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The Moon Of Our Tradition

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“Shhh! Silence everywhere. Here comes the moon of tradition. When our children come out on Sundays, As the night’s brightest light pays a visit, It would be fiercely dark Before the stars come into view, To usher in our night’s lantern, Curved like a mango seed, Then pumped into an oval balloon, Exposing a woman in action. We take our sitting position in a circle, Legs inwardly folded as in yoga. Fireflies hover around us to cheer, Bearing witness that we keep to tradition. And although nights like this come with their haunts, We have no cause to fear the haunter; After all, We are in agreement with our ancestors. “Shhh! Silence everywhere. Here is the moon of tradition. The custodian stands in the midst Of our sitting formation. He becomes one with the character He wants to portray to us. He sings songs that awaken Our love for our clan, And we sing along. We clap, we shout, we sway our bodies. He chants to the air, “Story! Story!” We resound with a loud ...
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When The Spirit Missed The Roundabout - An Ibibio Tale

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On a Tuesday morning in Uyo,  an image was seen crawling out of the manhole near Itam Junction. It started as a hum, soft like the sound of a forgotten song. Then, slowly, it stretched itself out and yawned.   It was Etim Ndem, an old water spirit from the Cross River basin, once worshipped with goat blood. He had slept long beneath the city, curled around libations and discarded sachet water bags.   “Hmm,  he muttered. "W here are the palm fronds? Where is the chanting? And why is everywhere smelling like fuel?”    A Keke zoomed past and almost blew his wrapper away. “Abasi mmi!” he gasped. “Is this how humans move now? No greetings? No reverence?”   The traffic was thick like Ekpang Nkukwo. Etim tried to cross to the other side of the road, but the cars were like angry spirits themselves; honking aggressively at him.  A driver leaned out and shouted, “Oga, you dey mad? Move jor!”   Etim was ...
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My Parchment

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Time had almost taught me to forget, All my cryptic memories , poured down on the skin of an animal,                      hidden deep within a cave.   In my darkest hours, when I had lost it all, I searched the corridors of remembrance, but the screeching of my brain yielded no record of the past.   I shook like Parkinso n's the  trembling, scrambling for my fossils of living, until at last I raided the webbed cave and beheld my morning-sun parchment.   There she was , smooth as dust, untouched since ancient  times , embracing every ink in steadfastness,                      like an ivy clinging to its wall.   One glance And  the storm of revival came. Forceful as a people ’ s uprising, it carried me into restoration. Alas, it was my parchment, singing back the forgotten song of my soul.
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That Kinda Betrayal

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  Some betrayals don ’ t come with  a loud cymbal . They come with tea, gentle nods, and the kind of eyes that say,  “ I understand. ” That ’ s how it was for  one of my neighbors . She had this woman at work ,   let’s tag her as a “ sister in womanhood, ”  as people like to say. The type you can open up to  with marital wahala. She ’ d talk, cry a little, then feel lighter, thinking, at least someone understands.   But what she didn ’ t know was that the same  “ comforter ”  was an undercover broadcaster sending every tear-stained detail straight to the one person who should never have heard them that way: her husband.   So every time he came home, he came with fire in his eyes, carrying new versions of old quarrels, armed with secrets he was never supposed to have. The woman at work was fueling the hate not because she cared, but because she wanted company in her own ruins. Her marriage had collapsed, so she made it her ministry t...
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If To Say My Mind Get Charger

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  We dey always charge phone, laptop, even power bank but who go charge us? Maybe the real recharge na when we finally rest our thoughts, not just our eyes.   Sometimes na no be battery low, na life don drain pass 1%.   My mind don dey show red light. The kind low battery wey no cable fit charge. I wake up every day dey press “continue,” but e be like say system no dey respond again.   People go talk, “Babe, you just need rest.” But rest don turn luxury. You go lie down, close eye, yet your brain go still dey attend meeting wey nobody schedule. You dey think about work, people wey ghost you, destiny wey still dey traffic.   Sometimes I dey reason say if mind get charger like phone, I for plug am inside socket make e full again. But life no design am like that. The only charger wey e get na peace, and peace no dey for market.   You fit scroll Instagram reach morning, but validation no go full your bar. You fit gist, laugh, even ...
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He Slept Standing

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  Yesterday, on my way home from work, I saw something at the Ozumba Mbadiwe Road that has refused to leave my mind. A man was standing by the side  of the road sleeping.  Cars slowed down and carefully drove past him, avoiding him the way one would avoid a pothole or a fallen pole. The scene looked ordinary at first, yet the more I thought about it, the heavier it became. Although this is common with the military who are capable of sleeping with their eyes opened in order to stay alert, but how tired must a man be to fall asleep on his feet? What kind of exhaustion silences the instinct to move away from danger to even care about living? But maybe that man wasn’t just one man. Maybe he was all of us. Because every day, many of us are standing and sleeping too , awake but not alive. We show up at work, attend meetings, laugh when we’re expected to, and scroll through our screens till the day ends. Still, somewhere inside, we’re barely conscious, running on fumes and pr...
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When Can I truly Live My Life?

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  Take now this knife, And pierce through my vein. If our blood runs the same in strife, Then strike your heart and feel my pain. “Everyone is equal,” you preach, Yet only when your race is in reach, But toward my kind, your rage is unleashed, Unholy anger, for staying unbleached. Wasn’t it you who came to our shores? Hiding deceit behind polished doors? With smiles that masked the theft of clans, Insisting that we accept your foreign plans? I lost myself when you changed my name, Almost drowned in despair and shame, Till the Trinity came, with mercy embraced, And my chains of despair were forever replaced. How dare you forge my history’s page? What right have you to bind my stage? To choke my breath in misery’s knife, Tell me, when can I truly live my life?
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