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Day 2, batch one poems, Ghareeb EID reads 2018

August 23, 2018 Uncategorized 0

Day 2, batch 1.

** THE HUNTER AND HIS HATERS by Bello Mustapha

Ada, your hunter father is going forever
And the days of hate will soon expire
I am a hunter with slender hands
But heaven blessed me with Vedinand
He was my only son with full muscles
Who hunted antelopes into our pot of soup
Even that pompous pawpaw tree did applaud my son
For smashing its climax in a few seconds
And plucked pawpaw for Papa and Maa
You also ate and felt no hunger anymore
Ada, your brother could cultivate fifty furrows
And on the same day, had bags of seeds to sow
Vedinand never came home with empty hands
We saw joy when we saw him open the ban
He fed Maa Ike, fed Ike and fed Papa
We gulped catchew juice and slurped soup of okpa
Ike, your brother fell sick for a single week
I took up his tasks but my bones were weak
Your mother would wince at the little I brought
She spoke of hunger as if food never had touched her tongue
Her constant screams soon took away my son
He died crying his mother was hurt
I added to my strength after your brother’s death
But all Maa Ike could was to pay with hate
She hated the hunter and taught her daughter
To hate and flout her father’s orders
Ada, the hated hunter is going forever
And the days of hate will soon expire.
The hunter stopped talking and started coughing. Ada dashed into the room to get some water but her mother sat her down saying the hunter was a lazy irresponsible man. Before Ada could break away from her mother, her hunter father had breathed his last. The last minute love Ada had for her father ran wild in her which made her hate her mother.
‘You killed my only father!’ Ada did confront her mother. She took judgment in her hands and poisoned her mother. Ada for having murdered her mother hated herself more than Shaythorn did Adam. As her guilt grew older and could no longer sleep at nights she surrendered herself to suicide.’
Abu Jihaad at this point observed a pause as though wanted to catch his breath. His face fell, focusing the floor of the podium. When he finally motioned out of his emotions, head high-up, his voice, now a bit shaky, muffled a naseehah to his listeners.
‘I recall my teacher saying, this story is as true as I am Mr Kasali. Learn its lessons. And never advocate hate.’
Bello Kolawole Mustapha (A Ghareeb Poet)
Social Media Handles: Almustapha Author (Facebook), almustapha_author (Instagram)
Meet Almustapha@

1. Syria- by: Shukroh Abdulhameed

Dismembered bodies of victims were displayed
in a Muslim country for Allah’s sake,
and we ask, where are other Islamic states
as these people clamour for help,
Strained voices of Syrians asking
for our support, and the mercy of God.
250,000 have lost their lives
and 4 million have fled their homes,
their comfort zone, women and
children fighting alone, their families have
been stricken by drones,
And the world can help
A country can help, You can help
Your prayers can help, your deeds can help
in saving Syrians, from upheavals.

2. Can the real terrorist please stand- by: Baniaz Hayila

As the call for prayer came, declaring the end of dusk,
I broke my eighteenth fast, with some dates and leftover husk.
I washed myself so clean, to stand before my Lord,
I cleaned my mouth of filth, to declare the Oneness of God,
I wore my woven cap, to head now down the street,
On my way I saw, gazes that refused to meet.
Some quietly shut their eyes, some slowly widened in fear,
Some simply couldn’t believe, that a Muslim man was here.
In a downtown European lane, with his gaze cast so low,
Was he shielding within them secrets, of the next city about to blow?
His gait was oh so careful, sidestepping all that mud,
His clothes so white and clean, was he preparing them all for blood?
Thoughts in their heads so loud, they could almost reach my ears,
Their lips, though tightly clutched, told me all their fears.
They had seen me on the TV, a grenade in my hand,
Or sometimes beheading a child, bent low on Arab sand.
They blamed me for An Istanbul, of a Syria and an Afghanistan,
And that I was behind the killing, of my brothers in Pakistan.
They said I had killed in Yemen, in Germany and in London,
They say in Burma I killed my dad and in Palestine I killed my son.
They blamed me for the murders, of thousands of my kin,
They told me I’m Muslim, and that’s enough to be my sin.
As a Ramadan comes I watch, my brothers being killed,
In bomb blasts and blazing fires, their deaths guised as they willed.
Why would a Muslim man, kill so many of his own?
In this month of mercy, will he wish to sin alone?
So many years of silence, with Muslims taking the blame,
Unsure of their part, they’ve naively shouldered the shame.
A conspiracy in the making, where too many have had a hand,
Isn’t it high time now, for the real terrorist to please stand?
-Baniaz Hayila is an Indian writer on issues sensitive to the Muslim world.
Her works can be followed on Instagram under the handle @word_bound. Also a fellow at Young Muslim Digest magazine.
3. Titleless- by: Sobur Abuamal Adedokun

