The Sierra Leone Web


Nafisatu Koroma writes poems in her spare time. Her poems are of the open form as she writes to express herinnermost thoughts. She writes unapologetically. It could be about nature, politics, she just lets rip on her page.



Diamonds Forever

Two legged gem born of the bubbling rubble and the scorching soil

Knows never never to touch the spoil
but to guard sacred land from fox attack
Or the sheep-like wolves who come in packs.
Carrots and sticks, dagger and vodka.
Dollars in mind, Leones in hand.

The curse is unearthed
when you cross the line -
nothing brought to match their pride
pride of a people so happy and kind

You unearth the mystery
and rewrite the history
Diamonds from De - beers,
merely the dealers!
Who are the winners?
Politicians and Swindlers.

For the fella to roc
he must rock the block
Never, Never
the hands that dug the block
fragile little hands covered in mud
Always always
the juicy hands that call the shot.

Here's the deal
When you come out to play like the stars that you are, cladded in ice while high as a kite
spare a thought for the
Shorty who draws a straw no bigger than him
mining, panning for a plate of rice.


A message to the moral police

If you were nowhere near Wellington, Freetown

Never spent a night on the ground
Never slept on a market stall
or woken up next to a groundhog

Never been pissed on by drunks
Tossed to the side by your father
Pimped by your mother

Never fallen asleep praying
that day never breaks for you

If you dodged the rot
because You are part of the cause

Do me favour
Get off your soap box.



Bonga, Bonga, silver lining
coastal water...reddened...

a morning greet of floating rejects.

Net widened, stretched, snapped

the sheer weight of a greedy catch.

Ice cold smoking ovens, smoking gun.

Sad little faces returned..
empty bowls capped on shaven heads.

Grun soup - Bonga breakfast fading fast.

Bonga, Bonga dusty end...
on a golden plate, green pepper garnished bloodied hands.

A crumbling city

I am one of many stretches built to help the old lady bring progress to her people
We all had names, from Aberdeen to Westmoreland.
Over the years some had their names changed, but mine was and still is Savage.
Our locations were carefully crafted. Strategic even sacred.
I have a church over my head and one at my feet. It's a noisy business
On Sundays I frequently wake to the tunes of songs of praise in my head.
But my skin was thick and my stomach could cope.
The sun was soft on my back.
Surrounded by lushness
A stream that kept me hydrated.
The gentle steps of children walking to and from school in soft Bata shoes made for gentle massage.
Eased the pain left by the relentless Mr Michelin.
But as the decades come and go,
my lush surrounding turned to concrete jungle.
The volume of foot thumps increased
Platform shoes replaced Bata shoes
Mr Michelin's workload quadrupled.
His weight unbearable.
My spine became weak.. I began to wobble. In agony. I cried out for help
I got sent the odd painkiller and sometimes a rub down with Chinese ointment.
But nobody thought of giving me a check up.I grumbled, yet no one took notice.
Today I lay hapless. My spine caved in, my torso snapped.
Hanging by the skin of my teeth
My life is slipping away.
Instead I have become the biggest attraction in town
Folks say many of my compatriots have suffered the same fate
They say even the old lady could be on her last leg
What ever happened to this land that we love.
Still l wait.


The night before 15 ships sailed - a reflection

At age 13, she knew this journey was different.

No whispers, No concealments.

Mama wore a smile unknown to her, serenity on springy heels.

Papa's laughs were thunderous.

while uncle Jimmy's smile stretched the width of his moon shaped face.

The night she needed hope most, hope abandoned her for the adults.

Awake and alone, dancing eyes and a jogging heart, mama's stories of the ships to hell, shackles, dungeons, mortal stench.

Engulfed by a tsunami of thoughts
the world as she knew it was coming to an end.

Africa ? Sira Lone?
A place to call home?
Freedom, my child
Dignity, Pumpkin
Breathe Sweetheart, breathe
We must go.
Yes baby, Sierra Leone.
The motherland.