PENMIND MEDIA & CREATIVITY

Would I have had it any better in life? Why would it be me? Why would he hurt me? He is my Father Why would he get closer to me? Why would he unbutton me and tell me not to shout? and why did I not? Why did I not tell Mom? That her husband, my father is not the man he was once Now, he craves for me, his product, That he didn't do it just once but more times that I have even lost count I am hurt but can only speak to myself For one word out, is hell I am fearful not to speak, for he said DO NOT DARE SAY ANYTHING, or you are gone {dead} Mom, I am sorry but I each time you inquire, "Are you feeling fine, Glory?" I can only say "Yes Ma," a deceiving story; I can only smile at you For the man in front Is not a man but a beast who feasts on his own kids. I fear for my own death to not come at this young age Perhaps, I can tell only myself this tale Till when he is of old and the story can then b...

Abstract Africa has long been the parole of conflicts, war, terrorism, et cetera, in the extensive langue of the whole world’s conflict. Consequently, this essay proposes to suggest policies and considerations that can effect and sustain peace in Africa, drawing from instances and causes of conflicts across the continent. Keywords : Africa, Nigeria, West, Southern, Northern, Conflict, Security, Peace, Leadership. CLICK HERE TO READ THE COMPLETE TEXT...

He had lost his innocence on a similar night at this, eighteen years ago. The moon had been just as bright when Father John invited him to his quarters. The priest had forcefully torn through the Senibo's innocence, creating in him a rage that knew no calm until he watched the abusive Reverend Father as he bled to dead in his arms a week later.  He turned thirteen when he stabbed the shameless pederast on the vein through the neck with the sharp edge of a broken bottle.  It is how he ran away from Mother Cecilia's orphanage and took refuge at the slum close to the bridge where different people footfalls are the way fear is described.  It is where he learned survival. The begun his thorn-filled career into petty crimes, because for him how to thief is a distributive perceptive, where two or three comes and share ideas on how to obtain what isn't theirs. He met the money he had been longing for but what happened to Senibo made his ghost realized; a...

moloch- demons with goldhorns.  filth. sordid hallucinations in this city's alley,  with blind eyes. she is cold. she is soft like silk. she is fragile like china. she is a rose- her head is buried in her mind, she has howled led at midnight. she has conversed with the moon,  bitten by hysterical teeths. she has died in machine hearts. she has been plucked unripe. she is a girl. she is human or do you think otherwise? ©Ugwu Erochukwu Shedrach Follow the trend: #WriteWithVincent #Day5 #SayNoToDrugAbuse #SayNoToRape  #CreatingAwareness #Johnchizobavincent #UgwuErochukwuShedrach #ReachingOutToAll

         I have been there before but no one was there for me, if I had known the dangers that lurked in the dark, in the secret, if I had known I would never be the same I would have listened dutifully, if anyone had told me back then that I could get lost and that i would probably never find myself again things would have been different.         I still remember that night it's so clear like as if I am experiencing it all again, I remember shouting but it was as if they had borrowed my voice for one night , he did not care , he did not feel, he couldn't see the pain in my eyes. I don't think he knew the gravity of what he had done cause if he knew, he would never had done it, dreamt of it or even tried it, he took everything I had, everything I thought I knew of myself, my dreams, my hope all of it gone now and am not the only one lost , he who did it is lost too both parties are not do not remain the same.        Aft...

I have not met a rape victim before but maybe if I meet her She will tell me: her pussy is on fire and her body is weak as a restless stone Maybe she will write that her voice is taken and her life has been blotted out of her vagina Maybe she will say all men are assholes and life is a burnt cit Maybe she will laugh and start to cry Maybe a rape victim will tell me her body is melting or she doesn't know where she is — Maybe she will say the home she knows is a poison / the venom of a snake / a cursed tree / the devil's bread and the world, well, is not for her Maybe if I meet a fresh rape victim She will not tell me anything because they've taken life out of her She is buried in her own body and the corpse keeps staring at the mirror. © Peace Akinwale Follow the trend: #WriteWithVincent #Day5 #SayNoToDrugAbuse #SayNoToRape  #CreatingAwareness #Johnchizobavincent #ReachingOutToAll

If I had known! My vision is what I wrapped into white paper, My goals is all I burns to brighten my mood, My dreams would vanish with the smoke from my mouth, I would not have got addicted. To easy my soul! I chased God out of my heart, I made my conscience drown in the waves of life, I stepped on my ambition and got lost in the other side of life. Mother told me! The road to my destiny is the scriptures written on my palm, Unfortunately for me I had used the road leading to my destiny to burn down my future into ashes.          SAY NO TO DRUGS It burns destiny into ashes and turns man into an empty vessel. ©Ayomide Micheal Follow the trend: #WriteWithVincent #Day4 #SayNoToDrugAbuse #SayNoToRape  #CreatingAwareness #Johnchizobavincent  #ReachingOutToAll #MichaelAyomide.

