*(Session 1)*
Pin point everything you detest about death; like a butcher, lace them up! Place them on the table; one by one we wanna cut them into pieces! Sieve them! Feed them to the stray dogs if we have to. Or perhaps; whence the verdict is given; carry death high on our shoulders; praise him; beat drums and sing victory songs.
Death is on trial; handcuffed; in a frail body that supports itself with a stick; he feebly walks along the hallways into the courtroom; where the masses await! His skin, visibly pale, shows no signs of life; He makes his presence known; he talks less, but even in his speechless traits, silence envelopes in the midst! The masses who thirst for his blood; constantly shouts;
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”;
while spurting mucously thick saliva on the defendant; oblivious of the court rules; are mad with rage! But this doesn’t bother him too!

Onto ye! Where are the plaintiffs?
“All Rise!!”
The judge makes an entry; He is rather a huge old man, with round glasses that slightly suspend itself on the nape of his puffy nose; leaving space between his eyebrows and his glasses; he’s slow to everything! Slow to sit; slow to speech; slow to think! But quick for food. His face, graced with cholesterol. His belly sags; none of his robe befits him; his belly button protrudes revealing his hairy stomach. But this too we’ve become accustomed to. He is good at his work. He’s of sound mind.
The masses are the plaintiffs; in existence are the victims of death, stakeholders of death and policy makers!
Heads down like hens scrapping into the ground; Each group conversing amongst themselves.
Meanwhile, opposite the jury, stares death. He smiles deviously like he owns the court. Yes he does! He summoned everyone here, or yet he volunteered to be the accused. Everyone knows him. Everyone abhors him. The CNN, BBC… The camera’s are on. The world is watching; *”Breaking news: A trial for death.”* This is what he wanted. An audience for his muse.
“Can we have silence in the court?!!!”
The murmurs dim away slowly.
As though in an agreement; the rest of the policy makers sit back as their representative rise to speak.
*POLICY MAKER:* “We think we have a solution on how to deal with death…”
The jury draw attention to him. As silence prevail. Even death himself seem to be perturbly curious. Curious about his end time.
*THE JUDGE:* “Let’s hear it”
*POLICY MAKER:* “To solve the mystery of death… To banish death from our societies then its prudent to erase its roots”
*THE JUDGE:* “Where are its roots? I’ll be delighted to know”
At this point, death has nothing on his defense; he didn’t prepare for this. He never scripted this part. He has no idea what’s on the table.
*POLICY MAKER:* The Coffin Makers!
The masses burst into uncontrollable laughter. Death on the other end; takes a deep breath as he rests his handcuffs on the bar. Deep inside, he says to himself, “it wasn’t life threatening anyway!”.
The judge hammers his gavel; at once order is restored.
*THE JUDGE:* Do you have plausible evidence to support you sir!??
*POLICY MAKER:* yes, your honor
He clears his throat as everyone awaits.
*POLICY MAKER:* we should pass a law that bars carpenters from making coffins. This is the reason why…..
Before he continue; A voice of a middle aged man sprouts from the masses. Dressed in a blue overall. Tooth brown with tarn. His shaggy hair laced with particles of timber. On his ears lies a pencil. He speaks with vigor.
“Then what!!? You’ll feed our family for us? We don’t ask people to die. We don’t advertise the coffins. Its the people who place orders… Young man I respect you but watch how you trade….!!!”
As if he’s the priest signalling the congregation to hurl Amen; the rest of the carpenters in unison, “Yess! That’s right!!”
*THE JUDGE:* (As he slams the gavel) This trial shall end today. The court will go into a recess for 30 minutes, to allow the carpenters and the policy makers come to a compromise.
(Slams the gavel again)
Lonely; death looks around in sympathy. He has no one to care for him.
As the masses walk out of the courtroom. The judge takes 15 seconds to step from his chair. He whispers something along the lines of, “God. I’m starving” its inaudible. Nobody pays attention.
The court is now empty; only silence reigns. And death sits there unmoved. I ignore it as I finalise my notes.

