THE INJUSTICE THAT SCREAMS

by Chinedu lhekoronye 

They say we are free—

But chains still rattle in our dreams.

Not of iron, but of law,

Not of shackles, but of schemes.

The gavel strikes, but truth lies slain,

Beneath the cloak of legal pain.

The voices rise, the system scoffs,

While justice sleeps in ivory lofts.

They loot the land, then preach of peace,

While hunger roams and rights decrease.

They jail the bold, reward the sly,

And feed the poor another lie.

Who gave them crowns to crush the weak?

Who taught them power means not to speak?

Who drew the lines where blood must spill—

Then wrote the laws that bless the kill?

But we are fire, born from dust,

Rising now because we must.

Our words are swords, our truth is flame,

And we will set alight your shame.

For every child denied a voice,

For every vote turned into noise,

For every dream beneath your heel—

We stand. We shout. We will not kneel.

So let the tyrants learn at last:

A nation's silence cannot last.

The day will come, the truth will rise—

And justice will unblind her eyes.

Chinedu lhekoronye is a Nigerian, human rights lawyer, and poetic writer. He uses his writings to draw global attention to injustice in different places. He believes that injustice in one place is injustice globally.

FAYE’S INAUGURATION

by Anayo Dioha

Just over two weeks ago, Bassirou Diomaye Faye was a little-known opposition leader languishing in jail, detained without trial on charges including inciting insurrection, who had never held elected office. One week ago, he defeated the governing party's candidate, Amadou Ba, in the country's presidential election, winning 54% in the first round. On Tuesday, the 44-year-old has been sworn in as the fifth president of Senegal, becoming Africa's youngest elected head of state. In a region where a large majority of the population are under 30, his victory offers hope to those young people frustrated by a lack of economic opportunities, with old elites seemingly clinging to power. —BBC, April 2, 2024

Rotten roots from decades past

Sinking deeper. Branches

Decaying, falling apart

Into their rancorous unrest

From this foisted tree of shrouded

Democracy.

Evergreen leaves pruned, trampled

Black, mutilated barks

Of overburdened trunk and branches

Bearing colonial scars and fresh bruises.

The rape, the loot; plagues and

Persecutions–the tale of many

Dark cities.

But look! A spark ignites in Dakar!

An ecdysis seems in progress.

This bloom just may smile

At the sky; it could be left to bask

In the sun.

But how will it fare around the pack

Of predators gathered at the lounge—

The inauguration lounge?

 

Anayo Dioha is a Nigerian and has been previously published in The New Verse News.

COMRADE VLAD

by David Southward

President Putin
must be hootin’—
tricked the Yanks to vote a brute in!
Tried some far-out
home computin’
to keep the stateside rowdies rootin’.

The guy’s too sly:
all smiles, refutin’
prissy liberals’ highfalutin
complaints their voting wasn’t free.
Electoral integrity?
Just pretty words those Yanks look cute in.

How to keep
the troops salutin’—
that’s a man’s concern, darn tootin’!
Roll up the shirtsleeves,
start recruitin’
loyal subjects; start transmutin’

this carved up world
to one more suitin’.
Invite your enemy
out shootin’. Tell him,
“I’ll drive from here. Now scoot in.”
Lead him on

like old Rasputin—
propaganda’s Isaac Newton—
with money pits
to stash his loot in.
Seal the bargain.
Plant your boot in.

David Southward teaches in the Honors College at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. His poems have appeared most recently in Bramble, POEM, Measure, Verse-Virtual, and Unsplendid.

THE KING OF CHICKEN STREET

by Rick Gray

Chicken Street, Kabul. Source: Streets of Afghanistan Project

Not yet fourteen, he swings on donated crutches like an old jazz hand
Brushing the bad news lightly to his orphaned platoon.  

Cute won’t work anymore, the foreigners are all leaving the war.                        
Our new mission is grabbing anything they abandon.

Slip thick blankets off their emptied beds, still warm with home dreams.
Seize their Pop-Tarts, some good glue, and those spittoons. I have ideas.

And the general’s long strategy desk we saw on that looted TV, he commands,
Smash it into firewood with your remaining little hands.

We’ll need the heat.  And the meat, he squints, lifting his right crutch and aiming
Its chicken-bloodied tip at a shadow taking cover underground.

The others understand.
Any rat alive, or close enough. 


Rick Gray has work currently appearing in Salamander and has an essay forthcoming in the book, Neither Here Nor There: An Anthology of Reverse Culture Shock. He served in the Peace Corps in Kenya and teaches in Kabul, Afghanistan.