Footprints of Our Ancestors
A generation of misunderstood youths
who dared not even dream,
it is therefore little wonder
how far beneath
had we been relegated…
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african voices
Call for Submissions!
TVO TRIBE presents an open call for articles, poems, personal accounts, photos, etc on the community’s theme for March:
GERONTOCRACY IN AFRICA
This is to give African creatives the opportunity to express themselves about the recent turn of events in the African political space. All contributors are therefore required to submit works that relate to this theme.
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Red Moon
by Agwaze Gift Naomi Sitting under the mango tree. Enjoying the cool night air, With the moon smiling down on all beneath. The happy chatter of little ones, anticipating the moonlight tales of the elderly. Sounds of mothers petting their toddlers to sleep. Fathers under the cashew tree discussing pressing issues at hand while sipping
Recalling Our Forgotten Stories: Africa’s Oral Tradition
by Damola Oluwemimo Oral tradition, or oral lore, is a form of human communication wherein knowledge, art, ideas, and cultural material is received, preserved, and transmitted orally from one generation to another. This is done mainly through speeches or songs that include folktales, ballads, chants/praises, prose, and even verses. This made it possible for a
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WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO DIE AGAIN? – Ololade Edun
The birth mark at the back of my neck was from cigarettes stubs that Baami pressed on my neck when I first came to this world. They said I died a lot of time, more like a premium Abiku, I’m sure you must have heard about us too.
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Murewa Ademola- Idowu. – TribeLead.
Let me Go!
I’m definitely more powerful
Wittier
Smarter
and I even have a plan.
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FAKE IS….WHAT(??) – Maradesa Ebenezer.
“Fake It
Till you make it”
The noise of it f(ee)ls the air.
Marching along the highways
Some zap by at the speed of light
And others r(high)de on wings of flying dinosaurs;
Or so they thought.
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The Madman and his congregation.- Isaiah Adepoju
That day the preacher-man went mad, everything he did was against the church itself. When he preached, he stamped his feet on the white tiles and clasped the microphone between his palms. When he sang, the church muffled and swayed from here to there like an Iroko tree blown by the desert wind. He called out verses – he carefully picked the verses – the ones that were long, long enough to throw the congregation in disarray of whispers.
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DEAR STONE – Jesse Okeleye Benedict
Stone,
Someone dig the ground to find you
Blood, shed for your sack
In believe that you can be gold
Mixed with fire you scream for help
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MARRIED AT 30 – Flavia Boris
Is it really about a biological clock, or morelike a culturally imposed timeline informed by an outdated notion that in the absence of a husband – what have youreallyachieved in life?
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