 By: John Obayomi, 8th Grade
Fun Awon Eniyan Mi, Whose artifacts were stolen by the British, In the Kingdom of Benin, When they arrived suddenly, And killed our people, Speaking a rubbish language here, And with a nonsense accent there. Fun Awon Omo Jesu, Where there is also discrimination, “Can you imagine?” The Omo Cele’s, The Ogo Kerubu’s, And the Pentecostali’s, All Fighting to be the best among the races, With different cultures and traits. Where church is life, all trying to make it to Paradise Fun Awon Eniyan Mi Black and Brown, Beige and Ivory, Coffee and Mocha, Peanut and Hickory, Cinnamon and Brunette, Ginger Bread and Syrup So many different tones for one group of people, Certain ones seen almost as high and mighty as a steeple. The teacher told them that they need to shut up and speak English and that they should practice their accents every night. But then again who asked you to bring us here. I say again, nonsense people. Fun Awon Omo Yoruba Mi, Who are believed to do voodoo, But are actually mostly Christian, We are risen and stand upright to defy the works of the Oyinbo’s, We are not illiterate, but one of the most educated groups of immigrants, We are not poor, but one of the richest tribes in the country. Fun Awon Omo Naija, Who are seen as dull, Don’t sull, Go on, be great, you got this, Show the world who you are, Tell them say, “I am the star.” The most confident people, we will not wither, nor will we falter. Because We Are Nigerians.
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By: Toluwanimi Majekodunmi, 8th Grade  At the age of 9, I was dancing in my own small, dusty world, Full of simple love and green cracked leaves, With school and streets I learned to love, My arms swaying to the wind, Loud, chaotic music invisible to the grown ups, But never to the youths, Where I would flow like afefe, soar like ina, Understand the calmness of omi, and feel aiye, All at my fingertips, I would look at East New York, Thinking I observed the best part of my world, And wonder at the beauty of my home, My hand fingering a soft delicate white flower, With the cold on my skin, And snow surrounding my face, Laughter was inside of me, As I opened my eyes in impenetrable joy, Blinded by hope and the innocence of irriscent childhood. Playing all day was what I loved, To talk or listen, And grin at what was said, with friends, Brother and I bickered over small, hapless things, Fighting with words which cut a 9 year old like a knife, But in less than a minute we’d forget, And play superhero, It was extraordinary, In class I would sit, sober, back straight, never speaking, But secretly restless, And then in the bed we’d play, Friends I knew with me, Drenched in sweat and heat, Friends like brothers, never ending in life.  In class as the teacher talked,
I would wish for a moment Where I would simply write, When there was frustration, pain, or annoyance, Writing opened up dreams, It was a soft calming thing, Where large pot bellied laughter Sometimes let itself out, With a smile of mischievousness and arrogance, And my eyes, creased with joy, Would imagine... Shining like gold fire, And soft wonderful books, Brilliant to hold, Took up my world, Besides the dream of being heard. Home was like love, man, Not East New York or the place I was born, Family held pride to its core, In Nigeria I remember all of the laughter, The place my parents spent childhood, In Nigeria I see there home in the bustling city, And the traditions I was raised in, And just beginning to learn my language, And recognizing the meanings of my names, All 7 of them birthed by family members, Was the meaning of darkness never coming, A one bedroom apartment filled, With childlike wonder at the thought of, Exploring heritage. Loud was what I was, I was a painter, Who was too innocent to know she was awkward, But smiled anyway, Who smiled her smile on the earth, And always wanted to play, Petty, a child, dreamy eyed, soul abided, Behavior like in school but the opposite at home, Quick whipped, And precocious, Beloved, I was me, In the sun specked, Ethereal whispering, gray earth. |
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