The Paradox of Progress
They said we’d be free—
but we’re tied down,
each breath caught
like lost words in air.
We show our land’s shades—
but the green’s dim,
the white’s dark
with old, bad marks.
Growth?
It’s burnt àmàlà—
fills the belly,
turns the soul sour.
Rich soil,
yet so poor—
a necklace of wealth
chokes us all.
They yell, “Look, new!”
but change tastes mara—
bills in bows,
still cut deep.
Do you feel lost?
Do you ask,
“Is this home?”
Our old ones’ bones lie—
but not their joy.
Top men cheer on hurt,
toast in old rooms,
names fly like dust.
Gas crushes us,
rice kills dreams.
Kids learn
where planks break,
chalk and hunger mix.
Hope needs room—
we choke on vows
like foul air in sore lungs.
Calls for change—
two struck down.
Hope drops in pools
of strong jets
and dark clinics.
A pregnant mum waits
in Kano’s theatre,
her child
quiet in her womb.
What grows
when hearts shrink
like dried roots?
Yet—
we hold tight.
Our hands hurt
but won’t let go.
We’re loud hope—
strong song in hush,
alive, not just there.
One day—
not by “OK”,
but by right,
this cry will soar
into a fresh tune.
We were never broke,
just bent—
like a bow
set to fire.
The Court of an Unseen Judge
Folks claim the judge here is like God.
But which God backs the lies,
his mark on dark and deep sighs?
Which God wears a robe sewn with bribes?
Yes, in court a man was brought down.
His wrong?
Being poor—
a hunger with no anthoney,
a silence with no canopy.
His gut cried out in court,
a drumbeat no one heard.
What can you say
when your best help
is your mum’s prayer—
threaded through midnight,
tied in tears?
They say the scales can’t see,
but they flash for gold vans.
Gold masks fall off.
She turns her head when the rich talk,
and stays quiet
when the poor yell.
Each day, news strikes
like heartbreak before a wedding—
three kids locked for picking bread.
Big shot walks free with 37 homes.
I switched it off,
but the tales stick
like ghosts creeping through the noise.
You’ve felt it, right?
That press—
not on skin,
but soul,
like a cell door stuck shut?
Yet,
we stand.
We fall.
We stand once more.
Tough as ash trees,
bent by wind,
still standing from burnt soil.
We speak truth
even when the tongue
bleeds to say it.
Some nights I shout into my pillow
not ‘cause I’m weak,
but ‘cause the world yells too.
And pain needs room to grow.
Those who name them judges
don’t know the true High sees.
When their time ends,
no fake docs will help them.
The sky,
bright and burning,
asks for no proof—
everyone’s twin
that walks like us sees it all.
A slave might be trapped,
but his soul walks free
near God’s breath.
A widow’s tears
are ink
in the sky’s book.
The hurt,
the nameless gone—
each has a file
marked with truth.
Only God can judge us.
And when that time comes,
justice won’t wear a robe.
She’ll ride a chariot of fire,
speaking in lost words.
Judges will bow.
Kings will tremble.
And the humble,
those penned in dust
at last,
will rise.
Black, and Still Rising
After all the fire, we still dance.
In this bright world
of cracked flags,
black is not just shade—
it is light
that has seen too much rain.
They say we eat our own.
They call our dark a curse.
They think our lack and fights
are design—
as if chaos was our lullaby.
From Jo’burg to Jos,
the dirt knows us.
The lead knows our names.
In South Africa,
home turns to hell—
a man’s talk
can hang him.
Kwame.
Chukwudi.
Ade.
Names spoken soft,
but landing hard.
And in Congo,
the earth bleeds.
Kids dig for coltan—
palms blackened
with stolen futures,
for phones
that skip their graves.
They call it growth.
We call it death
dressed in tech.
Lagos is full
of hopes and hurts.
CVs become luck games.
Food stalls, survival labs.
You ask a top student:
“I do P.O.S,
and the Lord is faithful.”
“À ò yó ni, ebi ò pawá.”
Ghana shines
in far embassies.
Visa lines like cracked shrines—
offering dreams
to silent walls.
Gold still hides
beneath the blues.
Fuel is high.
Rice feels like gold.
Parents count school costs
like troops count bullets.
Schools nap through strikes
and dream of days
that never come.
I check my phone—
bad news thumping:
Lagos falls.
Khartoum burns.
Accra goes dark,
a baby dies.
My phone glows.
My throat locks.
Hope moves slow—
like an old woman
carrying our names.
Have you not cried,
“God, please,”
in the corners of your room
where light won’t go?
Still,
we are here.
We stomp on glass.
We laugh through loss.
We plant dreams
in dry ground.
And we are not weak.
We are the drums
your granddads feared.
We are the words
that won’t fade.
Zanele.
Kwame.
Oluwatobi—
names like horns at dawn.
They wished us gone.
But we grew—
like seeds buried,
not dead.
Tell them:
We are not dust—
we are fire’s glow,
ashes that refused
to vanish.
And we are set
to light up the days
with the fire they tried to kill,
and the dreams
they can’t claim.
Olamoyegun Noah O is a poet, content writer, and microfictionist from Oyo State, Nigeria. His work draws inspiration from society and everyday life, always carrying a personal touch, as writing remains his truest form of expression. Facebook: Olúwa Gbéminíyì. Instagram: Olúwa Gbéminíyì
Cover image credit: SevenStorm JUHASZIMRUS