Poetry October 16, 2014



The Ebola Ride

By Patrice Juah

On the Ebola ride,

paranoia is the driver.

It takes you on a high

leaving your senses hanging in the wild.

Fear is its deputy,

and panic, the conductor.

You never know which way the bus will go,

but you are told that as long as you stay put, constantly wash your hands,

and limit human contact; you’re in a “safe” place, at least for a while.

You do your best, to secure your seat,

making sure your loved ones are safely on board,

but as the death news come in, you’re reminded that this isn’t a normal ride.

You get a sudden kick, a silent voice asking why you’re still here;

perhaps on a mission, or for a purpose, you think.

Then suddenly humility takes over, the only calm you’ll feel in a while,

as you give thanks for still being alive.

And this is all happening on the Ebola ride.

Still on the road, Pickups rush by with men dressed like aliens,

either carrying or going to pick up fallen victims.

And somewhere at a Containment Unit, a baby cries in horror,

as his mother takes her last breath.

As you peek through the window,

crowded streets create the illusion of a normal life,

but as alive as everything appears from the outside, fear is killing us slowly on the inside.

Sometimes we wonder who’ll get off next.

But that’s the Ebola ride: no traffic lights, no horns,

no road signs, just us against an unseen enemy.

The night brings relative calm, but we rarely sleep,

as the nightmare of what’s to come the day ahead, haunts our dreams.

If you’re a diehard patriot, you remain on the ride for the love of country.

If you’re poor, the ride is your only choice.

If your survivor is your priority, you’re left with more choices then one:

to flee for dear life, with hope of returning when normal days are back?

Well, in the midst of this chaos, no one can tell.

And on the other side, the ocean wind sets the flames in the Crematorium ablaze,

as our hearts leap, for the souls of the ones we loved so dearly.

No last goodbyes, only memories, anguish, pain and grief.

The road is too narrow, the ride long and bumpy.

When will we arrive? No one really knows.

We’re stuck on this ride, with tiny doses of hope.

And though help arrives, we’re still in doubt,

as they too are clueless about when the ride will end.

So world, we’re here,

on this hand washing, temperature taking,

friends avoiding, hugs and handshakes prohibiting,

nonstop Ebola ride.




By: Edward N. Boakai

Ebola, o you deadly Virus!

Why plague us this way?

By your wrath, you spare no one;

Be you rich, poor, young or old.

Ebola, O you dreadful virus!

How ruthless you are?

 You claim an entire family;

Leaving children orphans at random.

Ebola, O you incompassionate virus!

Why devastated our nation?

Leaving husbands as widowers,

And wives as helpless widows.

Ebola, O you destructive virus!

Why destroy the norms of our culture and tradition?

Discriminating us against each other.

And diffusing our custom and way of life.

But in the Mighty name of Jesus,

Ebola, O you tormenting virus;

You are defeated heretofore,

And hereby casted into the mighty lake of fire!




By Eric G. Gbanlon

Cell #: 0886220513

Oh, what a sad story!

The angels of death are having tarry;

The God of life no longer feels sorry;

Sons and daughters are now so scary;

As father and mothers are now being buried.

Oh, what a sad story!

Squirrels and Raccoons try to change the story;

But monkeys and Bamboos say it’s time to merry;

The pain and frustration, we are forced to carry;

Because dishonesty and wickedness, we chose to marry;

Oh, what a sad story!

Till we remember day-one of our story;

Correct our mistakes and make a right story

Till we give God the rest of our story;

We will always have a sad story.


Octopus at Ducor

 (In remembrance of Operation Octopus, October 15, 1992)

By: Lekpele Nyamalon

Men were running amok

Smoke rising to the skies

Stirring it apart, tires blazing, children and women marching like an ant’s chariot

The walls were crashing

Here comes the Octopus!

Walking with tentacles from the breast of Mount Barclay

Travelling beneath the rails of Bong Mines Bridge

Seeping through the pores of bardnesville

Tearing apart the path of tomorrow’s world

Where are ye mighty planners?

Hiding behind the mask of bygones be bygones?

History can’t shield you boys

Thy names are carved in stone

History shall read aloud

Here comes the octopus!

Woe! Ye planners of carnage!


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