Inferno

Maybe she will be remembered
as the girl from East-Flanders
Courteous and well kept among others
You’ll forever be remembered
as the girl torn between the past
and the present
Maybe I’ll only be remembered
as the chap you held hands with
Or maybe I’ll always come to mind
whenever you see Omar Sy
Not because we’re brothers

She will always be remembered
as the girl with sunken eyes
or perhaps hollowed cheeks
I know, I’m sometimes bad
when it comes to choice of words
I know I won’t be remembered
as the boy who births awkward silences
You promised me,
so I pray you keep your word

She’ll be remembered
as the girl with the entire world at her humble feet and a golden heart
And anytime you think about Venice,
I hope I won’t be too distant a memory
Your heart has fought battles,
won, drew and even lost some
Let’s pray the latter is soon forgotten
But how do you forget
the sound of a bird that sings to
you every morning?
How do you mend a wounded soul?
So, you will be remembered
just like how you left,
in your toggery, with a hurried hug and a forced smile
Swift, and there you went

I will always remember you
as the girl who, while eating tacos kept asking why I aligned
the Coca-Cola bottle and the glass every now and then
Maybe precision was the word
you were looking for
Or maybe both of us were searching for
So anytime I think of precision,
you’ll be next in thought
Inferno

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Cheer up, dear brother!

you tasted the unknown waters
and touched the distant seas – afar
along the inconsiderate tides
with the sacrosanct skies, staring beneath,
unto your scalp
cheer up, dear brother
as winter blurs into spring
– with minuscule day sunlight
every now and then
and the longer nights bringing forth
shorter sleeps
Autumn is still in sights
the bamboo orchids lie dormant
along greying greens
cheer up, now and tomorrow
the seasons are passing through,
the moments come and go – for good
so cheer up, my dear brother !

Silky Hair

Woman, wherever you sit, its radiance lightens up
To brighten the woes of our today
Like it has already been, for years

And each strand has a story to itself
And a rubric, coined with time
So as silky as it appears
It will forever be a sparkle in the dim days
And travel through time

To show glimpses of the miles trodded
And the heights achieved
Or even tell tales of the hands it has met

As its lustrous fibres continue to glitter
Each thought of our innocent hearts
While they journey on along the woes of today

Are You Writing Your Life ?

It’s been a couple of years
after you asked that question
Till now, you’ve never been missed,
due to the presence of your words,
the unplanned meetings in public transport
and honestly, you reside not far from here
You’ve been spotted going out and about
as days turn into years
Sometimes, picking your noble son from school
holding each others’ hands tightly
along the brick-pavement
You must be a proud mother
The spark in your eyes says it all
You’ve also been seen taking strolls
in and around the public park
others call it a recreational park,
with your belly-full
You were carrying in you either a
prince or a princess or even both,
an unborn monarchy
Lately you were seen pushing a pram
you seemed to be in a hurry
Maybe you had an appointment
with a paediatrician
How time runs!
Nine months have just gone by
within a blink of an eye or did you
deliver prematurely?
Anyway what matters most is that mother and child(ren) are healthy
So be it then
But what happened to your plans?
Are you still on them?
Pursuing your goals of becoming a
journalist.
You speak four languages;
Turkish(your mother tongue), German,
English and of course Dutch, right?
Great stuff
My regards to your husband and children
and who knows, maybe we’d bump into each other some day
either in a public transport
or I might see you reporting on TV
or hear your voice on the radio
or meet you at the nearby recreational park with your children
They may be of age by then and I wouldn’t be surprised if they ask
if indeed I’m writing my life
Till then, I’ll be preparing for an answer.

Gone Forever

She misses the days of old
although she weaves her ways
towards her salient dreams
or perhaps, her pallid self.

so now that he has turned into a foe
and who knows as she sways
maybe she’d cease to gleam
and find solace in a darker shelf.

so all is but unclear
that she truly misses the days of old
now that he has turned into a big foe.

A Layer of Dew

a thing of bliss is always lovely
as and when it soothes out cuddly.

unto the layers gone afar
and the streams left to us -ajar

so every now and then
let’s hearken not nor pretend.

upon our awakes, are we wailing
with a desire to thrust out our ailing

but at times, grief is somehow brief
like a layer of dew, short-lived.

