a little info

My blog would primarily deal with my poems, articles, sometimes short stories (all peppered with a bit of the Krio creole patois language from Sierra Leone)  and photography done by talented individuals.

It would also serve as platform to showcase art and other stuff through me via postings.

Featured post


We forget many things.

Some blurred by time,
others worsted by decaying iron tight bonds turned to ‘we used to be close’ -ships.

Yet, never do we forget the way these people smile.
A genuine smile never goes extinct.

Smiles are Immortal.


There are days,

 I am one with my thoughts, 

and distantly away from the chatter.
Detached from the moment,

present in my absence
On such days,

I find my own mind so absorbing that I repel all outside distractions.
Surf days, silver not dark.



The Word. Poets.

We bleed in multi colors of timeless moments in the caverns of gold and coal of min’d thoughts,

Painting a canvas of emotions so bright that a dying star going supernova will blush as it kisses a black hole goodnight.

If and when the block kidnaps our muse,

We’ll chisel out of it’s prison bars and sculpt images better than Michaelangelo’s David.

From giants weeping to kids laughing.

Let our words be the slingshot that serenades their hearts and lighten the burdens of the daily hell of life,

Or the stress of living morally to win a lottery ticket to heaven.


Choose hope or wallow in the despair of pain in its dreamlike inception,
 or embrace the loving escape of the refuge we breathe into existence with our writings.

In a universe that began with a Word.

 Let there be Poets.

And there was.


Peasant Dreams

In an alternate warped life, I must have been a farmer’s son,

who nodded and hummed in tune to the rhythm of bird music.

A gifted playlist from nature to salve my boredom,

no money greased Dj palms to repeat my favourite songs.

So under a palm tree I lay swooning,

a lazy past time in windy harmattan,

then I whipped up that palm wine with orinch(oranges) cocktails,

a ‘munku’ fruity punch concocted in a time before bartenders uplifted souls with that extra liquor drop.

You see,

 my avian artists lure me to dreamland with lullabies,

then feast on my rice and corn fields like insecure actors on weak drama.

As I drowse of, 

gifted with the curse of sleep.

They munch and harvest months of  labours with their innocent beaks into the welcoming pit of their stomach quenching their gnawing hunger.

Rows go.

Me, in Rated M dreamland go;

strokes, strokes, strokes.

In a siesta wet dream of Sata,

the shapely village belle with the sexy tumba(behind),

 soft lips, dusky sunset eyes and coconut sized bosom.

A week or two back with a wry smile and the ghost of a laugh dancing on her fulani fine features,

 she granted me a peep or two,

 down by the village stream as she bathe.

Memory saved and aids the megapixels of my noon imagination.

Almost in… 

So close.. 
Then comes the pain.. 

A falling tree branch 

ends my vision hub; no pun intended.

The birds, they’ve 
stopped singing when the cello-like twang of

my catapult ends their cereal buffet. 

‘R must continue

me dream, I must continue my dream’

Then I slid back in to the 

DM of my slumber like 
  ‘where were we?’ 



These days to keep pace with the ‘social mediaverse’ and the endless debates that rage within it on issues affecting our world is almost an impossibility. The various hashtags and trending stories with newly coined phrases to describe things and make sense of them has accelerated.
Recently, I was surfing the web (is surfing still the right word to use?) when I happened upon the phrase “Performative Allyship”. It was mentioned in a post bashing the content of a certain tweet. From what I could gather, this was based on the need to differentiate between genuine solidarity and pretentious allying to a cause or plight of a set of people.

In essence, performative allyship is doing that minimum bit to gain approval and escape the tag of a silent neutral or a bigot. 

The stark truth is that what we call performative allyship now predates social media. It’s just a fancy way to describe hypocrites who want a pat on the back for their actions supporting a cause.
Solidarity in itself doesn’t stem from the need to put up a show but rather it is based on the honesty to stand with a cause to push for changes with or without an audience. 

Solidarity is activism. Yet it also involves knowing  when it doesn’t require your reaction when an oppressed individual expresses their distaste of the bias and uneven treatment they deal with. 