A spoon of sand / a wool of pillow hangs in the mouth; that is how she does always. Say once you go to hell, you learn to live your whole life as if it's still hell. The world is a circle of train Every bad memory keeps coming again so you can't love her because she'll kill you before you do. That rapist keeps coming again in her dream. .... © Peace Akinwale Follow the trend: #WriteWithVincent #Day4 #SayNoToDrug Abuse #SayNoToRape  #CreatingAwareness #Johnchizobavincent #ReachingOutToAll #PeacePhilip

Days falls like curtains in a play a little burn of calories from, playing under the scorching sun. night comes in, with shining smiling moon and the twinkle star when it comes, everything seems at rest. But as I sleep, daddy comes in like a thieve, walking on his toes he creeps into the room not making a noise. the only thing I hear is the noise of the door knob, as he opens to reveal daddy's shadow My heart begins to race, as my world turns desolate my dream evaporate as my night dream awakens. He has come to play, so he says every time he visit me. Earlier, growing up I see him as a shield jumping up and play, always on his shoulders. raising me high as my cheeks hurt from smiling, sleeping on his shoulders day after day. my sweetheart so he usually calls me. But now during the night, when every creature lays rest he comes. he lays down on me reaping of my pants, eyes glowing in the dark and a smirk on his face, like a lion who has caught his prey. ...

I remembered this particular incident that shaped and reshaped my closeness with family members vividly. This incident also made me make a decision never to put any of my children under the tutelage of any family members. It happened in the year 2010,there was a girl called "Esse." Esse was from Bayelsa state, she stayed with her aunt named "Mama Joseph." Mama Joseph had four children, three boys and a girl, Joseph was the eldest and he was my friend. Mama Joseph sells recharge card and clothes, alongside studying. I noticed that Esse was always maltreated, she was a very nice girl to me and my mother, that much I can confess. I got talking with her one day, Esse, I called out, "Yes, Emmanuel, she answered. "Why is it that you always looked troubled ? She looked left and right and after a very deep breath, she was reluctant at first, but I persisted in trying to make her speak out." Finally she obliged, "I don't know the reason but,...

The pestle between your legs, The mortar between your legs, What is your excuse? That it is always charged by nature? And it does not have a turn-off switch? It is a pestle not a pistol,  Yet,  just this yesterday, just this tomorrow you pulled your zip and shot a woman's dream, You are a killer, A killer of dreams, A killer of virginity, A killer of pride, A killer of bliss, It is mortar not murder, Yet, How many pestles have you crushed? How many destinies? For being the sister of Jezebel, Did it earn you a crown? just to prove you are a descendant of eve? The key between your legs, The door between your legs, You plug the key into the door, You treat your temples like a shrine, Does it come with a trophy? No? But It comes with a seed,later blamed or named after a mistake, A mistake? Can a pestle pound a mortar while asleep? Can a key open a door unconscious? Oh!  Was it sleep walking? Shall we then blame it on c...

Every fortnight, Gbenro is always in a haste to visit his parents, often he misses them so much especially the warmth of embrace of his mother. He had only one sibling, a girl. Gbenro was fond of his sister, he protects her more than a country is being protected from terrorists. However, there was the smallest of details he failed to checkout in his life which exposed his darling sister to the cold hands of misfortune. As industrious, studious, intelligent Gbenro was, he was negligent of his shortcomings and this was always being in the company of chained smokers and dipsomaniac each time he visits home. He wanted to feel among his peers, though he engaged in their escapades once in a blue moon. Another part of him was taking medical drugs without the doctor appropriate prescription as an allergy patient of cold. One fateful day, he asked his precious sister, Ariat to accompany him to see one of his friends. Getting there, he developed nausea, he asked his sister to wait for him...

