I left my body,
running along the race lane.
Now time to return.
Written from Hour 22 text prompt.
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an Honourable Mention at the 2001 MUSON Poetry Competition, and has written a collection of poems as well as two unpublished collections of short stories.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.
Night Owls (Hour 20)
Owls hoot on huge trees
along unlit paths of unpopulated roads.
They send chills down the spine
of the inexperienced night walker.
Their frontal eyes mean and cold,
they are supposed to be evil terrorising humans;
tales handed down from generation to generation,
tales my pen is unwilling to scrutinise.
Yet, they are creatures too, like the rest,
perching on the wings of survival.
Neither their adventures nor their fate
will stop my poetry ink from flowing,
these night owls and night walkers!
Written from the text prompt of Hour 20.
An Abridged Post-Mutilation Testament (Hour 17)
“I am begging,
Let me be lonely
but not invisible.”
– Natalie Diaz
That heart is homegrown now.
Those guiltless drives
and gentle concerns are much stronger now.
Only now, it has grown the tools to sieve you out,
since you failed to extinguish it.
That head is ever more wiser now.
Those selfless sacrifices and
tireless work behind the scenes.
It can sift the chaff better now,
since you failed to shut it down.
Those hands aren’t as swift as they used to be.
Much brawn and fuel drawn from them
in that fruitless misapplication of your multitasking concepts.
Now though, they can hinge well on reborn pivots
since you failed to render them numb.
Written from the text prompt of Hour 17.
The Feel of Truth (Hour 16)
Con people often wrap truth in packs,
deceiving the eyes that sights it,
or in sacks that makes it stink.
They often foul up the truth,
injecting pungent impurities
to make it smell bad.
They contort the narratives,
passing false testimonies from mouth to mouth,
so truth can remain buried from generation to generation.
They lace truth up with bitter pills,
so those with the guts
cannot force it down their throats.
What they seldom do is to change the feel of truth,
to skew instincts, emotions, and cues away;
for truth can be felt from across horizons and within close range.
Truth thieves are meant to face the law,
to be barred from societies where they do not belong;
certainly cowards have a space in that boat.
Written from the text prompt of Hour 16.
Reimposition (Hour 15)
In a bowl of Nos,
One Yes could have been drowned.
That is not a contest for the wrestling ground.
This moment has created a world of its own,
distant from the gray past
that can no longer embrace colours.
Eyes are truly ahead of me.
Ears picking whispers from the past and present.
Head no longer of a victim of dithering.
In that one deep bowl of Nos,
my one Yes could have stood out,
loud, bright, truly differentiated.
So I have watched that one Yes drown,
to adorn the belly of the sea.
So I will say Yes again,
like the endless waves of the sea.
Written from the text prompt of Hour 15.
Little Angels (Hour 14)
Pleasant babbles float around;
cries of demand, not those of despair.
Toddling steps on soft mats;
those curious fingers, querying every item in sight.
Lovely eyes, seeking connections;
the pretty ears that hear more than we know.
Colourful display of apparels;
that bonding smell of babyness
All of you little angels I can see.
All your tiny sounds I can hear.
But I need you to go to the houses of my friends,
where they have none.
Go fill their calm.
Go create sweet disruptions in their homes.
Written from the text prompt of Hour 14.
Mood (Hour 13)
In moments.
Transient or stretched lives.
Solicited or unsolicited drives.
Flashes from the deep.
Sparks from the shallow.
Into varied spaces.
Recorded by mortals.
Through spirited transformations.
Into forms.
Into worlds.
All parties step on it.
Light.
And.
Heavy.
They ascend.
Death prowls still.
Bemoaned or celebrated.
Yet, living with us.
Written from the text prompt of Hour 13.
Extempore (Hour 12)
Like the nine letters of this title,
lots in life are not prepared for.
No matter how hard one tries,
certain things come preset.
Like the breath of air,
not extempore,
life moves on,
preset.
Live.
Written from the text prompt of Hour 12, as a nonet.
Corporate Confusion (Hour 11)
The ground floor of the skyscraper is
thrown into confusion as
a cloud of cacophony descends on
a gathering cloud of men in
sleek suit and silk tie, all
spread around in different directions,
piercing the serenity of the corporate street.
They needle their way to a spot where
an older woman and a younger woman sit,
dishing stuff into the waiting hands of
these men that beat themselves to get their share.
The fuming CEO of the skyscraper, perplexed
by the noise, comes down,
bent on clearing the human mess, and
then he too falls into the trap of the mad crowd.
They all have to scramble for
the periwinkle soup from
the makeshift storefront.
Written from the text prompt of Hour 11.
Killing Two Birds with One Stone (Hour 9)
Pandemic times arrived like a thief at night.
It stole and stole and stole from us.
Now that I can remember grandma’s voice
saying, no pain no gain,
I wonder what one can gain from a thief such as this pandemic.
So I count my losses, pitch my tent with the hard lessons;
I count my gains, my gains are not on the fatal statistics.
I will step forward and backward,
cast wary looks to the left and to the right,
and then cross that lane with vest,
as i kill two birds with one stone.
Written from Hour 9 text prompt.