To play a role just for approval suggests at a deep seated self serving interest in one’s pysche. Whether it is based on the need to save face or ride on the wave where the wind blows, it hints at double standards.

In most cases these set of people who project this fake form of allying are likely to be upset when they are told of their actions and its harmful tendencies. These are the people who hop on ‘hot’ topics by sharing or retweeting but never calling out the same act when its done where there is no audience . What they care about is the fifteen minutes in the spotlight and not the issues at hand. Standing with an oppressed group requires listening, engaging and learning about their experiences. 

Mostly, performative allies tend to make statements which are counterproductive to the cause of oppressed groups and then feign ignorance. This hints at a either a failure to properly understand these issues and a lack of sincere solidarity. When one stands with a cause, the onus is on you to properly and thoroughly understand and grasp it. To project concern when you don’t really care, just to get off the hook makes your sentiments unhelpful. 

There’s a tendency for many people who belong to the oppressive group to think that distancing themselves from acts done to the oppressed groups exempts them from responsibility. Statements like ‘not all’ , ‘some’ , ‘tell us more’ ,’we are on the same side’ are a dead ringer and they do nothing to help groups that are marginalised. Systematic oppression is real and trying to detach yourself from the privileges you benefit from belonging to the oppressive group with these half hearted ‘not all’ phrases reeks of downplaying, diverting and glossing over the realities of the conversation.
I live in a side of the globe where many have still not come to terms with the dangers of oppression. In fact even those who profess to be ‘allies’ still hold some negative views towards those they claim to ally with. I once knew a certain individual who would rant on Facebook about the rights of women but was known to be domestically abusive towards his wife and also held the misogynist view that the place of women was in the kitchen. 
Individuals flick on the mask of solidarity as and when it is beneficial to them and their interests.

The bane of hyper masculinity and it’s privileges is soaked in deep in the fabric of Sierra Leone. You are bound to hear statements from males that ‘ a woman’ deserves a back hand once in a while when she steps out of line’ which is followed by gleeful laughter. The brainwash is such that  certain women have been so attuned to this brutal idea that they consider it a norm, sadly. Women are mostly not allowed to tell their stories. Incidents of rape are swept under the rug with blame cast on the lady of her ‘improper clothing’, mostly these women are married of to their abusers.

Oppression is a disease to society. If  any society utilises the denial route to deflect responsibility and not come to terms with their oppressive mentality towards the oppressed, such a society supports systematic oppression.

Solidarity is paramount and doesn’t equate to only displaying it to get a nod of approval. Doing it to be defined as the ‘new cool’ , or garner more followers/likes for selfish purpose is not solidarity. The singular purpose of standing with the oppressed is for them to achieve equity and equality. Doing the right thing doesn’t mean you deserve to be praised, hailed and then gifted with a bag of goodies.
Solidarity is not for  show, it’s a duty.


Artwork by Morrison Jusu (Emjay)

Her Story.

Sojourner. Photography by Kamanda Koroma

She had no mirror to look at when she woke up yesterday morning, she hated who gazed back. 


On some days the scent of her cheap perfume mixed with the sweat and other fluids of her many clientele pervade her essence

clinging to the taboo temple of her body society has defined it as. 

Yet the same men who had rained down the curses of her trade were apt to be the very same who moaned in her ears under the covers of darkness.

Bent down, stretched out,

sideways, pierced in her many orifices when the green changes hands. 

Subject to many acts of perversion which she endured with silent tears.

The names she had been captioned with were countless,

the variations inventive,

 given volume in voices bubbling with condescending spite and bile.

You don’t know her story.

You don’t know her story.

You don’t know herstory.

You’ve never stared in the eyes of familiar demons;

the close types that defile you, leaving you no option but to befriend the loveless cold embrace of the streets.




Sick and tired of being sick and tired of what she was.

A taboo.

A sneer.

An hated object to quench lustful urges.

A daughter once.Maybe a sister too.