My mother is not at home Push me not to the corner, Take not my golden flower Its for my husband to behold. Let me not tell this tale To those that will laugh Hide me in my own pride For future may rest greatly Let me write not of pains Or of a beast among beauty When tomorrow comes joyfully, Trade gentily with my body. Don't write sorrow and run my temple is not for blemish, To the legs of the earth orbit Beat not my dignity before time. With the eyes of my tears Behold my innocence crying If you have to write with ink Write what men will behold. Touch me not my temple again Mother is not at home to see us Father has gone to the market Only me can not hold this madness. (C) John Chizoba Vincent #WriteWithVincent #Day1 #RapeIsAgainsthumanity #sayNoToDrugAbuse #Johnchizobavincent.

TITLE: Strategic Repositioning of Nigeria in the Global Market” Author: Kazeem Ademola Adio Genre: Economics Reviewer: Abdulwaheed Olaniyi Pages: 65 Despite the abundant human and mineral resources, Nigeria as well as other African countries has been given sobriquets which often prevent her to rise economically. Why? Absence of image credibility is one of the major obstacles to the economic progress of the African countries, especially Nigeria. Expectedly, each country in the world has her own “brand image” for the sustainability of her economy. For Nigeria, such image is being tarnished due to poor economic management by the people of the country, making other countries, outside African continent to see the brand image of African countries from a negative perspective. To reveal this, Kazeem Ademola Adio identifies the cause of the problems and proffers lasting solutions to the negative image on Africa. He summarizes the way Nigeria as well as other African countri...

Life is full of challenges. Life is full of happiness. It is like ocean where everyone swims. It takes much courage to avail the ordeal of the waves of the ocean of life, such wave is like the predicament that one faces in the world. The knot in one’s life requires patience. Perhaps one is not fortunate to get assistance, patience is the only key to success in life especially during difficult time. In such situation, children and women are always vulnerable, people take advantage of them while looking for a swift solution to their quandary in life. If patience is not applied, another problem may come in and one will not have choice than to accept the fate, either good or bad. This is why Ngozi Ebubedike, in her novel, encourages youths, especially the vulnerable ones, to remain patient and stay with God during hard time.   Sometime in life, if predicament showers like morning dew in one life, one may be so desperate to embark on another life journey that will lead to one’...

we dine in the stream of tears as we welcome each blow of bomb; each day the insurgents send letters of death to the village. mother run East-to-West, looking for the haven to keep our heads, yet we are being consoled with corpses of aunts, uncles and brothers, from the other side of the sky, in our land. the home is a safe haven for terrors and hopelessness: the home is a straight confluence to welcome sea of tears, we see pains on the plates of meals—the plates used to serve morsels of bombs to our streets. Only in our land we find havens for terrors. FOR YOUR BOOK REVIEW, CONTACT US ON: +2348160531722 / Email at: penmind12@gmail.com

For not less than four years now, the country that claims to be the giant of Africa—Nigeria—has been battling with demonic terrors by insurgents, which has given the nation and its people different sobriquets. Many have died, stranded, abducted. Some are neither dead nor alive as their captors remain silent to tell the world about their live status. The feat of any terror is their feast.   Especially in North-East Nigeria, everyone lives a horrendous life. The land is alien to the natives. The country is a precarious domicile for the peace loving citizens. Where is the home in this land? Perhaps to elucidate the plights of a common man in the northern part of the country, Rasaq Malik describes the predicaments of people in the North- East, in his chapbook, ‘NO HOME IN THIS LAND,’ lamenting the acrimonious experience people go through every time as a result of the bugbear Boko Haram insurgents plant in the land. The intractable menace of Boko Haram insurgents has defiled ...

“The blood of those people killed by the Fulani herdsmen are on the hands of the federal government and if nothing is done they will cry unto God” The federal government was alerted on the threat of the herdsmen who had vowed to resist the anti- grazing bill enacted by the state government."  -  Governor  Ortom Silence weeps aloud in somber streams of red sorrow as blooming beauties are  butchered in bloody batters. The beheading of glowing hibiscuses in nesh January, a replay of the black bloody streams in malignant lordships... Silence of chosen messiah, sudden dumbness of his ferocious sword at the brutal feast of crude brethren on innocent sheepfold. We have come to our bloody promised land pious prophet has prophesied peace and prosperity, quietness now is the pragmatic finger of prophecies at deleterious livelihood of "the beloveds". Let us hope! To see silence giving birth to heroic Beowulf. ADÉYEMO E. O  ...