October 2017

Egonu Benjamin-Mario🔔
Here’s a multi talented graduate of Economics from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN) .
Mario is a young creative writer who stands unwaveringly on the soil of positivity, with the courage and zeal to transcend having the gift of writing; as he also constantly nurtures this gift beyond all odds.
He is a poet who strongly believes that “the strokes of words paint images and at the same instant give life which never dies, unless those words forgotten”.
As ‘days bleed into years’, the hands of time incessantly reveal his footprints on the track of many literary accomplishments.
Aside his writing skills,he is also very good in the art of editing.
Editing not just the “writeups” but also, the “wrongdoings”. Replacing, negativity with positivity in the chronicles of Africa and the world at large.
We look forward to seeing Mario~
Glow on!🔥
Unremittingly impacting lives with the flames of positivity🥂
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Here’s the creatively knitted short story written by Benjamin-Mario popularly known by the pen name I_am_Mario_Cruzo

Pieces of a Circle
It was his Freshman {First} year in the university and Kennix (Ken) a handsome young guy, was walking briskly to the faculty hall to complete his clearance exercise. He was in the same haste as were other freshmen students of his set. The idea was to get to the hall in time in order to secure a good position on the queue in order to complete his clearance early enough.

In that mental state of anxiety and absent mindedness( he was literary lost in his thoughts of what eventualities his university days had in store for him), he didn’t notice the pretty young lady approaching him. He bumped into her. Only then was he sharply pulled back to reality. His eyes came in contact with that of the pretty girl who looked slightly dishevelled and in a state of shock. This was because she too had been lost in her thoughts as she was hurrying back to her hostel to get a document she needed for the clearance.

He issued a heartfelt apology to the girl whose name he soon came to know was Amanda (Mandy). They exchange contact and as the months go by, they get closer. Love grew from their friendship and so the story goes…they started dating. Although they were in different departments, they were an inseparable pair. They were both from very wealthy family backgrounds. So they were supposedly a perfect match.

In the second semester of their Sophomore {Second} year in the university, Kennix goes late to a particular general lecture and finds no vacant seat. A very loveable and gorgeous damsel offers to share her seat with him. He appreciates the gesture and after the lecture, he tries to find out a little more about her. He finds out that this charitably caring girl is called Leila and is from a Middle-class background.They get talking and slowly but steadily, they become very best of friends. Coupled with the fact that they were in the same department.

Leila as a very pretty girl has her fair share of romantic advances being made towards her by guys of different levels and class. Two of such guys are Breezy(a very rich and rugged cultist {Black axe}and Max ( A very intelligent genius and promising young man, with good moral upbringing). She turns all of them down. Because at this point she was already in love with Ken.

She finds it hard to let her feeling known to him directly but just shows it by her actions and unusual care towards him. Ken, on his own part, loves her too but couldn’t make it known because he was already in a relationship with Mandy.

Nancy, Leila’s best friend, keeps on advising and encouraging her to make her feelings known to Ken before it gets too late. But all of her advice falls on deaf ears. This is because Leila is afraid of being rejected or maybe because she wasn’t so sure if he feels the same way about her (She didn’t wanna look like a fool or a desperate girl).

In their Penultimate{third} year in the university, Leila finally opens up to Ken. He is caught in a dilemma of having to choose between Mandy and Leila. He loves Mandy too much to let her go (having come a long way with her) while Leila seems like every guy’s dream girl. They both decide to play along and see how long it lasts. Leila starts visiting him at his lodge occasionally. On one of those occasions, Mandy decides to pay Ken a surprise visit and meets ken with Leila. Ken lies to her that Leila is his Cousin. Mandy is temporarily satisfied with the explanation but becomes alarmed when the rate of visits by Leila increases.

Leila relates the recent happenings to Nancy, who warns her to be very careful. One thing leads to another, and Ken decides to propose to Mandy so as to calm her down and disprove her suspicion. Unknown to Ken, on one of those occasions when Leila had visited him and they got Intimate, she had been impregnated by him.

Leila starts noticing Significant changes in her body and a delay in her menstrual cycle. After the second month and her flow wasn’t forthcoming, she becomes alarmed. She confides in Nancy, who is equally shocked at the sad circumstance in which her best friend was. She goes for a pregnancy test and the suspicion is made true. She is 2 months and a week pregnant!!!

