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Adult Archives | Poems And Art Society Afriqa



Breast Cancer Awareness (No Bra Day)


Some are like melons

Others like pawpaw

A few like oranges

And many like fried eggs

Big and firm like B‟ball

Then flat like Charley Wotey

No matter your size

Remember, you must check it

Examine with your fingers

Then move to the armpit

Look out for a lump

If it‟s there, see a Doc

Men, help your ladies

Don‟t just be a big baby

If she has a lump

No more milk for you!!!



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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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Entrailed in your thoughts and deeds

I have been raped

My pride has been vanquished and torn apart

Your deeds were your thought’s

Mind and shamelessly excuted

You had no shame

While you pride your deeds

You preyed on their innocence and desecreted pride ‘s eyes

No one asked of their permission

When you forced out the innocence in them and made live in fear

The shame still haunts thus hurts my soul

No one deserved to be raped

I deserve not anguish memoria distress

Which as become a weapon of war in heart

Rape cannot not be forgotten

It lives in it’s generic essence

Violence affect all parts of my heart and you dug up soul’s essence,killing honour and all forces of dignity you shred

Victims are blamed

You made them manifest in anxiety,depression ,substance abuse ,irritability ,anger and memoria flashbacks

Do i commit suicide ?

Memories are fragmented

They become a source of shame and confused mind ‘s withdrawn from virginity as you configured them to be

Now,i am helplessly facing psychological trauma

All as a result of your violence and abuse

Justice for rape victim

Tomorrow is too late to stand for them

When feelings are reconnected in disdained empathy

Making them feel void

I am seperated from my body,trouble concentrated

Detached from the world

My crimson red defiled on the day,the world turned stone in my heart

Helplessly triggered and mute

Don’t you feel ashamed and quilty for assault ?

She could be your wife or a mother

Screaming out for help which was a melodic lullaby noise in your ears

Tears drip down in a bout of drought thus grieve in my heart

You held me in my pain and a gong,

Sherd my creeping undercover ,avoiding the truth which still hurts

Rape is evil and cannot be forgotten

Now my pride is my bitterness

Oh !The world doesn’t feel like a safe haven anymore

But trust yourself to come out strong

Face life ‘s reality with all your guts and give yourself the message of hope

Just listen to life for you are worth more.

By Felicia Saidu ft Dim Ifeanyichukwu .

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What’s left of me,
In the abandoned garden
Of teak trees, minerals, rivers,
Is Craving, Crying and Wailing
For a helping hand.

I can no longer menstruate
Because there’s no blood left
In my arteries, nor veins,
I suffer throes caused not by thrombosis,
But being drained by my own children.

I was a beautiful garden,
Repleted with roses and rhododendrons.
Out of abundance, my throat choked on,
Luring detractors far and wide of the globe,
Even my desolate North was not spared.

I was adorned with gold, diamond, bauxite,
Dangling voluptuously
On my protruded Western butt,
Fattened Central neck and flattened Eastern chest.
Even my deserted North boast of Shea trees.

I was full of Gold and Green,
Blue and black,
Patriots and Nationalist,
Committed and Dedicated,
Honor and Sanctity clouded my yesteryears.

But here I lie today,
Left with my bone,
All the flesh; one I once prided in,
Is eaten by the devouring canine
Of my own children without sympathy for posterity.

I was once advised by their father’s fathers,
That evil is as useful as good is.
I tasted good at their time;
I wanted to see the usefulness of evil,
And now I can’t find a trace of honor in them.

I know I’m heading to my own doom,
Whenever they say “I pledge on my honor.”
The flesh which made me lascivious,
Attracting responsible and irresponsible alike,
Is devoured to the bone.

My once illuminating greenery,
Has given way to the reddish-brown of the Sahara,
The gold, my symbol of purity,
Once cleanly soiled by a man in suit,
Rescued by their fathers, now is soiled crudely by them.

What’s left of me is wrung without worry.
My marrow is drenched to the Nth power,
My painful tears, mistaken as joy,
And the overwhelming silence breaks my spine.
Now I wait to die; my final death.


Unchangeable Trait by Linda Okafor

Untold Agony

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Why hate on my kind?

Don’t the same blood runs through our veins?

And don’t we obviously go through similar pains?

So why the hate on my kind?

For if not due to geographical location.

Guess we would have been in the same position.

Experiencing the same weather and opportunities.

I wouldn’t have been a victim to these casualties.

Why trying to eliminate your brethren from another region.

Killing us and using us as experiments with aid as a caption.

Let’s not forget what history does tell..

Even without civilization we did lived well.

Yet through your numerous activities.

You destroyed our cultures and exchanged our identities…

Even during the decades of enslavement.

We fully endure the memories of the inhuman treatment.

And whenever you visit our region.

We hail you as one with special origin.

So why the hate on my kind?

Why the abuse and dragging our heads to the slaughter.

Why thrashing our name in mud amidst laughter.

Yet you use our robust icon as your labor sources.

And you timely over exploit our resources.

But when we are in your countries.

We get stigmatized and killed on your streets.

Why has the system made we Blacks to be blind.

And you White’s the crafty masterminds.

So why are you hating on my kind?
For Blacks are human too

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