Category Archives: Literature

The Poet: DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH ME

Stanley Ikechukwu Egeonu, Porthacourt, Rivers State, Nigeria.

Don’t fall in love with
me, I’ll will hurt you with
affection and gift,
I will kill you with kindness
and watch your heart fall
like a shell of groundnut,
I am romantically dangerous!

Be warn, my smile is
dazzling and penetrating,
like the sun it will scorch
your eyes and burn your flesh
on my bed of rose and make
you feel intoxicated like
someone who drank alcohol.
Don’t look at me like that,
I am romantically dangerous!

Don’t fall, no, I beg you
don’t fall, with me your life is
at risk, my charms are too
strong and I have nothing to
loose, if you fall, you can’t
resist me, my voice is gold
and my steps are lustrous,
i will break you with care and
leave you shattered like a mirror.
Don’t fall in love with me,
I am romantically dangerous!

I may appear tall and fair
and handsome but if you take
a closer look at me, I don’t mean
my eyes, but at my attitude,
you’ll see I am cursed by love,
I will unleash her spells on you
and melt your ice with my fire.
Don’t look at me like that,
I am romantically dangerous!

Don’t fall in love with me,
anything that falls get broken,
I will hurt you with affection
and crush you with load of gift,
I am romantically dangerous!

From; “The Mad Writer’s Reality”

By: Stanley Ikechukwu Egeonu

The Story: THE MAD COUPLE IN MY VILLAGE

THE MAD COUPLE IN MY VILLAGE 

Samade was a graduate of applied physics from Nigerian university, Nsukka before he ran mad. Samade was a fan of every villager for his abilities and talents. Abilities and talents madness could not snatch away from him. His dancing steps and melodious voice cannot be ignored by passersby. He sings and dances without musical instruments yet those who listened and watched him wished he was not mad for the ecstasy he gave to them.

His love life and marriage to Cynthia, another mad woman in the village was an envy of many couples. Samade and Cynthia had lived together in a self built self-contained under the popular bridge at Orile junction for 22 years. There were several times the villagers saw them quarreling but no one knew how they settled their differences.

Unfortunately Samade and Cynthia do not speak the same language. While Samade was from my village, Cynthia was from the Eastern part of the country. They lived together for 22 years without a long separation.

How they consented to live as couple and had 3 children is a riddle no one is yet to solve. They lived under same roof in quote, they had no source of income other than begging, they have no common sense, lacked counselors, never attended marriage classes, yet they lived together for 22years uninterrupted.

Samade and Cynthia were the Romeo and Juliet of their world, a perfect match to a fault. Mad but proud of each other and their union. They were seen severally kissing, hugging, caressing and sharing romantic moments together in the village.

They shared all things in common, they bathed together, played together, ate together, entertained their guests together, fought together, smiled together etc. Samade and Cynthia were an epitome of uncoordinated romantic folks. If they were not mad, they would have won the best couple of the year’s award.

The lesson in Samade and Cynthia’s romantic story is this; “If the insane can sustain a romantic relationship, the sane should be able to do better”. Unfortunately, most sane couples with common sense cannot stay together as husband and wife for 10 years without divorce or separation. Yet they have access to the good things of life. They have good shelter, good food, sound education, spiritual helps, finance etc.

The story of this mad couple inspired me when growing up in the village as a young boy. With this I made a covenant with my maker that I will have an enviable marriage. I told myself when I was 17 that “if a mad man can do it, I can do it better because I am at better advantage”.

Unfortunately, Samade died on 24th July 20… and Cynthia died too on 3rd September of the same year of depression and loneliness. Their children were adopted by 3 different families whose lives were inspired by the romantic life of the mad couple.

They were mad together

They lived together

They died together

Source: Anonymous but the lessons cannot be ignired.

The Poet: DEMOCRACY TO ME – Zarban

I was born inside darkness,
I grow inside darkness,
But they said, Government of the people.

