That I may be heard

From the convention of false-truths
Rewriting histories in chalkboards
Of revamped archaic traditions
That I may be heard

From the burning coal
Littering the foil of hope;
Thru the mouth of stones,
And thru the bones of buzzards
That I may be heard

In these ego-renting times
Where minors are strapped
With baked fears
On the pastel of major struggles
That I may be heard

From the blood of my pen
Piercing the hearts of kings,
Oxygenating the dead-ends
Of dead olive branches
That I- the truth may be heard.

Iyeomoan Ema-zogie



(To the UNIPORT trio murdered like lesser beings)

Bygone and now history
Your bloods still stink like a skunk
So pungent to reawaken history
Your lamb-like skulls
Hit the trinkets of injustice
With compensated falsehood
If that day was missing-
Missing from the calendar
that pigeoned your fate,
You may have fallen still
To same clubs, stones and tires
That judged your case
In a Shariac manner,
As babaric custom demands
The land is cursed!
Destined to trap your hike
With kolanuts and palm-wine
Offered to appease deities not hungry
Of what worth is man,
If goat die a better?
What a world of hate!
Not even a time spared
To say, ‘had I know’
That never matter
Cos medicine after man’s demise
Is as chaffy as chaff is…
Now I’ll be guilty of libel
For letting-out this can of worms;
But who cares?
Maybe you, not an aggrieved I.



The moving street spits
Her contagious phlegm
On our shy faces.

The birds’ gossips
Trucks strange hisses
Over our shadowy roof-tops.

The weary hands of trees
Wave us flaked farewell
In our paroled green- white grin.

Cabled electric trees launch
Reprisal flashes of thunderbolts
To acclimatise light with darkness.

The gutters, our core neighbours,
Flaunt overloaded abortive debris
From bowels, bladders and bins.

The smell of wrapped “igbo”
Choruses the fresh air,
Merging biosphere with boitears,
Spoiling musical blues with reggae

At noon, our nagged nostrils
Are duck-webbed with dusts
From blistered tyres of “molues”,
Blacking the content of vision.

Our ears are blocked air-tight
By sand-papered voices of bus-conductors
Soliciting patronage from fast bodies.

Our hearts are consoled
By the wary of jungle-justice
Unleashed under our very nose,
Causing skin-forest growth unseen.

At night, we encounter
A synonym of daylight;
Of unceasing biz as usual,
And the vicious circle rolls on-and-on.

What more can the poet say?
Than be a spectator,
Witnessing the unfolding journey
Of this time-series drama,
Till lagos bid him farewell.

Copyright of:
Iyeomoan Ema-zogie.


I’ve dated many others,
more than anyone can wonder;
wearing them like Agbada
fabricated from locally-made Ankara
girdled to a willing waist
by the aid of lent wrists,
thru the grab of clenched fists.

I’m deserts-far away, but
closer than a blood-brother;
with the rise of December
from the slumber of November,
I travel beyond western borders,
stretching thru Asia and Africa
with the borrowed arms got
from brothers of the Atlantic,

my whispers graces the Pacific,
melting the icebergs of the Arctic.
I’m forever young,
but older than the late Methuselah,
and the dative years of earth.
You’ll someday die; but for so long
will I live, offering magical breath
to pale-looking unripe fruits.

When I offer my warm kiss,
no one dares to hiss;
Cos I’m that jealous lover
romantically tearing the lips
of pretentious laughers,
and cracking the firm grips
of fragile hands of ceramic tumblers.

When I’m freed from season’s prison,
mortals tremble out of reason
that I teach “the cold-water lesson”.
But am I a curse or a blessing?
‘Gainst me, they stock their arsenals
with armours of jackets and warmers;
and with the shield of ‘oleum jelly,
They come to my battle field.

Listen, I come in perfect peace
to cure the maladies
of your putrid, smelly, swollen stomachs
adored by blood-sucking fleas.
I come to end the years of drought,
and usher-in a new-year of many more.

I’m that august visitor
needy of no formal introduction;
my name is Harmattan,
and I’ve come to hammer your town.

An ode to a season when the North-east Atlantic trade wind come with her usual goody-bags of: torn lips, ripe fruits, dusty lands, wealth dryness and health wellness.
Nature is rich!!!

Iyeomoan Ema-Zogie
University of Benin, Nigeria.


I do not crave
for mundane pomp and power;
cos in the grave,
they are as sour
as unripe grapes;
and worthless to apes
like a banquet of flowers.

I don’t save
for a pregnant ‘morrow,
whose outcomes enclave
the lasting sorrow
of short-lived joy…
I wish to enjoy
my today’s gentle toils
on rocky semi-fertile soils.