This is not a love poem this is a child
and there is a city inside of her
please do not cause an earthquake
in her soul when she asks for what
beauty means and you tell her the same thing they shoved down your throat
before you removed half your clothes
to become a six letter word
when a strip of hair from your
plucked eyebrow settles on her
tender palm and she asks if plucking
your eyebrows makes you see things better,
remember that your child carries
a vase inside of her and vases break
do not tell her the things they told you
before you became small enough to fit in mascara tubes
-Sobur Adedokun is a young Nigerian poet,
fellow at the Ghareeb Institute and
Join him on Facebook at
4. O modernist – Abdulfattah Morakinyo

O modernist, catch on to this call
Of warning and admonition from the moans of
A soul that is cautious and want(s) you cautioned
That your actions are nothing but reprehensible.
Conservative is this Deen, please know!
No going further, it’s complete!
No changing of rulings in some different eopch
When you opine they (the) proofs aren’t seasoned.
O modernist, get (it) into your brainbox
That forever, the veil must match with the trends!
O modernist, get your instincts aware
That till the end of time, the trousers must jump!
O modernist, desist from being an orientalist
Who has got no work than to find reasons
For every action linking to the time and society
Saying that was then and happened there.
Less I have to say for succinctness matters
For unnecessary verbosity is that of the orientalist
Hate this thinking and mix with garbage
Then gain some pride from being called a fundamentalist.
-Abdulfattah Morakinyo Wittage

5…CHAINED…by: Aliyyu Abdullahi Abalhasan

I’m so clean
Yet so dirty
Tainted by sins
I’m so slow
Yet so fast
In the race to my doom
I’m so fearless
Yet terrified
To face little gravy
I’m so heavy
Yet so light
On heavenly scales
I’m generous
Yet so stingy
Towards my Deen
I’m a novice
Yet an expert
In the art of sinning
I’m a scholar
Yet a layman
In the next world
I’m a victim
Yet a sucker
Of my own follies
I’m a master
Yet a slave
Chained by desires

Aliyyu abalHasan is a Nigerian poet who translates Arabic poems and songs.

6. .A. Map To Heaven- Lan Rey Hassan
I have learnt to trace the lines
on my palms to God, some sweep over
the palms- like spread limbs of a Corolla
donning its fused petals- and lounge
into paradise.
you will say the lines on your
fingers lead to different places
but there are Ninety-nine gates to paradise,
Roses can be sanctuaries when given
to girls looking to hide their own
blood in its redness- from
predators preying on them, lurking
lewdly around, waiting to see the first
blood trickle down their thighs;
whispers can be music -sweeter
than dulcet songs of bird’s- when they
gardle the heart with warmth,
like soothing whispers of a woman’s love,
And pebbles too can be pearls
with your lover’s name engraved,
a coin can have a thousand times its
value, if given out for the sake of Allah.
The search for Jannah is the
mother of all voyages, but the Maps
I have seen only
lead to safe havens on Earth, (if there is one)
but never heaven,
it is the lines on your palm
that can lead to paradise, when the
palm gives to the poor from that which
your mind carries a touch.
Quran 3:92: “By no means shall you attain paradise (Allah’s reward) unless you give, out of that which you love. And whatever good you spend, Allah knows it well”
Uthman ibn ‘Affan: “Your charity will never be accepted until you belive: I need the reward more than he needs the money.”
Lan Rey Hassan is a ghareeb poet and fellow at Join him on Facebook @

7. Rabbul Ka’bah- by: Adedokun Abdurrahman

To whom much is given, much
is expected, but
Rabbul Ka’bah, I have
left the Qur’an on shelves now
besprinkled with antique dust,
but you still have not forbidden
my heart from finding rest in
the promise of Eden, like grains
of balley settle in their husks.
I have for years, turned away. from
you, going on voyages into life,
but I read the Qur’an today and
it is still there, that you are closer
to me than my jugular veins.
I have not hearkened to your call
in ages but, I walked past Gezzah today
and the muezzin still called me unto
you, unto success.
To whom God is given, much should
be expected, but the Qur’an
does not agree, except if Taubah is much,
So, after ages of deserting you,
I turn to you and say,
“I am still sinning”
And yet you reply,
“I am still forgiving”
*Seeking forgiveness -Taubah.

Abdurrahman Adedokun is a teenage poet from the Ghareeb Institute. join him on Facebook @

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