She informs Ken about the situation at hand, and he strongly persuades her to abort the foetus. All to no avail. Along the line, Mandy finds out about the secret relationship and the pregnancy. She breaks up with Ken and leaves him shattered.

Ken decides to channel his love and attention towards Leila who is now in her sixth month of pregnancy. A month later, Leila goes into premature labour. She delivers a baby boy but looses a lot of blood. She dies some hours later, due to complications during birth and severe haemorrhage, with these last words to Ken, ” I have loved you until my last breath. Let our Son remind you of our Love!”

The premature baby boy is kept in the Clinical Incubator till he becomes mature enough to survive at normal room temperature.

Ken takes full responsibility of the child and spends the rest of his days mourning the death of Leila.

The End.

I_am_Mario_Cruzo

Mathias Bright🔔
Gratefully, here is a young man who understands the unconcealed secret of life, knowing fully well that life goes beyond what I call ‘myopic goals coated in selfish interest’.
To this end,  Mathias is an entrepreneur cognisant of the fact that life is veritably about the positive impacts we make in the lives of others.
He is a certified programme producer, a corporate MC, and a motivational speaker, who is currently a media pundit in the making.
He has an undiluted passion for inspiring people and making a positive difference in life.
Here in this writing community, the only fault we have with Mathias is that he is a creative writer by default. We’ve read some of his works and agreed that more of these salted words and needed in a seemingly tasteless world.
It’s in you Mathias!
Hearts need this art..
Let it flow
We look forward to reading more of your poems and articles.
Flow & Glow on!!!🥂
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Here’s the beauteous piece titled~ Writers They Are! By Mathias Bright

They call them writers, those that cling unto minutes running into hours just to weave phrases,that give unimaginable seldom answers to questions, unanswered.

Writers! They are those that go on a voyage of brain racking,Penning, just to ensure the supremacy of peace in the midst of mayhem.
Literature they are, those that ascertain that their linguistic unit makes no err when inks paint white plain just to correct wrongs rightly.
Scribers they are, those that sigh in the midst of mental frazzle-ness,but kept on in all vigor, the essence of upholding the placard of “The pen is mightier than the sword”.

“Wor(l)d” revolvers they are, those that in-scribe in letters,to resuscitate unconscious-consciousness, to make
Un-mattered matters matter.
Foreseers they are, those that, then! Now! They scribe,penning the future of the present past, yet unseen.
Fulfillers they are,those that write to live,just to live to write.

And this is me, with passionate nothingness trudge to daily live and act the first seven stanzas of this piece,just to be numbered among men who live by pen.
Living to create legacies untold but written in white and black, to the whites and blacks.

Me it is! who without grains to chew decides to pen for men to earn informed knowledge.
Sleep-waking in brainwaves, scribing, just to make out something out of nothing to fill up societal nothingness.

Here I am, plunging daily into stream of penning consciousness, just to have a memoir of a scriber attached to my name.
Living to always remember that we are called writers not because we write,but because we rightfully rewrite the tomorrow of today just to have the right world.

It’s ME! Breathing never to be out of ink to say that, we were! we are! and would always be, RIGHTERS!

Rotimi Adeniyi🔔
A soul that has the courage to feel everything so deeply, cutting through the crust of words unspoken. Aside his writing skills, he is also blessed with righting skills. He stands as one of the heroes of our time, thriving in positivity and setting free caged truth.
Looking through the tunnel of time past, Rotimi with a pseudonym El Cypher has proven time and again to be an epitome of unfaltering integrity, to this end we look forward to hearing more of his success stories…🥂
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Here’s a deep and beautiful poem~
S C A R S written by Rotimi 

How shall I sing this melody
with glued tongue twisted
by nature’s pride,
which corridor is etched with tracks of teeth.

Where shall I bury this skin?
in a grave of darkness to shade
its shame or in a cupboard of
desolated cocoon to hear it crumble.

What makes the night a knight,
if not a thousand tripping stars…
What makes the day a pathway
for the head to lead the league
of legs
if not the burn and churn of the sun..

