Repository of Traditional Poems
& Poems in African Languages
The Ezenwa-Ohaeto African Traditional Poem Prize
About the Prize:
The Ezenwa-Ohaeto African Traditional Poem Prize honours the late Ezenwa-Ohaeto, (pictured above) a poet, short-story writer, biographer and literary scholar.
Some of his works are Winging Words. Interviews with Nigerian Writers and Critics, The Chants of a Minstrel, which won the ANA/NDDC POETRY Prize for 2004 and 2005 Nigeria Prize for Literature. He is the author of an authorised biography of Chinua Achebe, which was given the Choice Outstanding Book Award in 1998. He has received several other prestigious awards, including the Association of Nigerian Authors Poetry Prize – for The Voice of the Night Masquerade, a BBC poetry prize, the Orphic Lute Prize and the Friedrich Wilhelm Bessel Prize.
Chiamaka Ogiji
The Ezenwa-Ohaeto African Traditional Poem Prize Winner
Buy a Casket for Dorcas
I like to start my tale like my grandmother would under the tree with children my age- five, four, three and eight listening as she told us what Mbe did to the elephant. Her stories made me feel big. So, I will start mine like hers. Coughs! Gee ntị, e nwere m akụkọ ị gwa. You will have to say Gwa ya ka mkpụrụ obi anyị wee nwee ọṅụ. When I used to have a body that dreamt of being clothed in Gucci, hertunba, Vekee James, Dior, I used to think that was a dream only meant for children like you with a routine: Drivers picking you up at 4pm, sleepovers, tea parties, dinner at 6pm, spa dates, ivy league schools’ applications, business class plane tickets. When I used to have a body, I thought the world was meant only for people like you: fathers in sweet-smelling deodorised offices, wearing suits and shaking hands with government officials. When I used to be like you, I believed my story was a side piece in a larger agenda: the hungry-looking child brought from the village to the city to be saved. That's why Madam hits me with a cooking spoon sweeping my future into the far end of impossibility. Now, I stand outside this body, between purgatory and heaven, my life unfolding in a line, sieving through the before and now of my unhappiness. I still find myself screaming when I see Madam- her shadow chases me now even when I am an mmụọ: her voice makes me fear my own peace. If you witness life from where I am you will see that humans have plenty of linens- hate, sabotage and wickedness. While I shout to God in heaven hoping I am his favourite ask your mother to buy a casket for me and put my body in it, put the ragged clothing she gave me and the two slippers for my baby brother. Tell her to send my body to my nne, she will know what to do with it.
Bill Nwonwu
Onye Ọbịa By Bill Nwonwu Onye wetara oji wetara ndụ — Ma ọ bụ mụ onye enweghị oji. Ana m enyocha ụlọ site n'èzí, Ana m anụ uda ọchịchọ site n'ụzọ. Nne m anwụọ, nna m agaala, Ezinụlọ na-anọ n'ọnụ ọkụ — Ma ọ bụ mụ nọ n'èzí, Ikuku ojii bụ uwe m. Oji a tụrụ n'ala, ọ ghara ọ eto — Ọ bụ mụ ka a tụrụ n'ala. A hụrụ m n'ihu, a hụghị m n'azu, Ọ bụ ojii na-ekpuchi ọkụ m. Ana m eti olu m n'ikuku, Olu m na-ada — ọ dịghị onye na-anụ. Nnụnụ ọzọ na-eri mkpụrụ m, Ọ bụ n'ọhịa ọzọ m na-efe efe. Ma ana m asị n'ime obi m: A tụrụ oji n'ala, ọ ghara ọ eto — Ma chi m anọghị anya, Ọ ga-akpọ aha m ụbọchị ọ na-abia. Ọ bụ ndụ, ọ bụ ndụ, ọ bụ ndụ — Onye ọbịa taa, ọ bụ eze echi. Ana m aga n'iru, ana m aga n'iru, Ọ ga-alọ, ọ ga-alọ — Ọ bụ mụ ga-alọ ụlọ.
