Black love poetry contains the poetry of a new breed of younger African writers

In today's Black Love Poetry, there is clear evidence of a new breed of African poets and novelists. Much of what my pages contain from Africa on Black Love Poetry are historical and rather dated.

This contrasts with the contributions I have included from writers across the Atlantic. My musings on the topic led me into the appreciation that my content would be lopsided and inaccurate if I omitted to include an update which incorporates the works of a variety of new and youthful breed of African writers.

These newer breed are making their mark as the inheritors of the older school of African writers who straddled Africa's colonial past and her painful birth pangs as an independent continent. Their published works are now a feature of much modern literature and are marked by precocity in style, content and delivery.

In order to redress this imbalance, here then are some of the modern black love poetry of one such tyro who has recently published a debut volume of his love poetry.

Charles Ayo Dada is a worthy contributor to my page on black love poetry. His love poetry speaks out most eloquently to the love lorn everywhere. Anyone who has suffered the adolescent pangs of unrequited passions would readily identify with much of what you are now about to read, dear reader.

Here are the first two offerings of the soul baring black love poetry of Charles Ayo Dada:


As the years rolled by

I fermented you like wine

And you tasted better

With each passing day.

My patience was extolled

And in my cellars were you stirred, ripened

And eventually matured.

Each passing day

Took some bitterness away

Till you became sufficiently sweetened

To flow into my vessels.

But out of obscurity

A vessel was brought forth

. .. By another!

And into this vessel did you flow!!!

What make of vessel

Was brought forth so

That numbed your senses so deep

. . . You wouldn't take a look back?!

I cannot describe the pain

No matter how hard I try

The wine that took me so much to make

. .. I wouldn't even taste!


I loved her dearly

And so we strolled

Hand in hand

Side by side.

I loved her too much

And I didn't want her worn

So I bought her a stallion

That she could use in trotting alongside

As I strolled.

But she galloped away!

Saying she'd ride by me no longer

Maintaining that only kings and queens

And not peasants

Could ride on stallions!

I then pleasantly reminded her

That it was I who had bought her the stallion!

She replied by saying

That I was petty and envious.

So I drew my sword

And cut off the limbs of the stallion!

After all

It was my stallion!

The stallion died.

The maiden crashed.

And as she cried out for help

I turned around to give her a hand

Whispering softly into her ears:

"Couldn't the kings and the queens

come to your rescue?!"

Now you see what I mean about the nature of the bitter sweet black love poetry offered by Charles Ayo Dada. Here are three more for your appreciation:


We hid behind the smokescreen of lust

Where much non-chalance was permissible.

Paralysed by the emanating radiations

You didn't care

I didn't care.

Such was the ride

On the roller coaster.

A gust of wind

An incandescent glow

Cleared the hazy smokescreen

Before my gaze.

You didn't care.

I cared!

Parallel lines were drawn

And our union was no more!

It's always a heated battle

... Whenever love and honour duel


We stood motionless and mute

Staring at one another.

Struggling to communicate

Like two deaf and blind persons.

One half of me

Wanted to reach out to you

But the other half

Was obstructing it.

Deep down

Lay a love so strong

But our egos suffocated this love!

So in this boundless show

Of vanity and pride

We failed once more

In this union to attain

The melodious music

From the unplucked strings

Of our fallow guitars!

These are quite brilliant examples of black love poetry! What a treat on offer from Charles Ayo Dada. The lines that strike me most are from "Stalemate"....

"It's always a heated battle

... Whenever love and honour duel"


I thought I'd never get there.

I was dizzy

And my raiment was soaked in blood.

I had been stabbed by thorns

... On the way to a rose!

Yet, it was the sweet fragrance

The astoundingly beautiful petals

And the unparalleled beauty of the rose

That assured me

That if I did get there

It would be worth my while.

... And I did get there!

Though my hands were torn

And my raiment sullied

It was in those soiled hands

That the rose appeared most dazzling!

And once mine

I forgot all about the arduous journey

The classic Soul Mate and the quite brilliant soliloquy, Of Men and Love which comes across as a personal credo of this quite gifted prime exponent of Black Love Poetry, brings the page to a conclusion:


Soul mate -

Would you care to sit beside me

Where as stylus

I'd be permitted to ascend much higher

On the rungs of inspiration.

Would you oblige me your presence

To enable me storm the firmament

Where I'd liaise with spirits of the poets of old

And convey across to mankind

Their tidings of love.

Would you?


Be it not of men to write of love

Then a man I cease to be.

Be it not of men to express their feelings

Then, what's this thing about me?

But, be it of men

To sternly wield the sword

And then to gently cup the rose;

Be it of men

To brusquely shovel the earth

And yet crave the tender caress;

Be it of men

To set out to battle bravely

And return surging and bubbling with feeling;

Be it of men to be all of these

Then, a man I seek to be!

Be it not of men to shed their tears

Then I wonder what I am.

Be it not of men to reveal their hearts

I must fear for what I've become.

And yet I firmly believe:

That a man should be as strong

As he should be meek;

That a man should be as courageous

As he should be true;

That a man should learn from the old

And as well seek the new;

Above all

That a man should seek an experiencing of love

In its pure and truthful

Childlike and simple

Kind and yet severe -

Just and mercifully beautiful form!

Where spirit leads and intellect follows

And soulfulness triumphs valiantly over base and

narrow feelings.

Be it not of men to speak of love

Then a man I cease to be.

If this is illustrative of the quality of the current output from the younger generation of black love poetry from Africa, then dear reader, you will forgive my inclusion of further postscripts on the genre...

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