Repository of 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.

Name & Poem Title:

The Ezenwa-Ohaeto African Traditional Poem Prize Winner

To Be Published in Anthology

The Winning Poem in this category is

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.

English Translation Stranger/A Guest/An Outsider The one who brings kola brings life — But I am the one who has no kola. I examine the house from outside, I hear the warmth of longing from the road. My mother has died, my father has gone, The family sits around the fire — But I remain outside, The cold wind is my garment. The kola cast to the ground, may it not grow — It is I who was cast to the ground. I am seen from the front, unseen from behind, It is darkness that covers my light. I call out my voice into the wind, My voice falls — there is no one listening. Another bird eats my fruit, It is in another forest that I wander. Yet I say within my heart: Though kola is cast to the ground, it does not simply rot — My chi is not far from me, It will call my name on the day it is coming. It is life, it is life, it is life — Today's stranger is tomorrow's king. I move forward, I move forward, It will return, it will return — It is I who will return home.

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

English Version The history of South Africa has been revealed ×2 I am like a mother, I am like a mother, I can't even talk about this beauty of Mabheleni That's why I say "qudemanikiniki" When the elephants came out, two of them appeared It roared and roared and scared the village dogs Turn around after the sacrifice The poet said, we thank you, father Madiba I am the one who brings us customs and traditions I say, we are old and have been suffering for a long time, you are so gentle Yhee gram, you are so gentle Wake up, you cowards, you are Where are you going, you lazy people? I will always be with you, I am just a human being This thing that is a human being always moves This thing that is a human being always travels The creator created well He created things like Gibson Kente Things that used to dance and were full of swag Wake up, you maqabandini, wake up, you maqomboka The nation has fallen I have been sent by the poets of South Africa They say let's remember the old days when we said that a person is a person Yhee gram eshelbele 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

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.

Key features of African traditional poems:

Performance as the primary “text”: meaning is realised through live enactment—voice, timing, gesture, and occasion—not only through words.
Musicality and rhythm: poems are commonly sung, chanted.
Audience participation and interaction: call-and-response patterns, choruses, ululation.
Repetition and parallelism: repeated lines, refrains, patterned phrasing.
Use of Literary Devices: multi-sensory imagery, symbolism, and allusion, often drawing from local environment, history, traditions.
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 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