Writer's Bio
Bill Nwonwu's poem was commended in the 2026 Erbacce Prize. He was placed eleventh in the 2026 Bridgette James Poetry Competition and was the Ezenw Ohaeto Prize, runner-up. He is a Nigerian writer born into a humble family, whose love of storytelling was nurtured by his mother's folktales. His work appears at Literature.com at https://www.literature.com/author/Bill+Nwonwu/1709
Athi Mpaka
Ya chambuluka imbali yo Mzantsi Afrika ×2 Ndinje ngu mama ndiyokoyoko nje ngumama Andikwazi nothetha nje ngalenzwakazi yase Mabheleni Yiyolonto ndisithi qudemanikiniki kwabhentsula amalele kwavela amabini Ya rhwitya irharhama irhorhisa izinja zelali Jikela emva mboko kwedini Yatsho imbongi siyabulela bawo Madiba Ngosiphathela amasiko nezithethe Ndithi guga sithebe kudala usophulela Yhee gram yheshebelele oyiy'ohh Vukani kusile magwala ndini Niphephetheka nibhekaphi bovila voco Ndohlala ndinani phi ndingumntu nje Lento ingumntu ihlala ifuduke Lento ingumntu ihlala hambele Wadala kakuhle umdali Wadala into ezino Gibson Kente Into ezazi nqungqa kuhluthe nembaco Vukani maqabandini vukani maqomboka Isizwe siwile Ndithunyiwe zimbongi zomzantsi Afrika Zithi masikhumbule endulo apho besisithi umntu ngumntu ngabantu Yhee gram eshebelele
Writer's Bio
Athi Mpaka, known to the stage as "Athi-the: Poetry," is a talented wordsmith from the vibrant city of Mthatha. With a passion for performance poetry, Athi has been weaving words into magic, captivating audiences with his unique voice and perspective.
Honed through years of experience and training, Athi's craft is a reflection of his sharp mind and quick wit. His poetry explores themes of identity, culture, and social justice, resonating deeply with those who hear him speak.
As a stage performer, Athi brings energy and conviction to every performance, leaving a lasting impact on all who witness his art. With a growing presence in the poetry scene, Athi is undoubtedly one to watch.
Afolabi Fiyinfoluwa
The New Boy in My Class By Afolabi Fiyinfoluwa He enter class like wind wey no knock door, just sit down like school na him own. All the girls turn head quick quick, like radio wey catch clear station. Me I dey corner, my heart dey do small small jump, but my leg no gree move. My English no dey straight, e bend like road after heavy rain. Teacher say “speak correct English,” but my words always lose direction. When I talk, dem laugh, dem say my mouth drop broken plate sound. So I learn silence instead. But this boy no dey laugh. He just dey look me like person wey hear music inside noise. One day my bag jam chair, my mouth open before brain. I say, “Sorry-sorry, I no see you well-well.” Class burst laugh again. I feel my skin shrink. But he no move. He smile like my words sweet only to him. He ask, “Why your English dey like this sweet?” Nobody ever call my broken thing sweet before. He say, “No be mistake, na your own way.” My heart pause. After class, he say make we walk gate side. I stand up slow slow. As we dey go, I feel their eyes for my back, sharp like needle. Outside, breeze touch my face. I ask am, “Why you like me?” He laugh small. “No be like you think. You no dey talk like everybody. You dey talk like yourself.” As we dey walk, I dey wonder: If the thing wey make me outsider for class fit be the same thing wey go make me belong somewhere else.
Writer's Bio
Afolabi Fiyinfoluwa is a seventeen-year-old Nigerian poet.
Key features of African traditional poems:
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Performance as the primary “text”: meaning is realised through live enactment—voice, timing, gesture, and occasion—not only through words.
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Musicality and rhythm: poems are commonly sung, chanted.
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Audience participation and interaction: call-and-response patterns, choruses, ululation.
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Repetition and parallelism: repeated lines, refrains, patterned phrasing.
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Use of Literary Devices: multi-sensory imagery, symbolism, and allusion, often drawing from local environment, history, traditions.
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Proverbs, aphorisms, and “wise sayings”: traditional poems frequently embed proverb-like statements.
By Ezenwa-Ohaeto
The minstrel chants of identities
This is the season of identities
We have a chief-who-is-a-chief,
Last night the child sang a song
The song deprived him of a meal
This morning the child hums a song
It is the hum of last night’s song,
We have a chief-who-is-a-thief,
The child sings the song again
A song that every dawn is not a holiday
That the goat refused to learn wisdom
Despite the pain of cropped ears,
We have a thief-who-is-a-chief,
You are made a king
You are not contented
You want to become God?
We have a thief-who-is-a-thief,
One who steals a whistle
When does he blow it?
I did not wear it on my head
Said the arrested hat thief,
The fowl thief stated
If the hand I touched the fowl
Amounts to an act of robbery
I hereby withdraw my hand,
We have a thief-who-is-a-chief,
The woman who stole a piece of cloth
Says she only lifted it for admiration,
2s You cannot tell the thief to steal
And ask the owner to take care of his goods,
We have a chief-who-is-a-chief,
How many lions are killed
Before an appellation of lion killer?
