UNCLAIMED LOVE by AL Latif Kambo-Naa

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
Crossing path was the only thing needed
At that winding staircase of uncertainty
With an eye glued to the blue skies
Mapping out glory days of hope

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
To honeysuckle rim days
Bearing holes of comfort
And ceasing to blaze in their own tide
Yet snoozing through gloomy hours of sleep.

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
On the light shone through the skiing cloud
In Days of scrawling garage
of high mounds of love,
Rooting, roaring and rising
above sinking ship of sadness.

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
By tongue breaker who appears insight
No amount of therapy could restore a dented heart,
thoroughly bred in your own imagination

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
Where love treks through the ranks of understanding,
But never settled in any moment of time,
shaking the very foundation of affection.

The nectar that flinks on me
And never goes away
To a bountiful heart in a greener garden
Searching Seacoast for smiles
Languishing in the wrong worded lips
Of a bee that painfully stinks the mind
Like its honeysuckle.

By: AL Latif Kambo-Naa

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TALE OF UNITY by Al-Latif Kambo-Naa

We walked through a glass street door
Poised to be back in saloon room
Shake by wagging tale of unity where
Leaves fell from the bulging tree.

Tugged into clean muddy waters
Of a family yawning off hunger
In a land of abundant fruits
Carrying a huge cross of regret.

Took a three-sixty day of reflection
Dying in self-pity of the past
Hooked by words of ancient tree and
Roots sprout in covered soft layers.

In a place where friend fielded
In for a for in an ambush for glory.
An elite league of African legends
substituted in agony for the norm.

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A perforated basket
Made on a yawning day
I was born.

Stashed through my hurried life
Into the parking garage of future
Guarding me jealously
Without a reason.

A perforated basket
Weaved under the thorny hands
Of a carpenter and seamstress.

Seen by storm and thunder
Carried through floods
Into an unknown gutter—life,
Clearing all goodies along

A perforated basket
Goaded and glared at me
For so long it became a neighbour.

A neighbour that swallowed all thought
Of suctioned life in its prime
Into the belly of mother Earth.

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Electors Mandate

Electors are kingmakers with a special mandate

To elect a competent and right candidate

Who will serve and lead their domain or state

And like a bride and a bridegroom

Whenever we snail-ly walk into election

We advocate for violence instead of preventing any distortion

Forgetting peace in a county is of great exemption

Like a royal being enslaved

We allow our mandate to be taken for granted

So to those who create,loot and share

To those bodies who determine our welfare

Please let’s treat the citizenry with fair

For politics is a means of trading developmental ideas

Not instilling horrific fears

And filling the minority and vulnerable with tears

With your propaganda you proclaim unity

Implanting in our hearts seed of prosperity and security

But you cultivate corruption, nepotism and insecurity

Politics, now a dirty game

Defaming people’s good name

Yet it’s not always them to blame

For we put on their shoulders elephant expectations

Which is not even their ant obligation

Putting politicians in tight angles

Forcing them to behave as archangels

As Angels who are meant to meet

Who are meant to meet our every need

So don’t be surprised if they steal from us

Just in the name of impressing us

And end up in huge mansions and flashy cars

There need to be an electoral rehab

For the power to rule is on the thumb of the elector

Yet we trade our holistic mandate

To the wrong candidate

In the name of tribe, religion and affiliate

Why taking a token to exercise your enfranchise?

Why allowing malice boil in our ears like rice?

Oh fellow elector, where is your mandate?

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Are you a comforter?

Or an Armageddon of the bed?

You forced sunshine into the night,

Your exploits echoed fear and joy

Into the annals of the born and unborn

You break human walls

In a vulnerable community,

welded by race and ethnocentrism.

I met you first in a car–

A lonely destination,

And you showed so much compassion.

You overlooked my dark colour,

Something you watched with your own eyes

Yet you accepted me wholeheartedly

Crushed long-held family conventions,

Built traditions that mend pots

engravings sharper than a razor blade

to give this beautiful life

that the first poem I wrote

echoed you.

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In it I take my joy.
Not an ordinary appellation,
It took a different twist,
Sabon but never related
In the infancy of dawn,
I stepped into oozing dew
Blanketed by the droplets
Which fest on my nimble foot

Oh! my ankles weren’t left out
The blades of grass axed them
Like a butcher’s chopping board
The bijoux of cow dung crowded
A meandered path
Uncertain of what hide under
A callused darkness of water and mud.

I wobbled faster than a dodged bird,
Dangled closely to a shooting pellets And hopped sharper than a toad,
Distancing my wafted feet
from seated lakes,
On a middle path.
But why should I snailed ponds
Or Mountains, Blades of grass,
Endure the bloodstains to a Joy?

I got to the four squared edifice
Wishwashed in yellowish oil,
Candying in with dawn timberness.
It’s not an ordinary joy.
From above, it stooped into my palm,
Caressing my soul, body and mind.
It’s a Joy of different order.


Al Latif Kambonaang.

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AdultApathyDeathDrawings And PaintingsLifePoetry

Old Age! A Crime?