I crave to die the death
of man in good health
with an ink’s flow wealth
to change the psyche of earth:
that black is blind,
and white: better refined.

I do not rave
for worldly treasures,
and all that pleasures
a stubborn goat to early grave.
I desire love- not in gold and silver,
but in a united world- now and forever.

Let’s stop racial discrimination today! Black is gold, white is bold!



Welcome the run-away soldier
from the bantam charges of war,
singing the halleluyahic gyration
for defeating the battles of Ignoratia-
An escapee of salt-seasoned neglect.

Welcome the run-away soldier…
forged a fearless fellow, and
mellowed by the rattled rapping
of cannon-balls of verbatim oppression-
A failure to corrupt subversion.

Welcome the run-away solidarity soldier,
from the battles of inks and pen;
welcome camaraderie of a compatriot,
from the brick-hardened undertone
of top-notches, knots and collars-
A viceroyed victor, not a vanquished villain.

Quizzing the mirrored-self
of a raging run-away soldier,
whose foliage never grew green
in an oasis manured by fallowed greed-
A friend of the people’s republic;
And warrior of the prehistoric.

To a dogged comrade, whose resilience fought a right cause, even at his own peril. The Nigerian education sector will forever remain indebted to you..

Iyeomoan Ema-Zogie.


Hear thou my super-story
Of the big-sleep of glory
The forever journey of mortal man,
I wished I never began

A trip justly embarked,
By destinies unjustly hacked;
Sojourn with no baggage to back
Or a traveller’s luggage to jack

The infinite marathon- an unending race;
Whose victors triumph only by grace
Never by the sweat of hard work
Or the hoarded wealth of sheer luck

A kingdom of immortal reward
For a few on the right course
With scary consequences on-board
For the many fallen from Mr. Wright’s bus

Bandaged with bonds; fettered in the flamed nest
I’m conditioned by the fiery furnace of hades
Gnashing teeth, my free bread with the fallen rest
Hoping the miracle of a day that fades

With a shoulder tap, I realise
Waking up from sleep very unwise
As I recognise the truthful lie-
“The world never ends when you die”

As you journey thru life; scaling the myriads of barricades, gracing the banquets of breakthrough, and balancing the turbulent scale of fame and fortune, remember you’ve got a compulsory appointment.
Thus, make judicious use of the earth-time at your disposal, adding value to the lives of all those that trod your path, by accident or chance.
Remember, the world never stops when you die: life goes on.

Iyeomoan Emmanuel,
University of Benin, Nigeria.


A running tap
Needy of recognition;
Running incessantly,
When no one pursues;
Calling for the hunter’s hand
To close her junta’s trap
Ev’ryone’s aware
Though all beware-
Saying the rhetoric, ‘na my own?’

A pot hole
Greedy for attention;
Just a morsel of tar,
Can quench hunger’s pang
Passers-by snubbing
Wrecking more havocs
Adding common-salt to sore
Brooding the spirit of “Iku”
With the usual, ‘na our own’

A homeless child
Languishing in cold;
Dying in the Kuramo
Beach of bitches,
His safe haven;
Sobbing softly- heart failing
‘Gainst terror of “gbomo-gbomo”
‘Na who go helep am?’
Leave am jor, ‘Na your own?’

A hopeless generation
Recouping rapid revolution
Today and tomorrow-
Same old stories
Of dejection; frustration
No plausible solution
Leaders pretending,
“Wetin concern us, ‘na our own’?”

When we begin to think of national wealth as personal; when we start treating neighbours as brothers, not strangers; then the country would be cured of her maladies.

Long live the Federal Republ


Travellers sojourn
To a land of adorn;
Expecting much for less
Of goodies to flex
Yea! The table’s set
Free from rent;
And all is invited
To the feast celebrated;
The small, big and mighty
Will be treated as royalty;
But wait! Let’s have a toast
Glasses raised to the host;
Oops! NEPA maka why?
Our hands can’t even locate our mouth…


The sound from drum-sticks,
Draw together all and sundry- “the strong and alike, the weak”;
We all gathered together to that compulsory date,
Like flies over a mass of excremate,
Lunching possibly thru our way to action’s peak: the front;

Bon anniversaire! Well-wishers exchange,
As the music reaches its crescendo;
Discontent’s wages paid and animosity returns to her cage;
Hips of “awon obinrin” meander to the rhythmic fiddle,
As their opposites rover like the restless river Ruhr in winter months;

As the clock ticks, eluviums formed by clapping feet,
Are reduced to hammada, by the suddenly fading beat;
That’s the result of a stolen stage;
We’re now fate’s culprits and necessity’s bondage,
For a stage stolen at “the merry front”

Morale of the poem: That the country’s polity cum economy is in shambles, is as a result of our apprehension for pugnosing into affairs that concern us all as a people. Our resources are wastefully spent before our very eyes, yet we fold our hands and play to the media antics of the “stage thieves”. We need to change our mentality. Long live Nigeria! Nigeria; good people, great nation!

