Skip to main content

dedicated to slaves and their families

image credit: google

dedicated to slaves and their families.

I've seen her, it has been donkey of years now since she left, I've been trying to reach the 'home old phone' she took along when she was exchanged then — with the merchant —. I tried my luck again, I called and i was afraid to speak.

         "is this really you?"

I said. I sensed it. she couldn't cry nor could she laugh, she couldn't say she missed me nor could I say she robbed my heart...she gave it to the dogs...

         "Darling, are you still alright?"

image credit: google

I said again, I heard silent ebullition over the air from her end.

         "is this really you."

I said again. I didn't want to be sure, perhaps I was curious. I know she's one, I did not know what to say.

          "when are you coming back, please?"

I couldn't help but feel the warm stream from my eye. twas from a hole I still can't find when I face the mirror with my eye.
with my eye opened, with my eye half closed and with my eye closed. i couldn't find the hole.

          "promise me you'll be okay."

she didn't say anything, her ebullition of soft cries says it all.
"I miss you, I miss you so much, I've missed you, I really do miss you, I do."

image credit: google

I wanted to say them, I wanted to say it. I cried over the air, I heard her crying. I couldn't help it. we cried.

         "I miss you."

she said amidst the shriek of my heartbeat, it stopped, I heard slow and steady 'ba dump, ba dump...', I held my chest.

          "I really do."

she said again.

© Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Philip Peace

Sometimes, we cannot let go go those we love. and we have this  kind of connection that sets the heart, — the empty mind – and the whole self — when it's seem missing.
Tell me, what worth more than the times shared together, cherished smiles, memories...?
Slaves are human too. can we save them? 


Popular posts from this blog

Read the story. TEARS IN MY EYES



                     TEARS IN MY EYES     The anxiety for sex prompted the award winning and young Nigerian poet (Ololade Akinlabi Ige) to sharpen the keen mouth of his pen to write the novella: TEARS IN MY EYES. This is a book for everyone to read.
The pains and agony the main character in the novella went through were meant to awake the conscience of the wicked being. 

     Ariyo is a beautiful lady. Eyes cannot deny that. She is a product of rape but she leaves behind her worries knowing fully well that the world is good for no one. But she feels it is very stupid if she eventually falls victim of what led her to life. She tries to always avoid intimate relationship with boys because she knows quite well that boys often come with different missions in which most of the time their common mission is sex, sex and sex.
     But we are all human being, this heart needs a companion. So it is for Ariyo who uncons…



Once upon a time, a woman has a big store for her chickens. The chickens are so big that they give big and good eggs everytime they release eggs. The woman fed them so much that they were weighty even after releasing eggs.
One day, a customer brought some local hens to her, she said
"Try them, they are also good hens. They give big eggs as well. You'll enjoy keeping and feeding them."

The woman collected them and added them with his chickens. The chickens and the local hens stayed together in a place.
One day, the woman gave them the normal food they eat, as the chickens pecked their food moderately, the local hens scattered it with their legs as they peck, they scattered it around and peck, they did that till they liter the whole place.
Mother hen looked at the chickens,
"We're the same now, we eat the same food. We will yield the same eggs, we will be on the postal too."
The chickens flap their feathers feebly and rested th…


For Ikeoluwa.

I have sailed in the ocean — on
your body's warm drenched spot axis,
and i have felt the touch of your
freezing burning hands and cold words:
you said some soft words gently in
my ear on a cold night. and my
body is a tree, it rustles
when winds beat. winds like your mutters.

I have a whirling desire
that we are over the 9th edge;
grabbing, rocking, licking, tasting —
and the passion flows 'n' action shows.
your whole body defines a lot
even when i see nothing but
the voluptuous pillows of a
tired bed, calling me to sleep.

Slowly, this pace beats rapidly
like a running fire. and i'm
burning coldly on a meet with
your whitish round thorax muscle.
glorious! your body is a bike
and i'm good at riding roughly.
slide and glide, make a symphony
of our salvation on this cold night.

Akinwale Peace AkindayoPhilip Peace