How many leopards are killed
Before taking title of leopard killer?
How many times must the rogue perform?
Will the eyebrow outgrow the beard?
If the knee grows bigger than the thigh
A disease has taken residence,
We have a chief-who-is-a-chief,
If they held your hands you did not struggle
If they manacle your legs you did not struggle
If they gripped your waist you did not struggle
Will you struggle with back on the ground?
We have a chief-who-is-a-thief,
The child is sent where he likes to go
See the speed of his departure
The minstrel has chanted of identities
The dog returned from the tiger’s den
Let it wear accolades of bravery,
We have a thief-who-is-a-thief,
But the hand never stays long
Dipped into the scorpion’s hole
Unless the scorpion is not at home,
We have a thief-who-is-a-chief
We have a chief-who-is-a-chief.
The late Ezenwa-Ohaeto's books have been translated into Russian, French and Italian. His poetry has been performed in English and Igbo throughout the world. Ezenwa- Ohaeto has held various posts at the universities of Bayreuth, Mainz and the Humboldt University, Berlin, in Germany; and at the universities of Harvard, and Texas at Austin in the United States. He was once a Professor of English at the Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Nigeria.
By Afolabi Fiyinfoluwa
Ọmọkùnrin Tuntun Nínú Kíláàsì Mi
Ó wá sí kíláàsì wa bí afẹ́fẹ́ tí kò kan ilẹ̀kùn
ó wọlé jókòó bí ẹni pé ilé ìwé náà ni tirẹ̀
Gbogbo àwọn ọmọbìnrin yí orí wọn ká ní kánkán
bí rádíò tí ó rí ìfihàn dáadáa lẹ́sẹ̀kẹsẹ̀
Èmi sì wà ní igun ilé kíláàsì
ọkàn mi ń fo kékeré kékeré
ṣùgbọ́n ẹsẹ̀ mi kò fẹ́ rìn lọ sún mọ́ ọn
Nítorí pé èdè Gẹ̀ẹ́sì mi kì í lọ tààrà
ó máa ń tẹ̀ bí ọ̀nà lẹ́yìn òjò púpọ̀
Olùkọ́ máa ń sọ pé “sọ èdè Gẹ̀ẹ́sì dáadáa”
ṣùgbọ́n ọ̀rọ̀ mi máa ń sọnù ní ọ̀nà
Nígbà tí mo bá sọ̀rọ̀, wọ́n máa ń rẹ́rìn-ín
wọ́n máa ń sọ pé ohùn mi dà bí awo tí ó fọ́
Wọ́n máa ń sọ pé kí n lọ kọ́ ẹ̀ẹ̀kansi
Nítorí náà mo kọ́ ìdákẹ́jẹ dípò
Ṣùgbọ́n ọmọkùnrin yìí
kò rẹ́rìn-ín
Ó ń wo mí bí ẹni tí ń gbọ́ èdè mìíràn láàrín ariwo
Ọjọ́ kan mo gbìyànjú láti kọjá lẹ́gbẹ̀ẹ́ rẹ̀
àpò mi kọlu àga
ẹnu mi ṣí kí ọkàn mi tó ronú
Mo sọ pé, “sorry-sorry, mi ò rí ẹ dáadáa”
Kíláàsì bú sẹ́rìn-ín lẹ́ẹ̀kansi
mo sì ní ìmọ̀lára pé ara mi ń dín kù
Ṣùgbọ́n òun kò rẹ́rìn-ín rárá
Ó kàn rẹ́rìn-ín díẹ̀
bí ẹni pé ọ̀rọ̀ mi jẹ́ orin tí òun nìkan ló ń gbọ́
Ó béèrè pé,
“kí ló dé tí èdè Gẹ̀ẹ́sì rẹ̀ fi dùn bẹ́ẹ̀?”
Mi ò lóye ní ìbẹ̀rẹ̀
Kò sí ẹnikẹ́ni tó ti sọ pé ìdọ̀tí mi lè dùn
Ó sọ pé, “kì í ṣe aṣìṣe, ara rẹ ni”
Ọkàn mi dá dúró díẹ̀
Àwọn ọmọbìnrin mìíràn ń wo mí bí ẹni pé mo jí nkan tí kì í ṣe temi
Lẹ́yìn kíláàsì ó sọ pé kí a jáde lọ díẹ̀
kí a rìn sí ẹnu-ọ̀nà
Mo dìde lọra lọra
bí ẹni pé àga kò tíì jẹ́ kí n lọ dáadáa
Nígbà tí a ń lọ, mo ń ní ìmọ̀lára ojú wọn lẹ́yìn mi
gẹ́gẹ́ bí abẹrẹ tí kò kan ara ṣùgbọ́n tí ń dùn
Mo gbọ́ ìkùnra
“àbí òun ni?”