But,
what mystery is laced up my face
to pouch it in my skin’s hide?
If beauty is ever a human;
tell me I’ve lost a destination of
where pulchritude reigns

El Cypher

Ugbeh Doreen🔔
ye.e.e.s, maybe this is the Doreen you know somehow, somewhere but I’m here to ‘tell’ you about the Doreen you probably do not know.
Personally, I’ve known Doreen for quite sometime now and if I was told she is a writer, I would easily dance to the melodies of that beat, cause I’ve known her to be an excellent feature writer (no hypes) but hey! I just got to know that Doreen is a poet!!! Did you…? She’s a big time ‘bone wracking’ poet for that matter.
According to Doreen, her love for literature was discovered back in the days when she was still a secondary school student.
No doubt writing poetry (or any art in particular) can be an uphill task, following lots of deterrent factors.
However, we must note that poetry is life. It’s our duty as poets to live it and not leave it. To glow in it and not go out of it. On this note, a huge congratulations to our very own Doreen for her choice to live poetry. Cause more undiluted poetry is needed…
Cheers!! To the greater heights that awaits you,Doreen.
Glow on!🥂
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KICK OF AN ANCIENT FOETUS written by Doreen is one very deep poem. I’ll recommend its consumption for everyone.

Here’s the full poem💊 ~

Burning furnace, I pass through
Thoughts keep coming through
Wallowing in anguish and tears
Swallowing deceit and cruelty
Shallowish my world become
Left alone, chewing over dilemmas
Soul forbearing vengeance
a thinking cap will help break through
But it kicks within again
Scolding depression.

Obtaineth from my flesh, the warmth of the sun
Beholding from my eyes, the beauty of the cloud
Perceiving with my nose, the smell of heavenly drops
Earing with my ears, the sound of thunder strikes
Tasting with my mouth, delicacies from greens,
She kicks in excitement and wants to tell a tale.

Like a foetus in the womb; it kicks
A life inside a flesh worries, the arcane pen kicks
Consoling inner feelings without meetings
life and flesh decides to meet, and say that the world is empty
The optimistic foetus kicks thus; Pen of its emptiness
They conclude its dark; pen of its darkness
They say it’s rough; pen of its roughish.
Nevertheless, not omitting thy last kick
It kicks thus; Tell them it’s well
Expose the possibilities
Describe of a bright next.

The foetus is an old seed
Kicking constantly to tell about.
A foetus that forever leaves within;
It told my old man to grab a quill,
It tells me to grab a pen,
And it has been the best thing since then.

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Doreen started writing due to her admiration of the inspiration behind poems, after ‘studying’ so many of them.
In her words “the pen and the book are always ready to listen to you in any sort of situation that gives a feeling best known to you”.

All the very best Doreen!
Glow on!!🥂

Toyosi Oni, Yes! That’s one of the names that should ring a bell in your head whenever you think about one of the rising African voices to look out for. As an undergraduate of the University of Benin (UNIBEN), his works have been published on both local and international platforms.He tells the stories untold with such magnificent touch, taking you right to the scene you had never seen or even imagined.
It is said that the African story has been told myopically, but I can boldly say that with the hundreds of Toyosi(s) we have today, our stories would be rewritten the right way. Making the world realise,  inspite of the fact that the continent has been tagged with darkness, struggle and pain, we have our strength,our zeal, our will and the creativity to thrive beyond all odds.
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The Symbol of Death written by Toyosi is a story about an old woman who tells the bitter story of her life with so much strength and tenacity. She is someone I describe as an epitome of resiliency.

Here’s the full story: ‘The Symbol of Death’

She looked at me and showed her gold-brown teeth. Since I started this conversation with her, she had never ceased to spice her replies with a smile. Her smile was enthrallingly sparkling. Even at seventy-eight, she still understood what hearty laughter was.’What of your children, mama, where are they?’ I asked.She looked startled at my question, her wrinkled, rumpled face radiated with pain. She looked down at the cloth in her hand and pressed her teeth together, revealing a bulge at the side of her cheek, a little beneath her ear. I smelt that my question seemed out of place and I quickly segued.’You were not born and raised in Lagos, right?’She squeezed the clothe in her hand and pressed it so hard I started to fear it would tear. I knew exactly what she was feeling. That burning anger against the unknown. I was however sad that I ignited that anger.

‘I heard your first question, my son’ She said.I knew she did. I was almost pushed to ask why she did not answer but discarded the thought as soon as it came.’Sit down’ she ordered.I lent my hand to grab the nearest stool. Something inside me wanted to go. Another thing told me to wait.

