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Somtochukwu Onwusika Poem
Wading into the classroom.
Wednesday, 13th June, 2018.
School uniform a bit too tight,
My body pressed against the metal zipper,
Exaggerating my jolly build.
Blasts of crisp, cold air,
Hitting my heat rash-stricken face.
A little discomfort, I felt it.
But not unbearable.
The older kids in my class then,
Not nearly as academically proficient as I was.
They beckoned me to them,
With plastic grins and class notes.
But I could see the assignment.
The one from the day before.
Blank in their books.
It didn't faze me.
I was used to it anyways.
I always believed,
That maybe if I helped them with their work,
They would stop the hurtful gossip at break time.
I may not have been the most adept speaker,
But I wasn't deaf.
I could hear their snarky comments,
Followed by sharing snacks and playing games.
They passed marshmallows at break time,
The awfully sweet scent flicking all the wrong switches,
Nauseating me. I was allergic after all.
I wouldn't dare ask for one. But the SMELL...
I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get through break time,
Inhaling that. One of them snickered, throwing a half eaten one,
To my way. I COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE.
Bolting to the restroom as fast,
As my sub-athletic body could carry me,
I began to throw up in the sink.
The bitter taste of my regurgitated homemade lunch,
Fuelling my dwindling nausea.
More laughter. More taunting words. More isolation.
God, why couldn't I be normal?
Classes ended for that day.
I was finally going home. Happier that way.
Dreading every day in that classroom wasn't really a skill,
When I had tried and tried, and lost my will.
Copyright © Somtochukwu Onwusika | Year Posted 2023
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Somtochukwu Onwusika Poem
Dusk
brings a sense of calm
Sultry tones of his laugh
rent my headspace
Wrap around my fingers
like a lightning rod
Flush my face with fantasies
but none are rated family
And my juvenile self wonders
What it's like
to be consumed by love...
I think I'm close.
I for one
I’m being strangled
by the radiance of his half-life essence.
Ubiquitous beauty,
bleeding through my AMOLED screen.
To truly appreciate it
I need this in 4D.
4D? Why not 3D?
Because... for me
I want to exist beside his.
If my beginning and end are the same,
I’d want them both to have his.
And if I spent it all for his
I’d be the happiest frivol.
Copyright © Somtochukwu Onwusika | Year Posted 2026
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Somtochukwu Onwusika Poem
On a dull dark night, while I sat all alone,
Thinking of you and how much I missed your embrace,
A thought crept into my mind, a thought so foul,
One that had me gasping in shock and disgust:
Was your love and care nothing but a lie?
A sick game, you played with no remorse for me at all.
A bet with your friend, to see if you could make me fall,
Alas, you won, but at the cost of my once again disgraced soul.
The thought keeps making me sick; I pull up my covers and cry,
Makes me want to scream, makes me want to lash out and ask "Why?"
Why would you do such a wicked and cruel thing to me?
Why would you toy with my feelings just for yourselves?
The thought of it makes my blood boil as it follows with a heart ache,
It makes me want to curse your name but then I break down in tears...
I thought you were better than this. I believed all your words were true,
But now I see I was a fool to believe in you and all your so called truths.
And yet despite all this hurt and the pain you left me in,
I can't help but wonder to think if everything you did was just for the win.
I guess you had been playing with me from the start,
Messing with my heart for you and your friends to laugh.
I wish I could go back in time to break free from another pain.
I wish I could undo all that is hurting within me...
Alas I can’t change my unfortunate past or pause time to change my mistakes.
But I'll try to heal all my scars and look for a greater fate.
But one thing I’m sure of and one thing I will never forsake,
To never forget and forgive all the pain that you,
Jessica Klein...
Caused me that dull dark day.
The voices in my head were once so soft and gentle,
With my confidence so bold and loud,
When I’m with you the voices were so calming and soothing,
And my mind was not so sharp and cold.
The voices in my head would sing and dance,
Like the birds we watched up in the beautiful blue sky.
But now these voices are shouting and crying aloud.
