Home Coming and Other Poems

Cry of Blood

I cry of mercy in the face of blood

Like begging urchins

And nothing but blood

And sour memories of lost relatives

My face is the signpost

Of b-ro-ken homes and carcasses

Of hopes still decaying

Shunned atop the brink of dusty roads

I am the tears and (glory) torn

The remnant of a land

In the hand of terror

I am a homeless pedestrian-

Wretched almajiris in Nigeria

Frail orphans in Sudan and Somalia, finding solace

Beneath the loft of motorway bridges

I am the dream of Africa

Perished on the Mediterranean Sea

On the course of survival.

Last Friday In School

It was on Friday afternoon and the sun was scorching. Emran was in haste to catch up with others crowding down to the religious ground to observe their obligatory Juma'at service. He had already put on his Arab-money dress with his black shade glasses already on his face. He knew he was late already, that was indisputable. And the only way not to miss the sermon of the service to be delivered by the oratory, tall, handsome and fairly bearded, but quite simple Imam was to get his calculation right by fast-tracking his walking.

Seven feet covered away from his room he could hear someone calling. Unknown lanky man dressed in a light-blue and well-starched long sleeve shirt from the adjacent side was running towards his direction, calling. ''hey, bro, bro," the guy called. Emran looked back because he could feel the proximity of the wave of the calling scampering down his curious auricles.

"you call me?" he asked with curiousness. "yes." He moved closer to him and they both exchanged warm pleasantries. "Are you Emran?