I study inside poverty,
I walks inside poverty,
But they said, Government of the people.

I study day and night,
I graduate with flying colors,
But still am jobless.

I vote him with my finger,
He cheat me with his pen,
But they said, Government of the people.

I slept with mosquitoes and cockroach,
He slept with air-condition and diamond,
But they said, Government of the people.

People are dying because of hunger? joblessness among youths is increasing?
But they said, Government of the people.

By: Zarban Yusuf Alhaji

The Poet, is Daily Watch Press platform that feature young Nigeria’s poet. Dedicated to the promotion of literature and creativity amongst the youths.

You can send yours for consideration through dailywatchpress@gmail.com

The POET: NEW NIGERIA – Peter Ekpe

They might certainly say the obvious
They think we do less right and more dubious
Like One Aliko Dangote and a million Hushpuppi’s
Please hold on Mr. Racist bobby
We are more than just what stinks
And way above what the west think
You think what defines us is to do what we are told?
Cos our nation is in the market of powerful elites sold
But we are more than civilized
We are an idea in the process of being realized
Our culture strung together in woven aso-oke tapestry
And the colourful design is what makes our history
With influences that range from A to Zed
And yes, we say Zed instead of Zee
We are the brightness of all that is black
The Titans around the world that never slack
Our ambition is called an advisory content
Though we hope for the President that is God sent
Cos we believe in generation beyond our own
Knowing many of us intellectually have grown
Like the Women Gladiators against the democracy of dominatrix
The young generation plotting the graph of our political matrix
Summoning the courage like cathexis
To fight same Politician’s shedding like ecdysis
One day, the take over revolution will be televised
And the balance of restructuring will bring forth a rise
From the battle zone of Sambisa forest
To the borders of eko we shall build a fortress
More than the Danko hills to Munungu mountain peak
And on the country side of the Mambilla plateau we will seek,
Knock, progress, tick tock, tick tock like a clock
Standing for ages in unity like the Olumo rock
Deep inside the ancient Ogbunike cave
To the ambiance of Abuja we will crave
And merry with the bliss of Orido’s palm wine
For our eyes will glisten like the northern sunshine
Because we are myriad choices in the South and West
And million upon million striving voices in the East
Shouting, exploring the earth like merchants
Industrious in the battle of survival we chant
For pacifism and the dividends of democracy
Against bad leaders demonstrating nothing but demo-crazy

By: Peter Ekpe.

The Poet: Momma’s Word

Adewole Haneephat, A Young Poet & Writer, Lagos State, Nigeria.

The Poet: Momma’s Word

Its a brand new day,
Momma told me to let my pain pass away,
She said I should look at the sky,
I told her if only I could fly.

She said it is quite a mile,
Always hide your pain with a smile,
Decision you make must surely be important,
That I should not choose because I want.

Always attain the best with all your night,
Never let your goal out of sight,
I should decide if its right,
Don’t end your friendship with a fight,
My problem should be my plight.

My momma is my source of inspiration,
With her came my sensation,
Through her came my creation,
She will forever be my motivation,
She will always be my benefactor,
I give thanks to my creator.

Momma told me her love for me can’t be measure,
And that I may not be so sure,
That I am more than a treasure.

The Story: What Goes Around, Comes Around

One day a man saw an old lady, stranded on the side of the road, but even in the dim light of day, he could see she needed help. So he pulled up in front of her Mercedes and got out. His Pontiac was still sputtering when he approached her.

Even with the smile on his face, she was worried. No one had stopped to help for the last hour or so. Was he going to hurt her? He didn’t look safe; he looked poor and hungry.

He could see that she was frightened, standing out there in the cold. He knew how she felt. It was that chill which only fear can put in you.

He said, “I’m here to help you, ma’am. Why don’t you wait in the car where it’s warm? By the way, my name is Bryan Anderson.”

Well, all she had was a flat tire, but for an old lady, that was bad enough.

