We live, we live, a sandwich of bread, a sandwich of distinct breads with a broker for butter In harmattan and in rain at man's mercy at woman's mercy in toothed couch in sandpapered couch lies this broker In the cusp; of haters and of lovers of finite and of infinite of dawn and of [...]
when death spells my name
Ikhide the Terrible (Book Critic)
Critics of Ideas!
That’s what should be now…
I get a lot of feedback on my columns, publicly and privately, I always appreciate those. Sometimes people write to hurl abuse at me under an alias; I find that cute because I can usually guess at the source from the literary style if the author is a prolific writer. Literary styles are like fingerprints, each one is unique to the author. I was reminded of my plight when I recently read Philip Hensher’s review of James Thackara’s The Book of Kings. This mother of mean reviews is full of well-crafted put-downs that are sure to end the career of even the most stoic of writers. I also read Amy McKie’s honest and fairly blunt review of Professor Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo’s new book on the Nigerian civil war, Roses and Bullets. Amy was not happy with the book, which is a mean feat in itself; she is blessed with…
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For Ned Stark in Game of Thrones
your light may not kill the dark know when your light is ripe to stifle the pitch dark know the dark hiding in light you don't have a cupboard but a skeleton is forged to be in your cupboard better a foe who's a friend than a friend who's a foe the head of he [...]
Frozen Air
Now that the air is too chilled the water on fire freezes the hearth, chilled to ice except the hearth sandwiched in our embrace the bliss in your eyes like the sky when the sun is shining the warm breeze trapped in your contours like fingerlings in nets except the cupful of coffee from the [...]
the weak glow appeared in you, like on a lantern wick a wind in you blew it out the glow also shimmered in me i grabbed my cup of chilled water to dissolve mine to ashes i drained it and walked away © Muna Chinedu Coal City, Nigeria
RAT
After grandpa was buried papa's face became a house made for geckoes he said ghost was dead a man dies and is dead A rat lives in papa's shoes it does not bite him it only helps to trim his nails it enters his pillows and eat them open small foams like bites [...]
TRACK
Track Our clock suffers a surgery the minute hand becomes the hour hand the hour hand becomes the minute hand time becomes a cheetah age becomes the haste in a lion's pounce on a prey childhood flees into dotage like iodine from solid to gas with liquid denied; orphaned. Muna Chinedu Coal City, Nigeria
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with a fire that chills a heart heated with anger with a fire that burns all the coldness of my dullness firing me into action I wrestle Damba to the ground she dances to the drums fired into beats the wave of her body makes us see better we pray the fire will never leave [...]
Kola
Kola I feel death like love I feel a sulking cloud in me roaring with thunder I feel my young body too old to breathe rusted air I feel the sweetness of sleep while asleep and wish more I feel my intestines tied up with raffia string like Grandpa's palm sticks I feel a noose [...]
COCKROACH
Cockroach Something creeps inside my head a cockroach with sticky legs crawls inside my head piercing my brain pinching my head at each crawl, at each bite it eats up the matter in my brain save the corner you are clutched in; it does not eat its home all left in my brain is this [...]
muna chinedu 