‘You see’ she started. ‘I got married at a very early age.’She looked towards the sky and bit her upper lip.’I had my first son at the age of eighteen. He was indeed a bouncing baby boy. I remember how happy I was that day. I had been walking around with my big tommy for nine months. My mum was the happiest for me. I was happy that she was happy. So, I named him ayo’. She smiled as she pronounced that name.I adjusted my buttocks on the surface of the stool and told myself that I must listen to her till the end.

‘Ayo’ she said and kept quiet for a while.’Ayo was a brilliant boy. Right from his young age he had always shone with brilliance. At age four, Ayo was my calculator. He’d calculate the expenses of a customer to the awe of others’. She smiled.I stared at her blankly wondering where the whole story was headed.’Today, Ayo is no more, he died during a car accident on his way back from work.’ She said this with a big smile crested on her lips. I was left in total wonderment as to how she could say such a sad story and still keep her smile.’I’m so sorry, mama’ I said.

‘My second son came four years after Ayo, although I had a girl in between’. I looked at her and wondered how she expected me understand that.’His name was Ibukun, he was just like his brother, bright. Haha! He’d always cry to be in my hands everyday. There was a day he cried for four hours, just because I refused to talk to him’ she laughed aloud. I replayed her joke in my head and damn! It was boring.’Ibukun went to school in a country called Cyprus. You know, his tuition fees were not paid by me, because he was on a scholarship’ I made a silent hmm and nodded my head wondering what was going on in her mind.’Last year, Ibukun was sentenced to fifty years imprisonment in Cyprus. They said he killed someone, my Ibukun killed someone. Hmmm.’ As she said this, her face was blank. She squeezed the clothe

‘My third son was born in 1961′. I tried to do the math and realized how dumb I was at calculating.’I named him, Ife. And of course you know what that means’ she said as if to ask.’Love, I believe’ I replied enthusiastically.’Yes. Three months after Ife was born, he started walking, of course with the aid of things’ She paused and squeezed the cloth in her hand.’I remember Ife’s primary school days. He would wait in front of his wooden school, while I prepared to take him home’ She laughed. This time louder. So loud I began to wonder what this woman called funny.’Ife gained admission like his brother but he was in Nigeria. He was loved by his classmates, he loved playing football and was killed during one of his football matches’ she said as she smirked her lips. Tears were trying to come out of my eyes as I realized that she was talking about the death of her third son.

‘My fourth son. He was the conservative type. He hated crowdy areas. I remember how he angrily left his friend’s graduation party. When the celebrant’s mum told me. I simply told her that he just used that as cover. He hated crowdy places. I told her how I forced him to come to that party’. It was at this point that I started to notice a line from the side of her eyes.

‘Two years ago, sometime in October, he slept and never woke up’. She said this and I could filter the pain from her voice. She paused for a while and looked straight at me. Her lips moved as though she was muttering something.

‘I named him Kokumo’ she said as she squeezed the clothe.I paused and replayed the sequence of deaths. The first, second, third and fourth. I was creating the perfect line to console her in my mind. Her voice broke the silence.’My fifth and last son was named Malomo. After I gave birth to him, that happiness that accompanies childbirth was absent in me. I was scared and prayed seconds after he came out that God gives him a long life.’ I was scared and prayed silently that she would not squeeze the clothe.She looked at me and saw it. That fear. That shock.She threw the symbol of death away and smiled. At least I was happy that she was not going to squeeze it anymore. I expected her to say something but she was quiet.’Where is he?’ I asked with a somewhat faint voice.’OK’ she said.’I mean, where is he?’ I asked again.’He is… ‘ She said as she blinked her eyes.At this point she could not fight back her tears. I could not either. We both cried. Something popped into my mind. What of their father? I closed my eyes and decided that I was not going to ask that question.

‘Please say something.’ I said and this time my voice was loud.’He is… ”Yes?’ I asked.’He is… d… d…’ she said.I was staring at her waiting for a reply.’He is… what?”I saw him yester…’ she said.’OK?”He is dead’.The last hope was dead.I cried. I cried really hard.

The End

~…Toyosi is driven by passion and constantly seeks to grow in knowledge. For leisure,  he listens to reggae music, read novels and play games.