They've become louder like thunderstorms overshadowing the once gleaming sky.
The once light blue sky that was full of gleaming hope.
It’s now being casted by the clouds filled with trauma.
As it cries out all it’s pain and everything heartfelt,
My efforts of blocking them are always useless.
It doesn't matter how beautiful the aurantia,
For in the darkness it wilts.
And pain forever dreadfully brews itself in my body,
Tasting like the thickest and most bitter coffee.
Copyright © Somtochukwu Onwusika | Year Posted 2026
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Somtochukwu Onwusika Poem
They say I have the perfect family.
That I have no reason to cry.
The onlookers envy me, stupidly,
Believing that pathetic lie.
My father is in Forbes Under 50,
My mum's on the cover of Vogue.
People think they've a flawless story.
If only they checked under the log...
Dad had always been very busy,
Even when I was really young.
Well, he's a drunkard, always tipsy,
With another family out in Hong Kong.
Mum had always been the belle,
No matter where she went.
I guess her love was hard to spell,
And into her arms, I was sent.
My older brother Aiden's an *******,
Rebellious 'cause he's got money to throw.
Left hearts shattered while he was all snowed,
But got away because of the dough.
Rosaline "Bianca" was an absolute brat,
The older sister who'd never heard no.
Married a don who was sniffed out by a rat,
Now she's raising 2 kids as a widow.
From the outside it looks fine,
But my family's breaking apart.
Bianca seeks funds for the little minds,
Aiden actions, a thieving art.
Dad found out I'm not his own,
He wants to put me up for adoption!
Mum met her Hong Kong clone,
I guess her life wasn't an option.
Everything looks so easy from afar,
Sometimes I wish I could pretend,
To be the onlookers, unaware of my scars...
But I'm stuck in a loveless dead end.
Copyright © Somtochukwu Onwusika | Year Posted 2026
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Somtochukwu Onwusika Poem
Dysfunctional young adult,
From a shattered home I was bred.
Seeking connection, wanting solitude,
Lost in moonlight, tears I shed.
Lines are blurred, days a whirl,
Court cases, too many made me hurl.
Father unknown, Dad called me a bastard,
And my school struggles labeled me a retard.
Mum's been gone, ran away they say,
With Michael, my father, a business powerplay.
Who's my dad, Danilo or Michael?
Someone told me, but my mind was in a pickle.
Michael moved in, Mum's love grew,
But I was lost in translation, with Bronx in view.
Far from home, missing Aiden's smirk,
And Leo and Matt, keeping him from being a jerk.
I needed help, a saviour to find,
Drowned in disabling waters called my mind.
Some nights I woke choking on air,
Longing for an end, life wasn't fair.
Hailey...
You were my guiding light,
Strongest in town, showing all males might.
Your mother loved you, her aurantia grew,
You loved them dearly. I miss you.
But then...
That man left you in pain,
Bloodied your face, a sinister stain.
I must explain, I never lost the race,
But he took my place, leaving a trace.
I didn't stand for it, I had him outed,
For you and me, I screamed and shouted.
Ran through halls in a relentless pursuit,
I grabbed my knife, justice to execute.
Body hidden in a neighbour's basement embrace,
Needed a new suit, for my soul had been disgraced.
But that was the price for hurting Hailey, you see,
There was no escape, you should have feared me.
Because I'm Max Narak!
Run fast unless I'll come back!
Giving those that deserve it pain,
Seeing it through that you are slain.
It is I, Maximus Lee Narak!
Giving my enemies panic attacks!
Prescribing their daily doses of pain,
Respectable trophies make their brains...
Copyright © Somtochukwu Onwusika | Year Posted 2026
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Somtochukwu Onwusika Poem
I tried to preserve the wilting flower,
Tried to protect it from its pain.
I did my best but failed at love,
And everything with my heart is to blame.
Copyright © Somtochukwu Onwusika | Year Posted 2026
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Somtochukwu Onwusika Poem
Lord,
In the midst of this confusion, I
find myself tethered
not only to these damp walls
but also to the adoration
of my own predicament.