Iyeomoan Emmanuel
UNIBEN, Nigeria.
October 26, 2013

Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry.


Two days after independence’ mirthful memoir,
A deadman’s death is retold like an infant’s birth;
Rumours travel the world over like wild harmattan fire;
Heard he passed away en route path they left sterile,
Like a barren “Hannah” in-lieu-of a “Samuel”

A “Minotaur” preserved in a “Cretan labyrinth”,
Is slaughtered after death, not by “Theseus”,
But by the failing feeble feathers of a fire-fly;
Tis’ a dance of shame; yet of fame,
As rescuers squabble the squalid wreck in flames,
Like three first-borns over their paternal inheritance

Back home, a minstrel-show bewilders the city,
Dropping miscellaneous misconceptions on people’s lips;
Skemishy maxim as this- ‘better late than never’,
Is meaningless at a time too late to cry;
A mausoleum should be dug to accommodate their lot

Surely, October has begotten emancipation,
Of a service-mast crushed by nature’s attention;
We will remember this butler in a Gyptian cell,
Not for contribution to the Niger-Aria,
But for two caskets and a second death.

In memory of late Olusegun Agagu, a former governor of Ondo State, on his history passage to the great beyond.
Though, this patriot of ours is gone, is memory will live on with the dawning of another October 3rd. May his soul rest in peace.

Iyeomoan Emmanuel,
UNIBEN, Nigeria.

Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry.


At sunrise, I’m awakened by the call of nature;
Tis’ systematic like a memo’s alarm against regrets of the future
Cookoorookoo! The fowls trumpet the dawning of a brand new day;
Shiiii… Silence! Look out through your mind’s bay and see the way
The hands of trees covering their mouths; whispering to the ears of the wind, gay-say;

Let’s gossip like women returning from the stream;
Earthen pots on heads, breasts dangling for men to day-dream,
And crave for nature’s gigantic heart of deceit;
I mean- his own rib carved out of his flesh’s meat
Look on my friend! Look as far as you can: look and see!

Aqua-life celebrates the sky as she divorces her “love bloc”
The heaviness of clouds she is made to bear
In and out of season; standing still like a rock;
Her cries empty into seas;
And her burden becomes nature’s growth-pills

Patches of shadowy sheds hiding under leaves in the forest,
Build home for herds, serving as nests for all to rest;
And hide from the torment of an angry, sleeping sun
Whose eyes were divorced by an overdose of man’s burns;
Who care to lead to a life of deprive?

Must we outta insatiables, destroy life to give life?
By providence’s bribe, she’s super-nature’s bride;
Like a peacock in her show of pride;
Gallantly feeling high like a king-fisher among the scribe
Of birds awaiting royalties, like the old-religion levite tribe;

Behold! Animals return to their usual place of rest;
Man, with or without cause to repent,
Of doings and misdoings to nature’s pets;
Darkness creeps-in as light fades, like the parting of the heavens from hades;
Ushering in a new world as farewell, daylight bades

Matutinals fall out from their usual hide-outs,
In search for natural supplies of lower crawlers-out;
All night long, their game preserved
By the constellations- their brightly-shone touch served;
Lo! It’s morning again, sleep I must refrain;
Another day to face life with hopes of gain;
Nurture nature I must, else future generations live in pain.

OCTOBER 13 2013

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This is the story of a man who thinks and knows he can. His life’s travails give a picture of many other dexterous youths in harsh economic settings and bizarre political environments. In an economy that looks futuristically gloomy rather than progressively bloomy, these youths aren’t deterred by what others brand- “limitations to growth”. Rather than resort to sharp practices or cutting corners as the case may be, they resort to changing themselves since they can’t change their perceived inhibitors to progress (the corrupt government officials). The writer, who is a self-acclaimed professor of “Mind development psychology”, believes that the greatest problem of humanity is “self” and unless man’s mind is tamed in right direction, development would be a mirage. These below-stated quotes of his give empirical content to his assertion.
“Man isn’t man’s oppressor, neither is the devil; his mind is”
“Train a man, tame a beast; train his mind, save the least”
“As man demystify the cipher of the mind, he moves freely-anticipated from the fetters of circumstance”

This priceless factual literary art aims at giving hope to millions of hopeless youths, who only pray the world come to a sudden end in the face of hostile economic situations and dirty political landscape. In this survival of the fittest game, only the genie-of-your-mind can see you through. Rather than hope that the gap between the “haves” and “have not”, you can actually strive towards being among the privileged few instead of chasing shadows_ awaiting impossibilities. There is no harm in trial and the greatest risk in life is the fear of taking risks. Others came before you and attained the light in this seemingly dark room of uncertainties. The soil has being ploughed and awaits your fertile seeds for future bumper harvests.

