I Am The Sierra Leone

I am the Sierra Leone that collared a tripping mouthed stranger

whose intoxication challenged my existence before his arrival

O' how he aroused the sentries watching over my fathers' land

whose thunderous growls must have sent him back to the coast

I am the Sierra Leone whose belly is home to to a thousand treasures

adorning a suit of resilience, I splash in exotic waters of patience

and laze on beaches paved with marble sands under the Sierra sun

a picture of queenly flair to all who graze upon my lush greens

I am the Sierra Leone that birthed the Senghe Pieh's heart

of defiance and will to live or die fighting for a right to live

one whose humanity was shipped away on high seas of slavery

to feed the lowliness of colonialism through gullets of racism

I am the Sierra Leone that nursed and taught the Davidson Nicols

of this world, to grace the Halls of the Great Athens of West Africa

whose apparel of glory left to dive, shall fly again in the African skies

for ours is a people with a vision to mark our handprints in history

I am the Sierra Leone where the 'Yokos'

of every generation

dance to the traditional drumbeats of virtue and pride of womanhood

amid deafening citations of high infant and maternal mortality

while the shadow of morbidity stubbornly lingers around our homes

I am the Sierra Leone that an eleven year conflict and carnage

left behind to rise from the shambles of past mistakes, to sing

with one voice that never again shall we swim in rivers of our own blood

just because our voices are stifled by voices stronger and powerful.

Samuella Conteh is a writer, poet and human rights professional from Sierra Leone.

Opposites

I am a soft flower

A pink bud

Plush petals

Covered in gentle dew

Under a blue sky

Little wisps of clouds

Fly by

Chased by the gentle cool wind

You are harsh

Like an emotion

Like a story

Told around the bonfire of Ananse and his antics

I absorb your negativity

Shocked, I find you ridiculous

You wound yourself

And in your wounding

Wounding me

I have been dreaming of rescues

By a prince who comes to kiss me

And you have been dreaming

Of dominating and tapping that

Adding notches to your bedpost

To show your bedfellows

Your proud scores

We are both stupid.

Rosaline Johnson is a poet, singer and law graduate from Sierra Leone.

Harmattan

how does one go back to the cold after seeing the sun?

too often we forget that the light casts shadows

and that her rays do burn sometimes

and her beams blind as they illuminate

that the devil is an angel too

sweet little devil with the broken halo

kissed me lonely and let me go

sweet little devil with the broken halo

kissed me lonely and made it so

how does one go back to the cold after seeing the sun?

after feeling her rays spill on me like the rain

after hearing her lips spill out my name

after tasting the sweet bitterness of her kiss

she smiled like the rain

don't ask me how.

but it washed over you,

it took you over.

i always find myself writing about her smile.

she was a poet's wet dream;

one could never capture her essence on paper.

but something about her compelled you to try.

so every now and again i find myself trying to do justice to the way how she brought out the sun.

the way she laughed made a man desire to change his life's mission -

'cause surely there could be no higher calling than making sure those bursts of heaven came in steady supply.

and i find myself rambling sometimes

whenever she deigns to trespass upon my state of unconsciousness

because for all her magic, she is not welcome here anymore

how does one go back to the cold after seeing the sun?

I've since been trying to figure this out

but i do not know how to not need her

i have never been one for moderation

i do not fall

i plummet

i do not bleed

i hemorrhage

this liquor burning through my belly holds no answers 

this burning in my lungs solves nothing 

pale imitations of the sun do not suffice it seems

how does one go back to the cold after seeing the sun?

I do not know.

but you left...

...and it's been cold here ever since.

Tarik Ali is a musician, writer and poet from Sierra Leone

The Shook Penis

Sir, your penis doesn't devalue me

You are not that special

I am not made cheap or expensive by your penis

I am not a box of fine products , that when the lid is broken, the value decreases

Sir, it is strange

That you see me that way

I am not a slave

I am not for sale

I am not a tin of sardines

Or some other ridiculousness

You cannot devalue me - you don't have that power

Sir, you are a man, a faulty man, a regular man, a rich and powerful man

You are whoever you decide you are

But what you are not is my god, my master, my manufacturer, my purchaser , my seller.

If you believe a woman is dirty when you touch her, maybe take a look at your hands , your heart, your morality.

Sir, you are not a god.

I am not a sealed or unsealed product. Therefore, I cannot be devalued or valued as such.

I am human. Flesh like you . Equal as you . I am valuable too, because I am human.

Rosaline Johnson is a poet , singer and student based in Freetown, Sierra Leone.

Hair

I love your hair.

I love your smile when

I tell you so,

You blink your brown eyes,

And wave your hand,

Like you get that a lot;

But you don’t.

I know so,

So I tell you this:

I love,

Your bouncy curls,

Glistening in the same sun,

That loves your melanin,

As much as I do.

I could forever talk about,

How God took Her time

To create you,

But I know you’d never believe me.

So I’ll just admire until you see.

I love your hair,

But most of all,

I love the mindset

Underneath your forever curls.

Zakkiyah Ibrahim is a poet and student living in Freetown, Sierra Leone