How utterly divine,
to speak my descent into madness
with the solemnity
of a Shakespearean tragedy.
The genesis of these scribbled confessions,
it eludes me, lost in the fog of my own folly.
Was there a grand epiphany?
A moment of clarity amidst the chaos,
that compelled me to pray to you?
Or did I simply succumb to
the gravitational pull of gratitude,
seeking solace in the world of errors
that has become my life?
It all began with a knock,
a mundane interruption in the poverty
of my existence. My uncle's friend, they said,
a shadowy figure whose presence looms over me,
making me want to reach out
and make love to him.
I thank you for his existence.
Locked within these walls, I have become
both captive and captor, birthing tales
of woe and whimsy
with each stroke of my lover.
The whip, once a symbol of pain and punishment,
now holds the honour of being
my darling's favourite instrument,
its sting a reminder of the affection
that he showers me with.
Days blur into nights, and still,
I find myself ensnared
in the tangled web of my own neediness.
Memories flicker
like poorly lit scenes in a slapstick comedy,
leaving me to wonder
if there was ever a time
before this madness gripped me.
Did I once long for freedom, or
have I always been a willing participant
in this circus of Eros?
The police may come soon,
their voices echoing like the laugh track
of the poorly scripted sitcom
my love unfortunately enjoys watching.
Part of me prays for them to turn away.
For in the depths of my captivity,
I have discovered a love that defies reason.
A love born
from the most unconventional of circumstances.
And so, I will continue to write,
these entries a testament to the dream
that has become my reality.
For even in the midst of mania,
there is romance to be found.
Even in the arms of my captor,
there is warmth.
Thank you,
for this blissful hell.
Katrina
Copyright © Somtochukwu Onwusika | Year Posted 2026
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Somtochukwu Onwusika Poem
Small in the dust,
I watched the Izaga spin loose from itself,
ogene ringing like a struck bell in the chest,
and asked my father what the drummer's hands were saying.
He looked at the ground before he looked at me.
"Nne, the drum remembers."
and I carried that unanswered for years
before I understood it was the answer.
A friend once told me
that their mother despised my brown skin and full lips.
Even though I spoke in an accent unfettered,
my name alone was a reminder raw enough,
of the ground I am autochthonous to,
of a division that splattered blood across the landscape of God's own creation
like an nwatakiri let loose with a fistful of red paint.
Nne, the drum remembers.
Ndewo! Then a catch, a swallow, a switch to Yoruba mid-breath
the second I entered the room,
a door closed softly so I'd know without being told:
this circle was drawn and I was standing outside its ink.
Omo Igbo, they'd call after me, half a laugh in it,
and I learned early that laughter can double as a door,
closing so gently you don't hear it lock.
Nne, the drum remembers.
And sometimes I hold my peace during the anthem.
How do I "Nigeria, we hail thee"
when the land under my feet won't call me native;
when tongue fights tribe and tribe fights tongue;
and we build our fences tall, mistaking height for safety;
insisting on separation, on exclusion.
Yet to the ones who first carved the coast into counties,
we are only ever this: darker-skinned, undifferentiated, one.
Nne, the drum remembers.
Biafra, folded into textbooks like a stain someone tried to bleach out.
A war they say is over,
still living in the way my uncles go quiet
when certain years arrive in conversation
and even the drum goes silent.
Nne, the drum remembers.
But how can I forget?
The father of my father chattered in his sleep
when a door shut too fast.
Some sounds outlive the body that first flinched at them,
pass down not in words but in the startle,
so that a whole bloodline can still hear gunfire
in the click of a lock.
Nne, the drum remembers.
And not only in startle. In flesh, too.
Thirty months of blockade taught bodies to hoard
against a hunger that has not come again,
and taught their children's children's hearts
to keep storing what was never there to take.
Nne, the drum remembers.
It will always remember.
Even when I don't say Biafra;
even when I don't say Igbo;
even when I don't say home.
