuttle reentered earth’s orbit.
There was only one person on board. She was dead.
Three years later, a NASA probe party landed on Kepler 452b.
A colony of misshapen humanoids welcomed them.
The Americans tasted good.
Their women, they kept for breeding.
Write this Wrong
by Kolade Olanrewaju Freedom
…right this wrong
All day long, my wobbling legs travel
a path cleared by the very hands of
hardship, a co-traveler with gory tales
of conquest unmatched by warlords.
All day long, my head, like a horse
is saddled with a burden belonging
to poverty standing across the street
to applaud the effrontery of my efforts.
All day long, my dreams sit before a cold fire
passive, pensive, incapacitated by the chains
of injustice, hung onto the runny nose of
my future tugging at the trousers of ‘do something’.
All day long, my voice sneaks into impaired ears
of passers-by with patched pockets sewn by
poverty who survives and thrives on bogus funds
generously donated by corruption, a timeless ally.
All night short, my heart is raised in a body
lowered by suffering unfair to limitation
…but for survival, this hand must write
to right the wrongs of a righteous society…
Kolade Olanrewaju Freedom is the editor of PIN Quarterly Journal and Moderator of Eriata Annual Food Poetry Contest. He has authored two poetry collections entitled The Light Bearer and Punctured Silence.
Stenches by Eriata Oribhabor
pouring still on the ‘rusty caps’ of Ibadan
are poetic dusts from the Fist of Words
showered bold by gifted brains…
as lines of love and hope for all;
today’s revolution –
pouring still on the jaded streets of Ibadan
are lines of commitment and service
empowered to hold the aces
for fatherland…untie nutty reigns
of streets decorated by
wastes and shame.
pouring still are the dusts of Fists of Words
its rhymes and rhythms will haunt an ivory tower
finding feet to feed its lawns with free waters of love,
in search of formulas to fix her non-functional utilities…
if her booming stench from toilets doesn’t stop,
where is decency we mouth?
pouring hard on hearts are worries
of reflating waning ways of a land
burnished on billboards as magical wands
of change and transformation…lacking freshness
promised on pages of newspapers and television screens-
pecks without specs.
if this revolution runs from the bottom of our hearts
and pumped on the streets, authorities will be ruffled
forgotten parts of pain and shame will join to build
a wining whole…collective tills will build again;
greenery of old will come in brightened forms
killing stenches of pain and shame…feeding souls.