Bryan crawled under the car looking for a place to put the jack, skinning his knuckles a time or two. Soon he was able to change the tire. But he had to get dirty and his hands hurt.

As he was tightening up the lug nuts, she rolled down the window and began to talk to him. She told him that she was from St. Louis and was only just passing through. She couldn’t thank him enough for coming to her aid.

Bryan just smiled as he closed her trunk. The lady asked how much she owed him. Any amount would have been all right with her. She already imagined all the awful things that could have happened had he not stopped.

Bryan never thought twice about being paid.

This was not a job to him. This was helping someone in need, and God knows there were plenty, who had given him a hand in the past. He had lived his whole life that way, and it never occurred to him to act any other way.

He told her that if she really wanted to pay him back, the next time she saw someone who needed help, she could give that person the assistance they needed, and Bryan added, “And think of me.”

He waited until she started her car and drove off. It had been a cold and depressing day, but he felt good as he headed for home, disappearing into the twilight.

A few miles down the road the lady saw a small cafe. She went in to grab a bite to eat, and take the chill off before she made the last leg of her trip home. It was a dingy looking restaurant. Outside were two old gas pumps. The whole scene was unfamiliar to her. The waitress came over and brought a clean towel to wipe her wet hair. She had a sweet smile, one that even being on her feet for the whole day couldn’t erase. The lady noticed the waitress was nearly eight months pregnant, but she never let the strain and aches change her attitude. The old lady wondered how someone who had so little could be so giving to a stranger. Then she remembered Bryan .

After the lady finished her meal, she paid with a hundred dollar bill. The waitress quickly went to get change for her hundred dollar bill, but the old lady had slipped right out the door. She was gone by the time the waitress came back. The waitress wondered where the lady could be. Then she noticed something written on the napkin.

There were tears in her eyes when she read what the lady wrote: “You don’t owe me anything. I have been there too. Somebody once helped me out, the way I’m helping you. If you really want to pay me back, here is what you do: Do not let this chain of love end with you.”

Under the napkin were four more $100 bills.

Well, there were tables to clear, sugar bowls to fill, and people to serve, but the waitress made it through another day. That night when she got home from work and climbed into bed, she was thinking about the money and what the lady had written. How could the lady have known how much she and her husband needed it? With the baby due next month, it was going to be hard….

She knew how worried her husband was, and as he lay sleeping next to her, she gave him a soft kiss and whispered soft and low, “Everything’s going to be all right. I love you, Bryan Anderson.”

There is an old saying “What goes around comes around.”

The Prose: Am I finished?

The Prose: Am I finished?

I was just goofing around on Facebook and saw one pretty sister and that was how the Casanova spirit inside me pushed me to send her friend request which she accepted after two days.

Some days later, I sent her that hand wave on Facebook messenger, she responded and that was how it all started. Something in me was saying take it easy, but this spirit of Casanova was really prepared to deal with me.

After I applied some pressure, she accepted and she even told me she did not want any unserious fellow but I keep assuring her I am different that my love is here to stay

Deep inside of me, I only came for the tithe and offering.

Last weekend she visited me in her Rav-4 and we spent the weekend together.

On Sunday morning, she asked me to drop her off at home which I obliged.

We drove close to Artillery Barrack where she pointed at the Army gates and she asked me to drive in.

I thought she was joking, but she was not. We got to the gate and the soldiers at the gate were saluting her.

At that point I didn’t know if the car’s AC went off or I accidentaly turned it off, but I began to sweat.

Luckily she did not notice. I dropped her off and she pecked me and told me to go with the car and use it as she would come to my place after service to discuss about our marriage. I managed to drive out of the gate.

Later in the day she came as promised and ask if she surprised me. I said not really; that I was proud of her…meanwhile I had peed like 20 times already.

Just this morning, she fully introduced herself as Major ENE her only two brothers are Lt Colonels in the Army and she is the only girl of her father who is a retired General.

I know I am dead, but I don’t know how dead I am.
My wife and kids are due to return next week.

