The Giraffe Titan
If you were to tremble at just / the mention of such crazed desire / not content until Africa / was consumed down to mere pebbles, / I could not blame you. However, / do know I tell you these horrors / alongside the bones showcased here
The Crow Nest
I watch her trying to mold into a role she can never be. Especially as a Native American woman married to an older White man like him.
Another Celebration
Befo’ dey took me to da bridge, I say, / Dat white girl dere, she happy as can be! / They didn’t let me turn around to check. / The trial was the noose around my neck.
Beneath the Veil
Postmodern Ghana was rough, from the prestigious jobs offered to recent grads on a who-you-know basis to the numerous job applications that required three years plus experience. Like how? It seemed like his country just wanted him to lose it.
black butterfly
though tourist maps will scrub the areas in gray. Invisible? / No gift shops where the cops go rogue in episodes of Homicide. / No iridescence.
Losing the Zero
Swaying back and forth, like a flag for the nation of our trauma / Back and forth, beyond the negatives or positives / Fumbling, dropping, spilling / You lose the zero in so many ways
Miscarried Dreams
I often observe my mother’s blank face. I wonder in what alternate universe her dreams would have become reality and what she would have had to sacrifice in the process.
I’ve Kept You Alive
We walk to my house which is big and made of glass like a greenhouse of plants. / You do not use the door but squeeze in-between the wall and the floor, / then crawl into the living room. There’s no telling your limits.
Towards Decolonising the Theatre: The Book of Mormon and the Colonial Lens in Depicting Africa
The arguments presented in this article serve to raise awareness about the reproduction of racial stereotypes in the theatre and decolonise these reproductions.
Homage to My Peruvian Brother
What fault do I have in wanting to know today the person/who no longer exists?/In wanting to know how many barefoot kids/were in the school,/How many elderly remained/sitting in the walkway,/How many sisters sell in that spot/that which matters to no one anyway
Inside Of Every Poem
Apply for jobs, apply for jobs, apply for jobs./Change my middle name to Wait./Apply for jobs some more/Inside of every poem is a God saying/Thank you for your interest but./ Browse the internet, sweep the floors, do the dishes.
The Food of Our Ancestors
I am from Eastern Nigeria/where the power of the wrestler/comes from Akpu and egusi soup/a region that eats Abacha/to celebrate harvest season/when Abacha is used to tell about/the birth of cassava, the time of cassava
table d’hôte
visit wine capital Stellenbosch twice/mint rinsed in first splash of boiled water/be scalded by inequalities sousing all of these
Pharoah Sanders Donating Blood to Buy Food, 1962
And few of us feel unfairness more keenly/than artists caught between buying bread/and selling their souls, our markets incapable/of sustaining those who bear beautiful gifts
the Decolonial Passage 