This is just a preface of the author’s completely priceless literary piece. Any part of this web content should not be printed, edited or duplicated for any reason without the legal consent of IYEOMOAN EMMANUEL EHIZOGIE. Remember, plagiarism is an academic theft and against the law of existence. Keep on reading…

Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry.

I CHALLENGE THE GODS (The gods are to blame)

Let our leaders give answers to the begging questions dividing this “broom made from many palm trees” called Nigeria.


The remnants of rubbles after a terrible blast from the Boko Haram terrorist group, Nigeria.... The remnants rubble after a terrible blast from the Boko-Haram terrorist group, Nigeria….

For the haps and mishaps
Skewing our progress
To the left- Northwards
To circuits unplugged
By the eye of redundancy.
I challenge the gods

With red clothes
O’er my enclosures
Like straps on feminine feet;
And with white bandanas
Tied round my bald,
I remain unshaved to
Unlock these dreadlocks…

With rage boiling
Like a steam-turbine,
I lock horns with strange knuckles…
Then I loose.
My first fist fumbles,
My wrestler’s wrist rests
In the comfort of forceful sleep.

Without caution
I shall dance naked
In markets and garages,
Creating shady scenes
Around parks. Magneting emotions
That stir puddings of pity
Without shame. I unmask!

I shall take my role
In the centre of attraction
Me versus spirits unseen
Regaled in the hue of warfare.
I dare the worse. I shall stand!

To tricks as empty as…

View original post 31 more words

Clamour for more

Clamour For More

At first,
they drugged us
with black darkness;
darkness so heavy
to fill the void
of many pregnant half-dreams:
same old dreams
stolen from the watery eyes
of our fallen fathers
facing judgment deserved

As time traveled
far into endless space,
our novice-eye
longed for light.
We got it
in half dose. Half current
creeping close
like static stars
on hot afternoons
twinkling on sunlit tar.

With new googles
we looked afar,
piping thru torn curtains
of our near-distant past
wrapped with fresh leaves
picked by fragile hands
from fertile forests
now studded by stubborn seeds
to the warm embrace of wicked weeds

Now in hopeless hope,
we mow bard lawns
planting borrowed seedlings
from ‘dollar-land’
without looking
under the mat
where soldier ants
built barracks
and cantonments
for our unborn tomorrow
With hunger
lying next to our hunched huts,
like a child seeking warmth,
we look straight
to the rock of rocks. ‘Aso
give us our daily bread
and save today
the sickness of yesterday’

(c)Iyeomoan Ehizogie


Ant Rant

Day and nite they toil
Riding us of spoils
Moping up and down
Saving gowns and towns

Before dawn they come
Dusting all our dorms
Scrubbing dungs from pits
Working while we spit

When the month draws nigh
They whisper a sigh
Relieved by that pay
Meagre all the way

Sweating elephants
Reaping fruits for ants
Better pay they yearn
‘Save these dying ferns’

(c) IYEOMOAN, Ehizogie

UNIBEN authorities, please pay our cleaners

E nor izi tu pak dirti ooo!

Don’t dig too deep

Don’t Dig Too Deep

There is gold
In this land of tall dwarfs
There is gold, in this land
Under the studded feet
Of short giants. There is gold!

Why fly far away
With crows and ravens
From distant rivers
Of endless seas
In search of fantasies?
There is gold in this land

Can’t you see it
In the seeds of your melons?
You say you seek gold,
But the shining sun glitters
Like broken china-ware at noon
Under your burnt heads.
Can’t you see?

Brackish lakes and lagoons dance
To the wave of the troubling wind-
All for gold, all for gold
Yet, you see not that gold-fish
Resting under the water-lily

Focus your gaze,
Shine your froggy eyes
And if need permits,
Borrow a third
From a one-eyed man;
There is gold in this dung-pit

Come back home
Missing children
Lost to borrowed identity
Of distant colourless lands.
There is gold in this land!