Tomorrow

when you are not pretty to turn heads around
or not confident enough to word your thoughts
not smart enough to attend Uxbridge or Harvard
cos of where you were born or raised
yet you still dream of the impossible to be better days
maybe in frank vocabulary, somewhat successful
and even to extend a helping hand
maybe you wont be erased  from history
just as men’s misfortunes are forgotten
in the excitement of new enterprises

when you love to dream big 
and yet you see no light
cos all is but bleak around you
amid flashes of tomorrow
that offer no tap of glee
and suicide somehow is but a haunt
then allow the beauty of nature
to give cheer to every face
and a spring to every step
while birds tweet here and there
and our dreams, a puff of air
and later, with the smell of myrrh

Like the beautiful sunrise and its sunset
perhaps, as the feel of rain or the whiteness of snow 
as the seasons change, and new moons, are bestowed
then, there is hope for a zenith of fame
As the boldness of love aged-couples recap
paints a winsome picture to come
similar to the unconditional love of a mother
then, everything is worth a try
even for the days unknown
and the accents yet unheard

©Flojoe Nsiah Sarbeng

CITY LIFE

Every corner,
Every nook
But cranny
All squares
But circles of a vicinity
Hustles,
Beeps,
and teeming footsteps
All lights on
And edifaces as long
as the eyes could assertain

Subways
highways
parked cars,
sea of pedestrians
commuters
Life’s on fire;
Ablazing with anew hopes
Venting through like an
amorous sophomore

We walk through,
with our heads up high
amid crass propaganda;
Eavesdropping our timed-pace
with reproach
But we remain in unison;
working to aviate & bridge the gap
between today & our apportioned
Destinies…

In this city life !

MY WRITE-UP ON CHIMAMANDA NGOZI ADICHIE’S BOOK ‘AMERICANAH’.

 ‘If something bigger than the farm is dug up, the barn is indeed sold’- as does this Igbo proverb reiterate. I have off-late been sparked up and revitalized on reading more books by African  writers. Upon the positive inroads by African writers across the length and breadth of the globe, I find it just logic and reasonable that I read more books by them. Over the years, we’ve witnessed the exploits by Nigerian writers on the international arena and even with the passage of time have increased in numbers. Mentioning of names would not be of much significance. I believe that Nigeria is arguably the main powerhouse of sub-Sahara African literature. As a fellow writer who is always ready to evince myself up to both the old and contemporary forms of literature, I am somewhat driven to fortify my labyrinth of memory and as said by the Nobel Laureate the late Nadine Gordimer, in order to write, you must read. I began Americanah by reading the blurb which gave me a fleeting idea of what the book fully entails. I got enthused with the theme and plot of the story. I knew certainly that the book would live up to its billing. I relished how the writer interplays the various settings of the story which span through three continents.

That makes it very breathtaking and as someone who is fairly abreast of the lives of Africans around the diaspora, I read the story through a crystal retina. In certain instances, the manner in which the writer relays the mood of the various characters makes it humourous and very much event-filled. The specimen of hope in the eyes of the characters makes it worth-while. The writer brings also into play the recent-past history of Nigeria’s ex-military government. It is just like supporting the figures with facts, and as in this case with occurrences.

In an instance, she reasserts that race is embroidered in the fabric of history and I cogitate that it seems to be sarcastically carpeted to the sustainability of man. The theme of the story portrays that of despair and rediscovery of the African self. The diction of the writer in my view appeals more to African readers than to non-African readers. Being an African, it truly gave me a vivid picture of the life of the African in a far-away land. I know with no shadow of doubt that the story is perhaps an eye-opener, that is, in a positive sense to non-African readers. But be that it may, the reader is certain to be thrilled by the theme, mannerism and the camaraderie of the various characters, of which that of the persona is no understatement to the story in its entirety. I thoroughly enjoyed each and every chapter of the book ‘Americanah’ and I would recommend it to both young and seasoned readers.

Cover Photography used © Amazon.com