By John Chizoba Vincent

Tell her she is the moon-

She does not belong to the kitchen

and other rooms like our first lady

Her eye is the satellite of the earth.


Tell her she is the sun-

That corruption can’t cover at noon

Her dimples creates love channels

Where poetry salutes many lips.


Tell her she is a dancer-

Her legs tells thousand stories

Of African tradition and culture

Not of hatred and abuse of mankind.


Tell her she is a singer-

With a tonic voice of nightingale

Not like venom of an envy snake

Her tongue is the sea of hope.


Tell her that her love made me

Wiggle like a drunken prostitute

It made me lost in God’s eyes

My dance awaits her breastfed days.


Tell her I won’t make her eyes wet

She belongs to the throne not kitchen

She shall build another wall of China

Not in her season shall women rejected.


Tell her she a mother not a whore!

Our lives began from her womb like

Nature began from God’s poetry lips

Tell her that I am coming home soon.


A drummer she is among drummers

Many voices echo from her hands

She is not an inexperienced kite that

Made fun of the itself, by carrying the duck.


About the author


Bada Yusuf Amoo holds B.A in Literature in English from Obafemi Awolowo University, he is the publisher of thespeakingheart.com. He started the website in 2015, he has published both his works and other budding writers and poets on the website. He is a public commentators and his articles are on different websites.