So much has happened around us
Serious maiming of ourselves
As if we will not grow old one day

Powerful hands that once nurtured us
Bathed us in their own basins without killing us
And fed our hungry bellies to grow

Legs that once carried us through difficult ways
Walked miles unmeasured to safeguard us
Their bodies as our grass to step to grace

Eyes that once taught us silent speeches
Trailed our vulnerable steps to wisdom
Witnessed ungrateful generations uncharted

Ears that once listened to our wrath
Carried us on their falling backs without complaint
Our weight bending their waist to lynching mobs

Sons and daughters of her herd
Has sorted her old life out in disgrace
Tagged as witch overnight

Our vulnerable aged in society
Who has no wealthy pillars to lean on
Condemned to witchery at will

Breathe! Breathe! Youth and Adults of today
Who points fingers at the aged
They may be abstract, you are the whole chapter

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To The Drunkard’s Daughter

We like to drink,
We love to drink,
We live to drink,

We like drinking,
We enjoy drinking,
We worship drinking,

We drink for the gods
We drink to quest their needs,
We drink to hear their good words

We drink for our ancestors
We drink to connect with their sailors
We are drunk to see their trailers

We do not respond to our names in it
We respond to the gods’ names in it
We fill our ancestors’ hunger in it

We don’t intend a bad name for another,
We replaced worries with candor.
We take out enjoyment for demeanor.

We know it’s our identity;
We bought it with our sanctity.
We carry it on our heads like impossibility.

We know it’s a headcover
We never intend to handover
We know you will comeover

We are sorry you bear our act
We know you hated this fact.
We are thankful for taking pride in our pact.

We know how you felt.
We understand your burst
We apologize for our heist

Al Latif Kambo-Naa

This poem was written as a sequel to Sugar Kpiebaya’s The Drunkard’s Daughter
“Its Father’s day, people are celebrating their Father’s, what do you have to say about your father today? Here is what I have to say…”


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Torn Between Brotherhood,
Power and Wealth-
A Sinful Macabre.
Africa will never forget
Buyelekhaya (go back home)”

Dear Mama,

Once there was a cigarette puff,
A certain feeling filled cape of good-hope,
This harrowing scent of a smoky air,
And I wasn’t going to write you anytime soon;
Yet a sealed sill culled through a peaceful piece,

Though I thought I was on brakes, until
I saw the scribbled breaks
“where nothing is, everything is a deal”
written boldly on the back of a shirt
Hanged on a tattered body;
bodies flushed as WC excreta.

It filtered through the thronging brawls,
an unpleasant mix of loud noise
Permeating the sliding walls of the south,
Ejecting your skin color;
Some say it was xenophobia
and others Afrophobia.
But whichever phobia it was, it was a bad phobia.

I know you aren’t searching for understanding
It’s a matter of delicate horror,
What am I talking about?
Answers for the north or the West
Could not fill the vacuum;
but for the benefit of minds
who isn’t aware let me recount?

Once upon a time, in South Africa,
it was ‘do or die’
which befuddled a multicolored great nation;
Sons and daughters of Shaka Zulu,
Shabala Nkulu, Mandela Nelson,
Desmond Tutu, and Steve Biko,

Dehumanized by Sons of Victoria,
Enslaved by daughters of Catherine of Aragon,
Subdued by Beatrix of the Netherlands
And apartheid by the Elizabethan Monarchy.

Roads bifurcated into black and white;
carting black blood
into gloomy rooms called colored, native, and the rest.
Educated, Semi-educated, and manpower,
What Marechera Dambudzo’s tagged, “aesthetic distancing.”

The whole of Africa poured down their blood,
Flesh, Bones, words, fury, tears, and future
Just for the relief of a Sister–South Africa.
We cried, wailed and moaned;
Painful mourning in the dawn of apartheid.

Turned into a tune-up knight in the nights,
Where sons and daughters vanished into calm air.

A city of Saints and Sinners
where they posit as angels,
Commanded an era of good souls
both devoted and undevoted Africans.

Freedom appeared from luckless blood,
An unwanted diagnosis popped up,
They rode on the wheels of it
Cutlass their defenders to death,
Burned their brothers and Sisters
Closed their businesses
All in the name of “foreign”
Angels of yesteryear
have turned devils of today

And if not in Africa, I never knew
or heard of it before.
Probably it happened somewhere else too
And the world came to a stop
For the birth of a brute.


Al-Latif Kambon-Naa

Picture Credit: Unknown

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You claim her dressing entices you,



Aren’t you supposed to lower your gaze?
What stopped you from it?



You were meant to be an angel to her on earth

Not a beast

You ‘re a human, not a beast

And should’ve behaved like one


You weeded a farmland
Our ancestors never weeded.
A grass they never walked on
Water they never drunk

You breathe air they never breathe
Wind they never felt
Sunshine that never touched their skins
Beds they never slept.

You saw things they’ve never seen
Laughter they never laughed
Sauntering they never did
Haggles they never knew.

Into the Badlands, you craved,
Wore brain tools there never dreamt
Casket (imaginations) they never laid
Mechanical Shoes they never footed.

And whoever had given you much,
Expected much from you,
So did they labor and toil
All for society’s benediction.

Yet in our contemporariness,
Society had become the victim,
Not just the bad roads weeded
But the unexpected antecedence.

And to lay a hand on a sepulcher–
God’s own chosen abode;
When HE, and HIMSELF, cautioned,
Is the least humanity bargained.

Ahem! A bountiful price looms,
Pangs not sharper than anvil’s cry,
Breathless wails in a half dug pit,
Pebbles waisted on an illustrious life.

A voice trailed the moonlight,
‘If you had lowered your gaze,
You wouldn’t have fallen into the Crater.”

Soaked in a sobbing crowd–for and against–
Scar, darker than a birthmark, shouting,
So many words might have died in dungeons,
But not mine! Not mine! Not mine! Not…


Al Latif Kambonaang
Yasira Yusif


picture credit: iStock.com

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