The land is a market, but who owns the stall? The traders have vanished, but the thieves stand tall. They sell the rain, they sell the road, they sell the trees where ancestors strode. They sell the fire, they sell the clay, they sell the dawn before it turns to day. And the young? They flee like startled birds,…
(for the city that devours its own) In the court of the one-eyed king, the scribes bend their spines like wilted reeds, etching lies in the wind. Who will count the stolen moons? Who will measure the grain of the enpoored spilled beneath gold-tipped boots? The horn is cracked, the drum chokes on silence, and the river no longer…
They stand at the grave, these men with fat stomachs, these men who once spat on his name, now singing praises with trembling lips! They beat the drums—boom, boom, boom— calling him the great one, the one who walked with the ancestors, the one who never stumbled! Oh, my people! Where was this greatness when he walked barefoot in…
Grok has done it again. The AI chatbot, developed by Elon Musk’s X (formerly Twitter), has thrown Nigeria’s political scene into a frenzy with just one word—“Sowore.” It all started when a Twitter user, @SuoazOfficial, posed a loaded question: Which of these politicians is not responsible for Nigeria’s destruction—Sowore, Obi, Atiku, Tinubu, or Kwankwaso? Grok’s response was swift. No…
The elders tell of a talking drum, Beaten by hands, yet leading the dance. They say, “The man is the drummer of the home, His hands must shape the rhythm of life.” But oh, the calabash whispers another tale, For when the river runs wild and deep, The drum is handed to him—“Decide, O man, you lead!” Yet when…
By Ebhohon Majekodunmi Oseriemen Who plants a tree in chains and expects it to bear fruit? Who builds a house when the land is owned by another’s hand? How can a nation rise when its leaders kneel to foreign lords? What use is vision when the road is blocked at every turn? Who teaches the child if the school…
There are men who pass through this world like whispers in the wind—seen today, forgotten tomorrow, and then there are men like Dr. Osagie Obayuwana—a storm that never quiets, a name written in the very struggles of the people. At 70 years old, the lion still roars. His voice, like thunder, still shakes the halls of power. And on…
He said, “Achalugo, I am going to marry you.” The words dripped like honey, thick and golden, Luring you deeper into a dream not your own. The car purred, sleek as a panther, The perfume of leather and lies curling in your lungs. He fed you meals too wealthy to question, Poured wine that swallowed your doubts, Draped you…
“You will understand when you grow older,” They said, with voices carved from harmattan winds, With eyes that had seen a thousand yesterdays, Yet I laughed—oh, how I laughed! For what could time teach me, That my sharp tongue did not already know? But time is a silent sculptor, Carving truth into the bones of the stubborn. A child…
By Ebhohon Majekodunmi Oseriemen Oh, great one! Whose shadow stretches across the ocean, Whose feet do not walk, but are carried, Whose hands sign decrees written by foreign scribes! Tell us, wise one— Does the farmer feed his children by uprooting his farm? Does the river quench its thirst by drying itself to dust? Yet you say suffering is…
What happens when you challenge the establishment?…
The Great Delusion invites you into a…
—for Professor Alofoje Unuigboje— by Majekodunmi Oseriemen…
By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon They say the…
