More Poetry

Short Stories

New Poems - from England 2005

New Poems - 2004

Love’s Grief

 Oh that these eyes be caused to weep in silence

A witness to a heart, deep rooted in love, tortured and chipped.

To watch a heart, that dotes, cherishes and adores,

Loved with malignancy.

This heart, warm with rhythms of love,

Frozen in the cold hands of lust.


Oh cupid! Dear cupid,

You never told me your duty was to hurt with your symbol

For here I stand, guilty!

Persecuted for wielding your gift.


And you Aphrodite, oh Aphrodite!

You never told me yours was to be cast away.

Beautiful as it is, like the fate of a wanton.


This heart, scathed once but healed in faith,

Now sampled, rejected and branded unworthy.

Another victim of lust.


You mortals,

Show me a maid of the best counsel

Or one void of the tiniest spot

Show me a love not corrupt amongst us

Nor played for gain

But mine, O beloved,

I give without fear or favour

Blind to the limitations we both possess.


Forgive my trespass on your heart,

For I mean no harm in love

Oblivious this poses an offence.


Accept my contrition,

That this love barricades your liberty

To woo hearts of your fancy.

That my love, O beloved,

Hinders your quest for “the one”.


 June 2004

Forlorn Feeling

My love,
I long to be in your arms once again
To feel your body upon mine
Heart to heart
Touch for touch.

The road is rough
Time gaining pace ahead of us
Leaving no room for our love
This I know.

We may carve out for us,
Love nests in nooks and crannies
Console ourselves with adventurous lustful escapades
To satisfy our desire
This I know too.

But nothing compares to being alone with you.
Away from wandering and asking eyes of the earth.
Alone in our little world of bliss and fantasy
Skin to skin,
Heartbeat to heartbeat.

To lay in your arms
And listen to your voice
To capture and behold your gaze
To feel and taste your lips upon mine
To touch and adore your being.

To know that amongst your bevy of beauties
There still exists in your heart
A place not void of love for me.
To be assured once again
That my love is worthy
For this feeling of uncertainty
Grips me by the day.

I long to be in your arms once again
My love.
I pine for it
I yearn for it
And when it becomes a bleakly hope,
I pray for it.

It never ceases too cross my mind .

Time will wait not for us
This I know
But my love,
If not to beget all these
But just lay in your arms
And find comfort in your words,
If only to reassure this fragile heart
That beats in forlorn hope….
I long to be in your arms once again.


Today they were refused a wife

The other day, a husband.

Preceding, greetings meetings and eating in oneness

Tomorrow, perhaps denied existence.


The fate of the Osu


Suspected, sniffed and sorted

Always “unclean” to the “clean”

Less preferred to our domestic beasts


The fate of the Osu


A perfect version of us handmade by the Almighty Chukwu

To share in the course of life

Yet denied this by their people, their tribe

We mortals.


Considered slaves in ancient history

Slaves of our ancestors

Off springs of a living myth


Slaves of whose people?

Were we not once slaves?




Avoided like the plague


The fate of the Osu


The scented

The left-handed

The untouchables

The non-Dialas as often called

And all jargons accorded

Yet they bear the same race and tribe as us

Species of our kind.


O gods of our land is this part of your will?

That a familiar man be called “stranger”

In his own land?


And you Chukwu,

Did you fashion us to make outcasts of ourselves?

For if this be true,

Then I am yet to decipher this myth.

Our Dilemma

You, our gods of immortals and living

Of seas and lands

Of all visible and not

We beseech, hear our cry this day

And come to our rescue.


Our sacred weapons of pleasure

Are being destroyed by the day

Rendered useless by our overseeing Lords and Ladies

Of ancestral descent.


They perform a barbaric operation on our ‘flesh of honour’

And call it ‘Female Circumcision’ in the white man’s language.

They mutilate our pride and say it is ‘tradition’

“The initiation to womanhood”


They cut us!

Oh yes, they cut us with the blade.


In the gaze of our fellows, they cut us

At times in the secrecy of our mother’s haven.

They do not concede to the tools,

Nor words of the physician’s for our safety

To them it has been for ages and tradition dare not be defiled.

They just cut us.


Against our will as they are wont to

For we foresee the agony and anguish

To these we try to parry but helpless we are


Our eyes have cried, tears of unending pain and torment

They have run dry of water.

Our hearts, laden with loathsomeness

We fear may burst.


They cut us; with or without our consent

Left to bleed by their ignorance

Sometimes fatal to our existence.

Other times, we become plagued with illness of strange names

“Infection” the physician would call it


Again they say it delivers us from the hands of promiscuity

As we ascend the ladder of womanhood.

Such blasphemy! We think

As if we are not bound for the act of consummation

In our ‘married’ days


As we watch our counterparts this day

Buried deep in this sin…

Sisters whom we term fortunate cut at childbirth

Fortunate to have escaped the pain we feel now,

We can’t but wonder-

“Who is fooling who?”


You, our ancestral Lords and Ladies

Suffer us no more we beg

What profit do you aspire

When our lives are wont to expire in this course of tradition?


Oh! What a shame,

That you who drum to our ears

To revere the dignity between our legs

Become the ones that destroy it.



© Chinwe Azubuike 2004


Fears Of A Celibate Woman

 The selfish lust of man

Has earned him my doubt and distrust.

With this vast body of desires, I feel forsaken

Who is fit to uncross my twisted legs?

And throw them wide apart

For my core is burning

Oh! You knight in shining Armour

Come and prove me wrong.

© Chinwe Azubuike 2004


The Bride Price

Ordained by our forefathers,
And cannot be changed.
A fiscal contract sealing our fate
A ceremony of honour and pride

Our fathers say it is a mark of respect
Our mothers, a thing of joy and honour

Money paid as legal possession of a young girl
By our future husbands and in-laws, to pronounce us ‘wife’
The Bride Price they call it
The ‘Igba Nkwu Nwanyi’.

A guarantee that we were not picked up by the wayside,
And ensuring we are no harlots.
Whether or not the groom is wealthy
This fee must be paid to our parents at all cost
For without this, we are considered “concubines”
“The mistress”

Woe betides the girl who disregards these rules
For she will incur the wrath of the gods
Conceivably, Death at childbirth!

To the first baby she gives life to,
She must lose hers
A curse! Like an arrow that does not miss its target.

How cruel it is, to end the existence
Of a daughter you nurtured from infancy.
Consider and wonder,
All in the name of tradition.
But then does one defile tradition?
Our elders?

Perhaps it is simply a case of
“Pay homage to the Agbaras”
Even when we find our faith.

© Chinwe Azubuike 2004-5


Sweet awaiting

More enticing than Aphrodite

Stronger to resist than a lover,

The power of this pleasure filled temptress is exulted.


Fools the senses,

Cajoling even the most reserved

Suggests unchaste playfulness,

Demanding surrender.


Savoured or devoured,

One weakens under its rousing charm.

To attempt it is to desire it

To taste it is to become gluttonous.



Blood stirring!!

Sinfully degrading!!!

 None escapes its grasp.


Its bowl of pleasure,

Satisfies a budding crave.


What promises to satiate the flesh more?

What is more delightful than love?


© Chinwe Azubuike 2005