The Arts-Muse Fair

IT HAS NO NAME BY NANA SULE There is something that starts walking inside your throat. It drags with it, all the emotions that you own. Except that it forgets to pull along the happy ones. That is why you hold on to the smile on your lips, you hold on because there isn’t much to do. This thing, eating at your heart, it must have a name. Outside, there is rain. It drums violently on the roof and crawls through the small leak in the ceiling, just on the right side of the kitchen. When the rain first came, Samira and yourself had pushed the cooker a bit to the side. Then an orange bucket was placed beside the cooker. Now the insides had dark rings from where water had overstayed. Kind of like your heart, from where doubt had overstayed and have now become clarity. Dark clarity. It is on this rainy day that you fold all the senses you own in a neat pile, lock them somewhere behind your head where you wouldn’t reach. It is on this night that you make what you know she lo

falling the night you fell into him as he recited off his memory on your request saying each word as though tendering cream on loved skin his voice sailing like faith; calm rising at sharp edges resuming its pace soon after that night, there was the way he wrapped silence into your pores while he read there was the way your heart quietened even more at each word and there was how he came slowly to the last line that reminded you of tides but it was in the silence that followed that stood there like a comfortable hole that you fell indecisive clouds the guy you just posted about on facebook, the indecisive cloud moving towards you on the street yesterday,    and asked you to let him stare at you for a minute yes, him it's because since his sister died, with half his name in her mouth like a bread loaf, he finds her in the space between the teeth of every gap-toothed woman it's why he will

Photo: Aminu S Muhammad. WAVES AND TIDES BY  SOPHIYYA EMBEE The first time she'd seen him, she was dazed. She'd never seen someone so beautiful she thought she must have been crazed. He had a skin so light and he made her think she'd never seen someone smile as bright. She kept images of him in her head all night, he taught her, firsthand, the concept of love at first sight. They'd met in school. She'd gone back to class lighthearted and told her friend, "man! He's so cool!" They'd chatted, laughed about it, in a way only a true friend could understand it. "Don't fall too deep," her friend would tease, yet she marvelled at how she did with ease. Time flew! That thing..! You'd never know when everything will become new!  She'd gone to camp and the feelings bloomed, little did she know it'd turn right around to gloom. He had her heart, at the tip of his hat. He had her smile full of anticipation, dr

In Borno, North-eastern Nigeria, the Boko Haram terrorism has thrown up many soldiers fighting tirelessly to thwart BH's dehumanizing actions of killings, bombings and abductions. Outside the conventional Nigerian Armed Forces and the Civilian Joint Task Force (JTF) taking on the BH terrorists, there is another army that shoots in Borno as well. Mohammed Chiroma is a soldier in this army that shoots to counter-narrate the, often, scary news that regularly come out of Borno state. He does this by shooting photos that seek to dispel the stereotypes and misinformation with which news and stories of Borno state are painted. Using their cameras, photographers like Fati Abubakar, Rahima Gambo and many others in Borno state are actively re-telling their stories in rich human colours against the backdrop of the violence wrought on the state by BH. In this first of series of The Arts-Muse Fair’s  " Soldiers of Borno "    interviews,   we bring to you our conversation wi

Photo credit: Aminu S Muhammad OLD LOVE BY  NANA SULE There was a knot in her throat. It was always there in moments like this. It would tighten right there, then well its way into her stomach, just below her navel. There, it would settle and the decision would be made. And she would feel the words climb all the way from her stomach, claw at her mouth, till she let them spill. The it’s not you, it’s me theory. And so when she opened her mouth this time and they came out, she did not stop them. “It’s not you. I have… I have so many things I need to… to, to do. First” The silence lingered a little longer this time. Longer than the ones from the last three. There was the one she really liked. The one with the beard like Ahmed’s; trim and covering only his chin. The one that she had told over the phone, because she couldn’t look him in the eyes, that it wasn’t him. It was her. And then she listened quietly, memorizing every sob he tried to stifle, every word that

The last of our series of interviews with winners of the Poetic Wednesdays (PW) second anniversary poetry competition features Adamu Iliyasu, 26 years old poet and Accountant. Interview by Salim Yunusa     How can you say your profession has shaped your poetry? I am someone that since my secondary school days, liked anything that has to do with calculations. I've then loved mathematics as a subject and paid little attention to English Language and I think   that's how I found myself in Accounting   as a profession. So, I dont think my profession has performed any role in my poetry journey. But the passion motivated and drove me well. Poetic Wednesday recently celebrated its second Anniversary. Can you tell us what impact being a member of the Poetry movement has made in your literary journey? First let me start by saying congratulations to all Poetic Wednesdays Crew on this second year anniversary and I pray that PW will continue to grow to the highest lev

LOVE AND POETRY BY MARJAAN SADIQ Photo: Aminu S Muhammad You knew you're truly in love the day you wrote your first stanza. You've heard that people write nice poetry when they feel immense love, or sadness, or even happiness. Never hatred. Poetry should not be inspired by hatred: it is too beautiful. You wonder how something so "beautiful" can be inspired by sadness. You ask around, but you do not get a gratifying response. You draw the conclusion that pain has an inherent beauty. After all, without sadness, happiness cannot fully be appreciated. You think about Rumi, the famous poet of the thirteenth century, who was an Islamic scholar until Shams of Tabriz entered his life without warning, and exited it just as abruptly, turning Mawlana Rumi into a sad poet. You wonder if the stories that have transcended centuries are true, if Rumi and Shams did not have a romantic relationship, and you chide yourself for entertaining such lowly thoughts. You thi