Into The Badlands — Mohammed Oluwatimileyin Taoheed

INTO THE BADLAND

& this place looks like an overt oven,
wear the colours of a doomful dome,
& this looks like a skeletal shelter,
so we all gaze in awe at the tall edifice.

But the taciturn clamour blows like
the flickering flame of our fury.
We scramble, we saw brave men rolling
heads like rustic youngsters.

Oh strange land, where on the map is this?
These men whose faces sticthed with horror
giggled loudly, eerily like ancient beasts
Goddamn this sonofabitch!

With this, they break it like bad news:
Badland. Where your ancestors wore
the garment of grace & ruins but in them
we buried the piousness of a generation.

So we look forward like it seem we've lost it,
we mumble & then they chuckle.
This place you stand is called Seed. & it is a
must that you chew what they grow.

A shell of sorrow scatters in our souls,
As we plunge into the Badlands instead of home!

Bio:

Mohammed Oluwatimileyin Taoheed is a Nigerian bilingual writer,
professional editor, legal researcher, tutor and investigative
journalist.
He is the National Correspondent for Track News Nigeria and Chief
Editor of Scholar Media Africa Magazine in Kenya.
Taoheed reads Law at Usman Danfodiyo University Sokoto State and he
writes about the pathetic situations of his country.
Taoheed has been featured in both national and international sites and
had ample awards to his credit. As a crazy misogynist, he lives in a cave where he chews his books.

Comments

Submit To Us

A Repository For Literary Works Teen Lit Journal is an online journal that publishes poetry, fiction, book reviews and photography. Here are a few things to keep in mind: We accept poetry, fiction, photography, essays, and book reviews. We do not accept submissions that have been published elsewhere. Simultaneous submissions are fine. All we ask is that you notify us when your work is accepted elsewhere. Include a short bio and photograph of yourself. Feel free to make the photograph as informal or as formal as you please. We reject submissions we deem to be misogynist or homophobic, or supremacist on the basis of race, ethnicity or religion. You retain the copyright to your work. However, we do require that you credit Teen Lit Journal as the original publisher of the work. Submission format: Entries should be sent as .doc or .docx files. Entries must be sent single-spaced in 12 point, Times New Roman font. Files should be saved with the title of the work(s) Kindly submit fo...

SWALLOWTAIL AT THE NIGHT GARDEN —Abdulrazak Salihu

SWALLOWTAIL AT THE NIGHT GARDEN By Abdulrazak Salihu I believe I carried the Snapdragon out of the woods And named it a wild flower. There’s a drip in the wind Into your eyes For girls your age I poured a rock into being And it clouded my head. There are crystals in sand And flower-perfume By your chin, And freckles of dust Like saltwater could swallow worms. In my last rite I’m still barricading my eyes Even as light falls as petals Of warmth from a blue moon. Abdulrazaq Salihu is a 17 year old Nigerian poet and writer.He is a member of the hilltop creative arts foundation and was the winner of the December edition of the splendors of Dawn poetry foundation poetry and short story contest . He is part of the panel for the Nigeria Review(TNR) .He was shortlisted for both categories of the Nigerian prize for teen authors (poetry and prose)where his poetry manuscript Constellations won the poetry category and his collection of short stories Hiccups was the first runner up...

Radiant Colors —Sunday T. Saheed

Radiant Colors By Sunday T. Saheed today, I saw two boys fight. & as if words were gold, they cursed their parents & cruci- fied them with hot tongues. The sun doesn’t shine here, I think. & perhaps, who would know the essence of a mother like a boy drenched by petals of rain waiting for God to lazarus his mother, so she could shift the tomb she sleeps in & announce her awakening. herein, everything I touch turns to red. someone said it’s a sign that a withered flower doesn’t shake its old age away. —not the magnolia, not the quince. some days back, I thought solitary wasn’t a word in the lexicon —until my shadow I thought was with me disappears into the aperture of my fears. Telephone rings , the call disconnects —ding! the roof of this house cracks on me, & the murals on the wall fades off its texture. so...

Teen Lit Journal

Search This Blog