To the luscious land
Of your ancestral cord
Africa longs for you

Pure gold lies fallow
In the caves of Accra
And in the stench
Of her blood brothers

Dig not a further
Outside those naked borders
Of temporal shielding sheets;
There is gold in this land…

# BrothersInDiaspora
# SistersAbroad
# Africa
# PanAfricanDream

(C) Iyeomoan, Ehizogie 2014

Poetry is…


like red blood cells
to tubules of violet veins,
breathing into marrowed dry bones.

a walking stick
to the cripled heart
hoping for renewed stance.

the oxygen of life
to a dying man
climbing the Everest of possibilities.

burning fuel
to dying fires
begging for forced ignition.

to the many hungry hearts
willing to be refilled…

(c) Iyeomoan, Emmanuel Ehizogie

O’ Jos of terracotta


I come to you O’ just Jos,
City of puffed polished plateaux
Siting on proud plains.
I come, a slave to self

I come to feed eager eyes
With aesthetic morsels
Of flat faced figurines
Sitting on backs of static horses

I come for potents
That swallow famines and droughts;
I call for gravemakers
To restore dying truth
That licks dry, lakes of lies

I shall visit Nok again-
To cart away baked-earth
And earthen wares made by gods.
I shall come, not alone
But with sons of the soil

I come to you, O’ just Jos
To quench fresh thirst
For beats and rhythms
From long-lasting local lutes
Sounding like french flutes

I come to pick in packs
Trucks of terracottas
That I may put together again,
Planks of your polished past.

(c) Iyeomoan Ehizogie

The Word Weaver

Word Weaver

I am a planter
I sow letters- alphabetas
Into meaningful letters
Mailed to the sixth sense
Of sane insanity

With abstract imageries
And loads of adjectives
I water dry words
To reap an harvest of ovations
Arousing the blind conscience
Of an ailing world

I am that weaver bird
Perched on the oak tree
Of changing times and season
Whistling, humming
Tweeting and retweeting warning signs
That you may be rescued
From the doom next door

I am that unknown prophet
Projecting tomorrow today
Thru the concave lens of society
I vision what eyes can’t hear
I voice what ears cannot see
Yet, you think me a madman

If I weave words
Into nice fabrics fit for now,
Yet fail to sew change
To cap the heavy head of the morrow,
I am of all birds- featherless.

All rights reserved



I am mystery
Dating into aeons unaccountable
I know nothing, but haggard history
Hanging on the thin neck of my frail frame
Who shall tell the true tale
Of my partitioned birth?

Foreign flies or local lice
Licking the burnt
Back of my black bowl?
‘I was born
Many times before birth,
So says your books’

Yet, I am torn
Like dented paper on an artist’s canvass
Never given a second chance
To prove first worth.
Who shall correct my past?

Look deep down
Into the darkness of my light
And you’ll see, you’ll surely see
Stars standing still shinning
At your eerie eyes

Inside this dark room
Are treasures hidden
From the eye of reason
Only the blind can see them
Even handicaps wear my cap

I am mystery
Strolling down the scrolls
Of your Pharaohs,
Who shall unfold me
And give me a new name?

(C) Iyeomoan, Ehizogie
Titled suggested by: Stanley Princewill

When shall I see my home?

When shall I see my home?

Here I am
Traversing from here to there
Swallowing sweet sounds
Spat from sour tongues
I was told
Shocking super stories
Of how I got here
I was told
White waters and winds
Scattered the shutters
Of our heavy hearts
Casting our ship
On adopted uninhabited lands
I was told
Of how my ancestors
Danced naked
To the merry of alien eyes
I was told again
That rags were better than clothes
On my many memories
Are painted pictures of padlocks
Locking hunger pang
For sweet sugar cane
That comes with slashes
Of horse whips on backs
On this mural
Hanging on the wall
Of my fated existence
I see afar, my motherland
Standing like a whore
On a night stand
Waiting for me
I shall look for her
I shall search far east
To the end of the earth
Till I taste again
The yeast of her breast
I know and you know
That here is not home
Home can’t be here
Where blue-eyed people
Glance with disdain on the coal tar
Of my velvety skin
Here can’t be home
Home can’t be here…
Africa, I shall find you
Someday, somehow.

(C) Iyeomoan, Ehizogie
All rights reserved.

Cross River

With high hope, I mope
at heaps of flies
mobbing fresh kegs of palmwine
fetched from tall trees
older than her tappers,
trees as old as countless centuries.

I mope at tiny ropes of
bonded beauty bolted by big brains
I mope in high hope
to crest my feet
coupled with her feats,
at Calabar, city of civilized cubs…

All rights reserved,
Iyeomoan, Emmanuel Ehizogie