Category: Uncategorized

A lot bring people to my blog
My name unique and strange
Matched with my big African booty

These people want badly to know me
And what it’s like to make love
To an àbíkú faerie
Possibly with pictures of a black yansh

While maintaining an attitude of gratitude
Yorùbá words appealing to their sexual lust

A lot bring people to my blog
And boy am I glad they come
Leaving with short seductive stories
To tell horny girls
Bitches who love Europe

Life issues and the many
Unfortunate plights of mankind
Slipping past their Sunday night minds

Àbíkú- wanderer child. It is the same child who dies and returns again and again to plague the mother(An ancient Yorùbá belief)
Yansh- a slang, (often considered vulgar) for booty.

*I had a good laugh looking through the search terms, and spam….this poem, albeit ridiculous was born out of it all, so…

Dancing in the black tempest,
With a wild heart I’ll kiss you.
Soaking every drop of rain,
A strong little love will brew.

With the storm thundering away,
I’ll hold you tightly in my arms.
With the clouds laughing away,
I’ll make your world full of charms.

A striking thunderstorm fierce,
And the wind blowing in its full might.
Will make you feel my love for you,
As I’ll be clutching you so tight.

I’ll hold your hand giving assurance,
Of forever love and togetherness.
You’ll look into my eyes with a hope,
And a life-long faith you’ll get with no stress.

Seeking solace you’ll stay back with me,
You’ll know there’s no world without us.
I’ll give you the world’s best feeling,
With a naughty mess and a little fuss.

A lightning brighter than the sun,
Will strike us down from dust to dust.
Yet our love will remain…

there is love
we cross oceans or continents
to meet, finally

& love we stumble over
sleeping in doorways
comfortable, familiar

the magic in it is not so much
where it is found, or how
but where we let it lead

& wherever that is
i want to go there with you

It is a long time already since the Biafran War (1967-1970) to write a memoir, and it makes me wonder how affective Chinua Achebe’s narrative in The Guardian is to his audience. Achebe’s new book, There Was a Country: A Personal History of Biafra appears to have reopened old wounds and resulted in widespread debate, whether in op-ed columns, on blogs or on social media.

Morning, guys.  As you noticed, Zoe, myself, and Noel have started writing poetry about child marriage (in particular, child brides).  I am hoping that there are others of you who have something to say poetically on this issue that you could then link back here, so I could forward them on to Dr. Adebayo Fayoyin to help commemorate the day.

Here is some background information for you (courtesy of Dr. Fayoyin):

Globally, more than one in three young women aged 20-24 years were first married before they reached age 18. One third of them entered into marriage before they turned 15.  Child marriage results in early and unwanted pregnancies, posing life-threatening risks for girls.In developing countries, 90 per cent of births to adolescents aged 15-19 are to married girls, and pregnancy-related complications are the leading cause of death for girls in this age group.

Girls with low levels…

 

Zoe L. Daniels

by Boomiebol, David Trudel,Noel Ihebuzor, and Susan Daniels

if hate has a voice
it starts quiet as steam
escaping through cracks in rock
until the hissing amplifies
to volcanic roars
that no words can shout over
or stop.

If hate had a pen,
its ink would surge, overrun and melt pen and nib,
its acid sap sipping
into sweaty palms
corroding and melting sinews
and twisted tortured phalanges

if hate has eyes
they would see nothing
pale & staring
corneas scarred white
from heat

If Hate was a lighthouse
Its foghorn would be discordant
And it would get stuck like some faulty car alarm
Going off for hours
Its light would cease to work in winter storms
But the electricians won’t find the problem
Hate is always getting short

If hate had wings
It would fly

Wings spread wide
Carried swiftly by the wind
Blowing back and forth