Phill Ibsen

(Master Of Descriptions)




Against all the odds,
We place our bets,

Our team tactfully picked,

Now…watch us play!
I am the captain,

Of the Faceless Squad,

To the pitch I will lead,

With our thumbs we shall print.
Enough is enough,

Death to the tyrants,

An end to the regime,

For we got the power,now we rise!
Stand up for all,

Choose the future we need,

Not with twigs and placards,

But with the print on that paper!


In the night, when darkness scares light away to where it comes from, when danger looms in the dark a loner, when the sweetness of slumber reigns over the lazy bones and while others enjoy the terrible beauty of rebellion, the village is rent with eerie silence. The villagers, Kokwonites, in a semi chloroform sleep and their treasures in the cowsheds redoing the chewing process. 
The night is calm with minute noises of vociferous babies defying the will of their mothers to shut their eyelids for the darker part of the day , twittering birds wondering why light had abandoned them and of course the turbocharged mouth dogs making known their presence. Since nothing lasts forever, at one chance it has to surrender, silence put the village under siege. 
However, the silence was not the usual one, it was abnormal. Why?For one, insects could be heard sucking their share from the natural co-existence. Two, the minding brains could be heard thinking. And three, the sliding organs in situ, the eyes of course, could be heard rolling from a neighbor recovering from a nightmare. 
At that specific time, that precise moment, when the village was lost in an undiscovered piece of land named slumber, a blast was heard. It was not the normal blast of a misbehaving Chelsea Yokohama tyre, it was a blast similar to that of a metal stick excreting fire. Resurrecting from their beds lazily, probably unsure of their hearing ears, for even the coastal people are not worth your trust while watching the _embe dodo_ lying on the sand. Another blast went again. 
The living and those barely alive, the hunters and gatherers, the teachers and preachers, the blessed in pocket and the pocket unfriendly, old and young, all turned into a solid rock. Can’t move, won’t move. Can’t talk, won’t talk. Others however, went further for it is always advisable to go the extra mile and did urine expulsion on their clothes. However, the rare group, the so called  _classic men_, released molten food oxide, I can’t say it was yellow. 
With a cloud of terror hanging low, pregnant ready to deliver its unwanted gift ;calamity, all spoke at once, perhaps in some divine language, then remained silent. Those who wanted to cry, laughed. Most who wanted to laugh, cried. However, those with a glow courage in them, reached their phones only to hear

      _Samahani mteja wa nambari uliopiga hapatikani kwa siasa_

Another deliberate effort to reach the _nyumba kuni_ leader formally known as village headman was met with a message-full skiza tune _Shake yo bum bum, kwenda sukuma, shake yo bum bum……_
Almost losing hope, they fumbled their touch pads to reach the ward administrator but the call was forwarded. ‘The Beast,’  otherwise known as ‘Papa’s car’, the governor’s car had been spotted somewhere in the bush. What was it doing in the bush anyway? 
To rescue the villagers from great hands of fantasy, Narema, whose assets are famous for swaying from left to right generously, was heard screaming. It was not the normal screams, the frequently heard, it was a scream of terror. It is there that it dawned on every Kamau, Ali and Onyango, that the bandits had finally come to take what unlawfully belongs to them. 
The bandits were people feared more than death. In fact, as all came to search for their deaths here on earth, which we will eventually find, death seemed to flee the bandits at all times. This made me say that. One, they had nothing to befit the title of a cloth  ‘my dress my choice  is an understatement. Two, they survived for many days with soaked maize their repeated diet. And three, their mode of transport, the _Footsubishi Lancer_, never showed any sign of wearing or even breaking down. 
Only a knock accompanied by a refrain _Fungua wenye ngombe tumefika_(Open up,we the owners of the cows have arrived )  was enough to make one open all the doors and windows all together. Since we are all born politicians, in a democratic world, there had to be an opposition. The opposer’s otherwise known as the rebellious, were granted an unpaid ticket to heaven. 
After collecting and setting all the cows in motion, they fired the remaining bullets to disturb the air. The crescendo of moving cows breaking the earth with their hooves, made them weep. As they watched them go to I. C. C (Invisible Cattle Custody ), they observed a minute of silence to honor their departed treasures. 
Insecurity is not a secret anymore. It’s like a furious fire burning over dry grass. For this reason the teaching scheme should be changed from A for Attack, B for Bazooka. It is you who can bring it all to an end. Don’t breed a criminal. Refuse radicalization. Don’t shut that mouth. Report that suspect. Use all means to fight it. Let the pains of losing our loved ones be heard till the LMS(Last Man Sleeping ) Wake up to the call of joining hands in solidarity to fight Insecurity. 