Copyright © Somtochukwu Onwusika | Year Posted 2026
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Somtochukwu Onwusika Poem
We always think it's he or she
Or they or them
We're scared to show our scars
Showcase our weakness as an emblem
What's mental health for?
Anxiety suffocating you everytime you breathe
But there's no escape no way to leave
We just have to "Stand tall, never grumble,
'Cuz that's just how the cookie crumbles."
That's how the cookie crumbles?
I speak up, and suddenly i’m a “clown”
I show my scars, and they say I'm soft
Why must mental unwellness take the crown?
It's not black not white it's clearly BROWN.
Let me tell you a story.
She laid her heart bare,
Stripped it down to its core,
Raw and trembling.
She trusted her
With the softest parts of her.
Then her secrets became
The school's hottest tea.
That sinking feeling,
The one that gnaws at her stomach,
The one that makes her feel sick
Because something sacred was shattered.
How was she supposed to forgive this?
The ragnarok of her life's work,
The end of everything she held close.
She saw others grow, move forward,
But she was frozen in the moment of betrayal.
Her words, their words, all of it
Wrapped around her soul.
She was humiliated.
Reduced to nothing.
Laughed at. Clowned.
And somehow she's still here carrying it all.
That's how the cookie crumbles?
They tell us to stay quiet,
To tuck our hurt neatly behind closed doors,
But what’s mental health for, then?
What’s left when we’ve folded ourselves so small
We barely remember our own shape?
Maybe it’s like she felt.
Trapped, tired, dragging invisible weights
That they’ll never see.
Keeping it together
While silently coming undone.
And yet, no one hears the splintering inside,
No one asks about the shadows we fight
Or sees the cracks we stitch with silence.
What if we spoke it out loud, held our pain high,
Refused to let silence seal our scars?
What if we held each other up
And dared to say,
This is what strength looks like?
Copyright © Somtochukwu Onwusika | Year Posted 2026
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Somtochukwu Onwusika Poem
They say boys don’t struggle with mirrors,
That they’re made of stone, iron, strength.
But they don’t see the quiet battles
Between them and reflections that never seem enough.
It’s the hunger to grow, to expand, to fill a frame,
To become something bigger than flesh and bone,
Striving for that cut, that lean, that definition,
Because if you’re not built, if you’re not bold,
Do you even count?
He stares at the reflection, unkind, relentless—
Skin stretched over expectations, ribs wrapped in doubt.
If he could just be bigger,
If he could just be “right,”
Then maybe he’d feel whole, maybe he’d belong.
But it never stops, the needing more,
Muscle on muscle, yet never enough.
They call it strength, but what’s strong
About carrying the weight of “not quite there”?
When every inch gained still leaves him hollow,
A statue in the making, chiseled and alone.
That's how the cookie crumbles?
Sometimes we all get stuck
Chasing things we’ll never reach
Trying to fill spaces too vast
For muscle, or pride, or silence to hold
We carry our weights alone
Keeping our fears hidden deep
Waiting for someone
To see past the walls we built.
She told herself she didn’t need anyone.
A fortress built from old wounds
Every brick a memory of hurt
Every wall a promise
To never be seen,
To keep it all hidden away.
But every fortress has cracks.
And one day—
A friend leaned too close
Saw through the armor he wore
And asked the simplest question:
"Are you okay?"
It was a small kindness,
But it opened something
A window, a door—
A reason to trust...
That maybe, just maybe
Not everyone leaves
So she let down the walls, brick by brick
And found that being seen
Wasn’t as terrifying as she thought
That healing might be possible
If she didn’t have to do it alone.
We carry so much in silence...
But maybe healing begins here,
In the spaces between us
Where we see each other’s hurt
And choose to hold it gently
Maybe strength is not in walls,
Or iron, or silence,
But in the choice to trust again,
To show up raw, afraid, and real
So let us hold each other close,
Speak our fears out loud
And in that fragile honesty,
Find that we are not alone
This is what resilience looks like:
Not the way the cookie crumbles.
But hands reaching through the cracks
To lift each other up.
Copyright © Somtochukwu Onwusika | Year Posted 2026
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