Death of Truce by Ajise Vincent

now that the………goddess of peace – Eirene
has been nailed to the nadir of the Eiffel tower
& loki now drinks blood of mortals at the kvell of tinder
can we still say we are one?

now that doors of cemeteries have been flung open in Syria
by demons excreting old wives’ tale
& beaks of bald vultures now revere skulls of fallen dreams
can we still say we are one?

now that the Sahara belches forth corpses
at the behest of inane gods wrapped under turbans of religion
can we still say we are one?…….Can we?

Ajise Vincent is a Nigerian Poet. His poem “Song of a Progeny” was a shortlisted poem at the Korea-Nigeria Poetry feast, 2015. His works have been published in London-grip magazine, Eureka, Kalahari Review, Sakonfa literary Magazine, AfricanWriter, Indian periodical, Jalada Africa, Harbinger Asylum and various literary outlets.

Sahara Blues X by Ajise Vincent

(For Yobe and Jos)

We live in a war zone,
Mars’ solitary confinement,
where demons wearing turbans
perform ablutions
with cooked-blood of cherubs.

Here, adrenaline rushes
at the herald of shrapnels;
sights feed on bloodred corpses. Sadism.

We are now a sod
living under the canopy of grisliness;
a hamlet experiencing hell on earth.

For the mitochondrion of our glory
has been pilfered by bombs
and fear now write epitaphs
on the nudity of our streets.

Help us, please.


Ajise Vincent is a Nigerian Poet. His poem “Song of a Progeny” was a shortlisted poem at the Korea- Nigeria Poetry feast, 2015. His works have been published in London grip magazine, Kalahari Review, Sakonfa literary magazine, African Writer, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Afrikana NG, Poetry Pacific, Commonline Journal, Novel Afrique, Black Boy Review, Tuck Magazine and various anthologies. He is currently finishing up a major in Economics at the University.

We are Statistics by Ajise Vincent


In my country,
I have seen policies
that shame economic intuitions,
defy political assertions, stupefy
Scientific reasoning but edify the
bellies of certain elders.


I have seen precepts misconstrued,
lies exalted/extoled to fit the bidding
of the piper who dictates the tune.
a tune saddled to spur depravity.


In my country ..
Tales about bombs at the vendors stand
are our source of unity.
Also peace is a luxury.


In my country ..
Due process is hiked.
Development is seen only in numbers.
Mediocrity is a deity
worshipped at the shrine of men’s conscience

We are puns spoon-fed with deceit;
marionettes dancing to the alarums of puppeteers.
alas! We are wet gunpowders
that want the fire of revolution
but resists combustibility.

Our Outcry by Ajise Vincent

(for elephants in central Africa)

They, Poachers,
slaughter us — the large ones.
They put us in a basket
and herald nomenclatures of zest.

We are a generation
sold to the partial god of greed;

A sacrifice to appease
his famished progeny,extinction.

For blisters of woes
have been tattooed
on the nucleus of our dynasty.

And the foetus of our grace
has kicked the bucket
in the infirmary of salvation.

Help us. Please.

Threshold of History by Ajise Vincent


On the threshold of history
I will write down poems
About men who stinged decorum
And used this gory ordeal
To promulgate their fame

Men who mastubated on peace
Defiling the sacredness of caliphates
With bombs and bullets of martyrdom

Men who took dames
And shattered their present
Just to satisfy the rising and falling
Of the masquerade betwixt their thigh

Men who claimed to be “gods” at dawn
Only to be sacrificed to posterity at dusk
By mortals with dane guns


On the threshold of history
I will etch down ululations
About belles who hid under the marquee of hijabs
To truncate the future of dreams

Belles who left their footprint
On the sand of wickedness
As dames with stony hearts
Coated with perforated emotions


On the threshold of history
I will erase the lies of death sponsors;

The testament of traitors
Who respired on hate in this cosmos;

I will write down tales of how dirges
Became lullabies to the living

Sour Sixteen by Ajise Vincent

In her mind are awful contempts
Mowing her emotions to decadence
Each Hour that goes forth preempts
A threnody of languorous cadence

A lass of rich adolescence
Beaten and raped by thoughtless men;
Till her impeccable semblance
Faded like a seasoned quean

Pangs abide in her magnificently
Conquering entirely her heart chambers
Urge of puberty dies apparently
Her virginity now a dirge for mourners

Sahara Blues IV by Ajise Vincent

(For Borno,Nigeria)

Another miscarriage has
betided her woes in the
womb of the oracles

Earth grandiose dusk
has swallowed light
And inundated our hamlet
with spoils of gory throes

We are now the bisected navel
of a dying chronicle; a testament hurled
to the whistling wind

For our progenitors sack of semen
has dried like arid deserts-
geriatric barrenness

And our virgins
Are now concubines
of turban tieing carnivores

Blacks by Ajise Vincent

Listen Mortal, 

Are not the abased cackle
Of your erased yesterday
Check the diaries of your fathers

They are the genesis
Of your soaring present
With whom civilization now tangos

You may see them
As jibed jugulars
Embedded in deceptive mambas

You may even deride them
Like walking fossils
Created to serve as Jackals

Lo! Despite your demeanor

They would still raise
Their arc shoulders
In triumphant grandeur

For soon, your mentality, parochial
Would be sledged
By Karma’s vindictive mallet

Truthful Tales by Ajise Vincent

I will write down tales
about decomposed dreams
Used as  manure by farmers of debauchery

about assassinated hopes
Who were killed by bullets
Shot from the rifle of greed

about broths mixed with
Urine from the members
Of friendly flies.

These tales will be garrulous
Speaking truths about roasted futures
eulogized by obituaries
sponsored by mambas in turbans.

These tales will orientate
you on the need to revere
the crow of the cock.

Sahara Blues V by Ajise Vincent

He who listens to my song
Listens not to mellifluous symphonies
That fill the heart with ecstasy
He listens to the pangs of refugees in Borno
Whose dreams are eulogized daily by bombs

He who listens to my song
Listens not to praises to anonymous oracles
Who eat barren goats and even members of their worshippers
He listens to the cries of albinos in Tanzania
Whose futures are cut short by fetish ignoramuses

He who listens to my song
Listens not to notes of the nightingale
That blesses dawn with rapturous rhythms
He listens to dirges being sung to Liberians
As they flare hopes that died of bat disease

He who listens to my song
Listens not to festive ballads
That give an illusion that all is well
He listens to the last wish of that lad in Somalia
Who just died of gastric ulcer

He who listens to my song
Listens not to word plays
By men who speak through their nose
He listens to the cogitations of a restless youth
Seeking answers in a world of deceit