When you see two parallel lines


Then, You have seen life
So, wait not till your tongue feeds on ash

Or heart beats faint

For no trash can remind the sound of brass
Hope would hunt till you hang on cliffs

With your hearts in ropes

Beneath the mountains of certainty

Into uncertainty
Fast as these legs carry you
If a man sends you on NO errand, GO!

Nelson Vincent Ayomitunde is an undergraduate of the faculty of Law, Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife.



Day in day out each week,

In their rickety stalls they seat

Running their mouths they sure do,

Screaming out to all who pass by,

Of the wares they got in their stock,

And nothing of what they have not,

For they can’t accept a lack.
The prices out loud they shout,

Their country of origin too they scream,

Of the safety of their merchandize,

Off all the tests they have been subjected to,

But never do they tell…

Of their real worth in your life,

Of the need of you to have them.
By hook and  crook they will sell their wares,

Demeaning those of the other sellers,

Telling of their worsts even when not asked,

Cashing in on their falls just for gains,

All that and more for their goal…

To run them out of the market!

And take over their stalls too.
Through the eyes of the tax collector I will speak,

To dish a word or two about them,

Of the market sellers that shout themselves hoarse,

Bickering and tarnishing others within the market,

Be aware of them…

For even I am wary of them,

Yet I’m just the tax collector.
So next time you pass through the market,

Use your eyes to view the goods you need,

Use your words to get the best prices,

Use your hands to feel the texture of your purchases,

Use your ears not to listen to ’em sellers,

For in no time…

You too shall be driven out from the market,

So be aware our loyal customers.


She walked with contempt 

Her face read malice

Her mouth spit venom

She was my co-wife
I attended her funeral 

To ensure she was dead 

I threw dust on her coffin

To seal her from the earth 

To lock her in hades forever 
I smiled 

A victory smile 

Having defeated my enemy

A fight for a husband it was 

Drinking from my well

Now six feet underground she dwells. 
Jebet Jebet


Dark night

Narrow lanes

Silent night

Moving shadows 

Owls hooting 

Wolves howling

Leaves rustling

Queer night… Maybe, 

Jinxed night… I doubt it!! 
Right from the thickets,

Shadows spring forth

Boldly and menancing they stare, 

All is dead silent… 

Heart racing, 

Too loud for my ears, 

Muscles tensed up, 

Guess I need to flee… 


I’m frozen with fright. 
One step… Two steps, 

They hold me, 

With the strength of a dying horse, 

I’m kissing the damp ground

Face down but I’m in turmoil

Shaking and turning but I’m stuck

I’m weak… 

They are strong

Silence once more. 
Hands pinned down, 

Pants pulled down

Tensed muscles 

Frozen torso 

Then I feel it… 




More pain

I smell it… 

My own blood

I hear them… 

Moan for joy
One for the road they say, 

Turn after turn they take me, 

Too weak to scream

Mind in a daze

My blood from a far I smell

My world seems to spin




I’m lost. 

It all stops. 
Off they go, 

Their feet I see

Their faces masked…

The darkness hides them

All I see… 

Is the full moon, 

All I hear… 

Is the wolves howls…

A dark Jinxed night

It happened 

To me.. 

They did it… 

On me

Right under… 

The bright moonlight!! 

Wish to just be struck

With the moon madness, 

As I am covered, 

In my blood


Their sweat

I want to be struck mad.