Close knit, level head;
elements that work, peace;
unlike the islands.
Ofuma Agali
Ofuma Agali
Ofuma writes poetry and fiction as his current genres of interest. His works have appeared several art pages of newspapers in Nigeria, such as The Guardian, The Vanguard, National Mirror, and The Post Express Literary Supplement. Outside Nigeria, his works have appeared in Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Praxis Journal of Gender & Cultural Critiques, The Kalahari Review, The Purposeful Mayonnaise, among others. Five of his poems have also been published in anthologies (including The Poetry Marathon Anthology). He received an Honourable Mention at the 2001 MUSON Poetry Competition, and has written a collection of poems as well as two unpublished collections of short stories. He is currently working on a third collection of short stories and a second collection of poems. While making attempts at residency writing, he emerged a Finalist of the 2019 New Orleans Writers Residency Program. Ofuma lives in Lagos, Nigeria where he has been a journalist as well as a communications practitioner. He had also been editor of two national specialised magazines. He has been involved in many writing projects he is open to proofreading, editing, and ghostwriting gigs.
Joy Unlimited (Hour 18)
That moment when fear is afraid of me…
That moment when darkness is the stressed one…
That moment when thoughts of fullness overwhelms the reality of blankness…
Those moments of connected assurances and certain manifestations…
That for me is joy amplified. Unlimited!
Once Upon a Stronghold (Hour 17)
There had been an unseen monster,
a trickster, a sweet-tongued deceiver.
There was its menacing impact
from misapplied influence of the stronghold.
There is a gush of light,
shinning bright, divergent, and full,
beaming brightness into the monster,
eating up every iota of the dark,
with blindness, deafness, and numbness.
Lagos (hour 16)
Finger by finger,
toe by toe,
I am getting away
from you.
I am getting away
from the lazy snake
called your vehicle traffic
filling roads in dormant states.
I am getting away
from nine to fives
that work like five to elevens
I am getting away
from the thick population
the noise and the rush
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
After all parts of me have left,
I find my whole self still in you.
What in poetry’s name are you?
Untitled (Hour 15)
Magical gardens
embrace free spirits
on lonely roads
that stretch into calm
with ambiance that never
drains poetry away.
Animal Kingdom (Hour 14)
Their tales trail after me
since I was told of them
from when my head was at my knees.
Mbeku, the tortoise,
he is the chief con man.
He called his name, “Everybody”
so he could own and eat
the due meant for everyone
when animals went up to the sky for a meeting.
Each time my eyes spot a tortoise,
I keep wondering why he chose to be that crafty.
Yet, I have seen people like him in the human kingdom.
Okili, the bird,
she is the impatient mother bird
that won’t sit tight to build her nest
like Nzia, her peer, did.
Nzia’s nest will keep the rains out,
it will take the sun’s heat away.
But here is Okili’s nest,
it can’t hold off a drop of rain
or keep the sun’s heat out.
Yet, I have seen people like her in the human kingdom.
Nchi, the greater cane rat,
he is the one who asked the hand of
a king’s daughter in marriage.
He even contested with a human being
to compete for the beautiful bride.
If it wasn’t for folk tale or fiction,
how could anyone conceive a story like that?
Yet, I have seen people like him in the human kingdom.
Their tales trail after me
since I was told of them
from when my head was at my knees.
Our antagonist, the tortoise, comes to mind again.
All birds lent him wings so he could fly with them to the sky.
After he deceived all the birds, they took back their wings,
and he had to fall back to earth.
That, they said, is why the tortoise’s shell is cracked.
Such lofty tale!
Yet, I have seen people like that in the human kingdom.
Resurgence (Hour 13)
The storm sent stuff south,
and a walk through the valley.
Burst of light after!
A Different Kind of Muse (Hour 12)
The muse is the sound of the drums,
the reflection of the paintings on the walls,
the monotones of the sculptures on the tables.
The muse is the art that screams in hushed voices
around the podium of expressions,
the voice of the rehearsing wordsmith,
the blank sheets, paper balls, and dripping pens.
The muse is the narrative pictures hanging below the roof,
the racing faces of told and untold stories,
compressed memories trapped on canvases.
The muse is the quiet of the telling streets,
the deliberating greenery of the valley,
the affectionate caresses of the leaves,
and the whispers of words through expanding stomata.
The muse is the thought never expressed,
the rioting words never written,
the stifled idea never manifested.
The muse is the fullness of them all,
in constant motion like an ocean
whose depths never ends and whose content never dries.
Excitement (Hour 11)
The lips stretch out
from ear to ear.
Teeth beam out
in picturesque display.
The body vibrates
from head to toe,
internally-tickled.
The audible sound
is no language of man,
yet it’s understood by all
as one total expression
of joy.
Intact (Hour 10)
This bond will not exist today
for its memories to be exhumed tomorrow.
This voyage will not subsist
for its harvest to feed posterity.
This festival of union is now and eternal
for all the joy in it to be savoured this moment.