The writer of this story is anonymous to Daily Watch Press.

The Poet: Black PRIDE – Ifeanyi ONwuBU

Photo credit: Walter photography.

THE POET: BLACK PRIDE – IFEANYI ONWUBU

Who can match the
glory of the black
woman?

Adorned like the hanging
gardens of Babylon,
crowned like a lioness
in the jungle.

The swing of her
hips is the downfall
of kingdoms,
her brown lips has
lulled their mighty warriors
to sleep,
as she has stepped
into the city and
executed a great kill.

Shooting the sharp arrows
of a darkened eyes,
any man in her sight
she’s left stunned.

Her bosom is a
cradle for kings,
her soft breasts has
nursed giants.

Yet she ties a
down-to-earth fabric
around her chest,
and she smiles while
the whole world admires.

THE POET: WHY NO DRUMS?

Mr. Peter Ekpe, Writer, Poet and an up coming Scholar, Lives in Kaduna State, Nigeria.

WHY NO DRUMS?

The lockdown hunger is a guillotine
Executioner
The hangman of the poor is the opportunistic robber;
nefarious officials stealing higher than 419ers
Only good at making laws foisted round our jugulars

Why no drums in Nigeria beating the revolutionary alarm
Drums to inspire valour in the youths despite of any harm
Most we all surrender and be dump like this forever?
To the shades of religion, we always seek for cover

The disease of myopia amongst us is in gigantic scale
Not even an atom of our education could keep us safe
Able-bodied men become broken limbs and powdered bone
Most ladies is Nigeria think alike like some Barbie clone

We continue to follow blinding light down a crooked path
The clamour of mammoth poverty will be the aftermath
We are not just cowards only to a virus
caught by shaking hands
For there is no inscription on the epitaph of a common man

After Corona, crime will makeup her face like a naughty street girl
Attracting young bloods, where countless gangs will gel
I see springs of ambition flooded through the gutters
Normal ways of living certainly will begin to stutter

A fresh master plan reverberates in their secret places
And is felt across the globe, testing all races
The pyramid has no place for the ecological balance of the poor
The tales of Revelation makes me ponder more

The exploits of technology brings forth a Savage culture
The media is the make-up artist of the face of a Vulture
To the claws of bio-terrorism, Africa we fall prey
Covid-19 is the confusion and world power are ready to play

Rivers of Tears will be shed and all religion will loudly pray
While our politician’s loot will end-up in a foriengn shopping spray
Like the avowal of failure, we say everything is to blame
Good economy comes with a cost. Are we ready to play it’s game?

So like a trabadour, let my poem traverse the nation
Changing our mindset to start the revolt conversation
The Mutants of corruption have made Nigeria the home to stay
Join the uncanny X-Men to fight and save the day.

Note: Your comments and criticism will be highly helpful to writers and Daily Watch Press.

The Poet: A FALL FROM GRACE

Joy Ahmed, A Poet, Student, Young Writer From Abuja, Nigeria.

The Poet: A FALL FROM GRACE

I fell from grace
That’s a total disgrace
I slowed my pace
Because my sins were too great to run the race
I forgot that there is a place
Where saints and sinners are placed.

I fell from grace
I could no longer behold his face
I no longer feel his overwhelming peace
I’m troubled as one lost in space
I became too far away to see he still cares
I’m even ashamed to pray in his name.

I fell from grace
I went so close to the grave
I was confused as one in a closed cave
I wanted to gain the fame
But ended up in pain and disdain
Everything became sour
I was slowly drowning.

BUT MERCY SAID NO

And he raised me up again
He gave me a chance so that my glory I can regain
In my mess he held me closer
When others had called me a loser
My world was recreated.

Grace spoke for me
And to me a new name was given
He wrapped his arms around me with love
And like the prodigal I was welcomed with a feast.

He clothed me with honour
He anointed my head with the oil of gladness
He took the shackles of shame off me
He restored my lost glory
And granted me abundance of peace.

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