“gan-an?”
Ṣùgbọ́n òun wà lẹ́gbẹ̀ẹ́ mi ṣì
bí ẹni pé èdè Gẹ̀ẹ́sì mi kì í ṣe ìtìjú fún un
Lẹ́ta ìta, afẹ́fẹ́ kan fọwọ́ kan ojú mi
mi ò mọ̀ bóyá afẹ́fẹ́ ni tàbí ìbẹ̀rẹ̀ tuntun
Mo béèrè lọ́wọ́ rẹ̀
“kí ló dé tí o fi fẹ́ràn mi?”
Ó rẹ́rìn-ín díẹ̀
Ó sọ pé, “kì í ṣe bí o ṣe rò”
“ìwọ kì í sọ bí gbogbo ènìyàn”
“ìwọ ń sọ bí ara rẹ”
Mi ò dáhùn
Nítorí kò sí ẹnikẹ́ni tó ti sọ pé èyí lè jẹ́ ìdí
Nígbà tí a ń rìn síwájú
mo bẹ̀rẹ̀ sí í ronú lọ́ra lọ́ra
bí ohun tó ń jẹ́ kí n jẹ́ “òde” nínú kíláàsì
ṣe lè jẹ́ ohun kan náà tó lè jẹ́ kí n rí ibìkan tí mo ní
Afolabi Fiyinfoluwa is a 17-year poet from Nigeria. He loves to have fun yet is still focused on his studies.
By Chinua Emeana
The Sun Shines on Vagabonds
Saw someone live my dream out of reach
Plane up high built a head of steam, leaving me
Down here where roses no fit blossom as storms cause ruckus
Who said thunder fire me? Clouds gather to do the honours
Make I dey my dey, waka past muddy puddles
Grass is green yet we still reap struggles
But the sun shines on all of us
Even vagabonds whose eyes wander
Akagom, nothing to give but still wonder
Are rainbows God’s true colours?
Dust to dust when he will call us
Pray for sunset when my time ends, pink skies make pretty sights
And stars speak to me these nights
Why you no dey follow us shine?
What can I say? That’s life
Branches don’t bear fruit before they dance in the wind
So shrug rules and live as it is
In sunshine and rainfall, rinse and repeat.
The breeze shifts, mother nature kisses her teeth.
Chinua Emeana is a is a twenty-nine-year-old Nigerian writer who always loved reading but decided to try writing for a change. This is his first published work.
By Ogbodo Ude
Farewell with an Incantation
Eke—my namesake—the first born among four market days,
I salute you with four tongues of a four-lobed kola.
Oye, Avo, the gentle spirits of our gods.
Slender morning spirit of Nkwo—bearer of the brave
bent boa—the eyes of my cracked kola crave your coming.
Namoke, the great king,
I have broken down the door for a new fire
invoking the dead trunks of Akpu-Ugo.
But the monsters have muzzled the lion
and I wash my hands off the king's leprous hold.
The Earth-mother lies defiled and I wash my hands.
I wash my hands off those who claim kingship cradles no culture,
I wash my hands off a child’s portion that heralds his greed—
a child’s hunt that harvests a child’s childhood.
But, let all beware: it is not the infancy of the eye
that lends it residence in the head.
Where the head hair admits a knot becomes the head;
no matter how small.
O malignant monsters!
I curse you with the frost wine of Namoke;
I condemn you with the winnowed wrath
of our fathers' fathers who gently came and gently went.
If filial cord ever becomes the hanging rope, let it be.
If the sacred snake becomes the city’s scorn, let it be.
Finally, I am Ude Ogbodo Okereke.
Son of Ude, son of Ogbodo, son of Ude, son of Chukwu,
son of Egwuoke, son of Nkpuma-Egwu—the Great Namoke.
Grandson of Aja Ogo and grandson of Okereke Okike—
the one who has two maternal grandfathers.
My neck has finished its duty and I wash my hands.
The four market days that colonise the week,
elegant rays of the vivacious morning sun…
I wash my hands with the lips of a four-lobed kola
and beg you to draw your sword.
Ude Ogbodo Okereke is an activist poet. He wishes that art, somehow, could become an Instrument of change. His works have appeared in Another Chicago Magazine, Brittle Paper, Up North Literary Journal and elsewhere. When he catches a pause from reading and arguing, he mourns his country. He tweets @UdeOgbodo1