Would have been a wife probably,

A Mother? I will never know.

We will never know.

 I just stare.

I stare at her mutilated and barely covered corpse.

The scattered raised voices of many chit chat noisy conversation of the gathering crowd shake me from my reverie.

Filling in the gaps of her identity I was trying to reconstruct in my mind of the ill fated circumstances that led her here.

I pick out the details of her death from the throng.

Raped and mugged, she lay dead, safe from the perception of those who considered her slime.

What of the mugger? Was he abused as a child? Maybe the absence of a  father figure led him down this path.

Intoxicated and on drugs?

Mugging gone wrong? Or just another unwilling client who refused to pay then turned violent and committed the dastardly act?

These new thoughts kick start in my head. A new spool of film starts in my mind to….


My phone alarm blares,  severing my inner synapses and detaches me from the  scene to reality.

Running late, I rush to hail a taxi.

It’s a Monday after all.

Rush hour.


Thirty minutes later , the prostitute still lay dead and her executioner on the loose were forgotten.

Erased from the mind by the business of the day.

So we get on with life until that next dose of conscience pill kicks in,

and we fleetingly sympathise in that moment.

Temporary only.

Of Men.

Poaching laughs and hiding them behind the veil of sarcasm.

You don’t have to be too giddy around these females,

you’re a man, Son.

Unfazed phases of macho.

Good ‘ol boy gotta be the man.

You gotta be strong for aunty and mama,

stifle that sob and hold those tears bro.

So we do.

And become men indifferent to glee with bottled vats of icy tears residing within us.

No son, brother,

laugh for a season and cry when it pains,

it doesn’t make you any less a male,

just a better Man.


The Departed.

My nemesis was silent, friendly with Time for my ticking demise. 

A mercenary to all, yet loyal to none, 

each second gone was but a countdown to reaching zero. 

 Suicide bomber savvy, 

minus the bang or neutral whimpers, frosty in its heated innocence . 


‘Sorry sir, you have Cancer’ , the doctor had said.

No ominous sound or sad background music to precede the news of my dwindling new existence on borrowed time. 

 Two years ago I was labelled with an expiration date; 


‘sometem na mistake, na oda posin e test result danday ‘ 

‘ contri way must day’ 


The denials litter through my mind, some take flight in speech  and most die in sobs as emotions flood out in streams like Adele was my sister grieving untimely on a ‘what if’ Drake song about my death to a girl I loved, but never told.

 Lazarus, I outdid the tears Yeshua shed for you; but that was two years ago. 

Sunsets had lost their allure,  
laughter became a stranger,

cassava leaves lost its taste , 

music its vibe, 

women their warmth, 

money its power, 

 or use . 

It aided me not.

  And life, life.. 

Life withdrew its promises  

 Dawn awakenings were  reminders of time deleted, and depleting in my dwindling hourglass .

Dying is never poetic when your time is due,  hades has no minstrels waiting on the elysian field,  neither is jahanama a fiesta beach side burnfire. 

 Depressed noir days, 

all grave dark , 

full death pack , 

bourbon mixed with coke clash, 

numb the pains and foolishly I 

hope it heals these cancerous cells. 

 Cowardly enemy, killing me inside out, crumbling my life away like fallen Lego bricks.

I flip to kamikaze desperate measures.

 Miracles and open gates ,

olive oil with sebeh sebeh ,

zamzam water with vanity pleas .

 Lord, help Me , I spew the usual b.s prayer.

‘if you make r well r day serve you tay go, ‘ 

 Dying men make poor liars and broker poor deals with God.  

It’s no wonder He never listens .
It’s never personal with death, so when I self destruct  and succumb to my cold foe,

may Life gift you with my absence but remember Me 



(sprinkled with Sierra Leone creole Krio patois)


It was an ecstasy of perfect recognition in the words she left unspoken.

Creeping behind her smile were the things she alone knew.

The allure of her being,

and the hope of unfurling her mysteries was intoxicating,

and like a moth drunk in pursuit of the light,

he yearned for the bliss of her company.


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