Poetry

The Guitarist

Under the greasy harmathan I once saw a man Standing by the gates of fleeting hope With a voice that hung on a tiny rope Of blistered fingers And sweaty palms Dancing in strums  That reeked of slums A hat on the floor Begged the swinging door For food to eat And ears for his […]

Poetry

Heroes

I wonder what is left of our world today, That even we the dwellers can’t seem to get our compass, Neither can we strengthen nor stretch through the length and breadth of our very own, most populous black nation,   Looking up and down Pacing around the same large expanse of land, with foot prints […]