Volume Five, Issue 2

Ariyo Ahmad


This poem is part of the reason why I'm still alive
The dead have reduced from bones to sand

A beautiful flower resurrect from the grave
Each time I see the flower revealing new bud

I remember the time / the date / the hour
The person's soul trespasses his body

I regurgitate how the sun shines
Pace at which the wind shakes the leaves

Shedding down like snow
The unhinged prayer of a mother
Who has got to behold the burial of her son

Whose eyes has now become mountain
Where the rod of absence of her son strikes

Streams of tears gushes out
Parting from her eyelids
down her tender cheeks

I want to make special Du'a for the dead
That we revolt to the days we storm

At one another with a broad smiles
Lightning up the sad heart we carry into purple of lightness

I hope it won't endanger my pillar of faith
As my prayer has used a lengthy year

Like a poem submitted for new Yorker
Where the mails woke me by midnight
Saying- thank you for your submission

Even God would pass by such a submission
A mother would slap her daughter yanking

About God with a swaying mouth
For the dead has no meeting with the living

If I break down in the midst of this poem
May the Lord give me strength to revolt

The incarnation of an apostate or atheist
This song has no ending-
but a fullstop must be placed (.)

This Country Is Not a Safe Haven

I escaped the touch of death this morning
With a cool breeze rushing into my room

I recited Alhamdulilah, for the grace a thrilion
Couldn't purchase, even if I'm basking in riches
Of the universe

Why some people, are competiting for richest
Net worth, I am just grateful for my heart still pumping

Social media is not safe and secure again, because
I see worldly competition and suicide trending

When my girlfriend message me good morning
I pray at sajdah, for the morning to be truly good

No where is safe under the roof of the cloud
The mosque is not nor the churches- we fear Corona Virus

Yesterday, a boy went with the raging ocean
His dead body travelled along to his dream country

Today, the news reported 20 new dead people by the hands of Boko Haram
And the government issued out blood money

Sympathy is in my father's voice, when I was young
Under him alone seems safe for me, but not anymore


I escaped the touch of death this morning
I am used to wearing my father’s face, said my Mother
Even his voices never vacates the house, since
he became a transcendence god in our hearts
Before I really annotate the words of my mother

I went through my father's chamber,
I searched beneath the wooden bed, for he likes hide and seek
I checked into his clothes, arranged to be leased out for charity
In his beautiful jotter- even in the midst of his poetry lines
I was veiled to see the face of my father

I left home, searching through faces, through movement
for my father's movement
Is a subtle one, far from damping hole
Into the faces of the earth
I darted through lonely street at night
Where we stretch out legs and talked to the wind

I hawk through my father's office
If he has resume from the work he went
Before, he hearken to the voice of God
But I couldn't find the voice of someone like my father
I returned home, stress all over my face
And my mother, hurriedly hug me
And said, welcome home, my husband
Fill your father's chairs and let me
Serve you his best ditches

Ariyo Ahmad: “I am a Nigerian poet who blends my thought into paper with my ever flowing pen, whose inspiration is tapped from my beloved mother, and my late father who has sojourn to the land of immortal. I graciously have my poems published and forthcoming in African writers, UpNigeria, mixed magazine, madness muse, farrago magazine, words and whispers journal, Ebo Quill's, nymphs magazine and others. I am a favorite of Khalil Gibran and tweet @ahmad_akanni.”

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