April’s edition of Poetry Korna, What We Carry, arrives as the year has found its rhythm. In March we followed curiosity into the unfamiliar. This month the poets stayed put, inside the grief, the wound, the severed root, the question that has no clean answer. These are poems written from the place where something happened and never fully healed. We read them with care.

1. Still her Baby by Nadia

I lost my mother at twenty-seven,
still soft enough inside to be her baby.
And one day, when I hold my own child,
I will search the room for her—
for the hands that knew before books,
before videos, before strangers online
telling me how to soothe a crying soul.

Why didn’t I listen harder
when she spoke in the language of mothers—
wisdom carried from her mother,
and hers before that,
a quiet inheritance passed hand to hand
until it reached me
and slipped through my fingers.

Now the line feels broken.
History interrupted.
A daughter standing where a mother should be.

I miss her most in the kitchen.
The way she never measured,
the way love could live inside a pot.
Everyone admired her food,
and now her recipes are gone with her.
I try to recreate them—
a pinch of memory,
a spoonful of grief—
but it never tastes quite right.
Like something sacred is missing.

Why didn’t I pay attention
to the softness in her strength,
the grace in the way she carried anger
without letting it spill everywhere.
How she could enter a room
and belong to herself completely.

Now I study womanhood
through pages and screens,
trying to imitate what she wore naturally.
I remember her words,
but not the movement of them.
Not the living example.

And I wonder—
if she sees me now,
struggling to become even half the woman she was,
would she smile?
Would she pull me into her arms
and whisper, well done, baby?

I think she would.

Because even in your grief,
even in your longing,
even in your regret—
you are still becoming her.

I miss you, Mama.
And now, somehow, I am Mama too.

Please forgive me, Mama.

2. By the River Bed by Elisabeth May

I stare hard at the riverbed
Not with admiration
But with contempt and hate
Its smooth flow and mocking gurgling sounds
Boasting what they took from me

What they snatched from me
Was a beautiful soul
Wrapped in hopes, change and dreams
A shining star the world wasn’t done with
Dikie Moe

His smile glowed like a lamp in the dark
His laugh an infectious sound
His voice carried depth and serotonin
He declared himself a lover of nature
A brother of the ground

With every adventure he took
Through vast lands and sunny trees
Below his sight lay the river bed
Hungry for the sight of him

The day he came by the river bed
He approached with warmth and love
Unaware the river’s whispers
Had already chosen him

In a flash
Like a camera shutter
The river took what it had always wanted
And the water closed over him

Every bitter day
I watch the river bed
Some days I cannot stand long enough to curse it
It snatched the piece of my heart
The friend who lived closest to it

I still buy the groundnut
At the market
To remember his voice and memory
His favourite snack he loved to chew on
Now plays a song I’ll carry to my grave

3. Hope is a Daydream by Martin Ngebeh

In the cool of December,
The dry winds wash my face.
The city is alive,
Intoxicated by the warmth of his body.
The sun hides, the skies are empty and clouded.
Like me, confined in the safety of my world.
A universe no one gets to see,
Until I open the door.

The stars are stuck in place,
The waters don’t move so fast.
The trees live forever,
And every heart I meet has good intentions.
I could never hold a brush,
In this dream I’m the greatest artist.

The world honors women,
The feminine is exalted.
The soil is filled with love and wonder,
The scent of blood and pain extinguished.
The seas are filled with magic,
No longer stained with the remains of slaves and greedy men.
In this world, every man is free.
Like the birds in the sky.
Everyone is allowed to sing their song,
No matter where they’re from or what they look like.
In this dream we make one big harmony,
Our tears are sweet frankincense,
And each drop that falls raises a flower from the grave.

In this world the people are forgiving,
Their hearts open and green.
Everyone carries a halo,
Glimmering in the night sky like it’s December.
We need not mourn the dead,
They dance with us in the sun.
The skies are tinted with the sound of youth,
The sun wakes up to laughter
And the moon returns to love.

Every time a child dies in an unknown land,
A piece of my happily ever after fades away.
Each time a person is shunned for their love,
The waters turn red.
When women are torn apart and their dignity ripped from their bones like flesh,
Nature dies and the world falls into disaster.

Every time I’m hurt,
Every time I betray myself,
Every time I crucify myself;
Condemning myself to being normative.
My universe ruptures and collapses,
The colors fade out,
And I’m slits away from disappearing with my little world.
Never to be seen again, like a ship lost at sea.

4. untitled by The Philosophers Poet

My feet always hurt but don’t heal.
All this while my heels have been,
Nourished by soils that my roots didn’t plant.

My grandmother walked several decades ago,
Her blisters passed down through my soles.
My forefathers walked generations ago,
Their wounds passed down through her soul.

My ancestor’s slaves,
My parents slave babies,
My lineage the,
Babies, of babies of slaves.

Been walking for miles but nothing has changed,
Except for my name, except for the blame.
The Islands that gave me a home,
Came with chains.
My tribesmen moved on,
Whilst my chain-owners,
Ravished their lands.

Forgotten but never forgiven,
The product of trauma estranged,
From a Mother-land orphaned,
From pillow, plantation-to-post.

Was I sold by my elders,
Traded for trinkets,
Or captured by,
Palm-coloured tourists?

No roots to call home,
No soul in my feet.

A culture constructed from,
Tokenism,
Pidgin English and,
Ancestry DNA.

5. The Bad Builder by Camiwor

How do I stop these thoughts?
if every intake of breath sets me
over the precipice of irrationality
How can you tell me not to overthink?
if every word or sentence that I speak
opens the floodgates of suppressed feelings

I never wished to be like this
Walls crumbling just as fast as they are built
Choking back words as the weight of my regrets
overwhelm and swallow me whole
I never wanted to be the man that shies away
from social norms
But how could I not be that man?
When I can see the broken parts of the world
How could I not be that man?
When I always try to fix what I didn’t cause

Why would you call me a lost cause?
When all I want to do is save
and in turn be saved
Even the strongest of hearts and purest of souls
can also fall victim to their own strengths
Strengths become weaknesses
Love becomes pain
And everything we fought to maintain
Reverts to discord

6. The Lesson Beneath the Scar by AJ The Poet

I didn’t know pain could speak
until it carved its language into me
not loud, not wild,
but slow… like a quiet blade
that knew exactly where to go.
It didn’t ask permission.
It didn’t knock.
It simply arrived
sat in my chest like it belonged there,
like it had always known my name.
At first, I fought it.
Wrapped pride around the bleeding,
called it strength,
called it patience,
called it anything but what it was.
But wounds don’t listen to denial.
They wait.
They deepen.
They teach.
I learned how silence sounds
when it’s heavier than words.
I learned that not everyone who smiles
plans to stay.
I learned that some goodbyes
don’t come with footsteps
just absence… stretching endlessly.
Strange thing is
that wound,
the one I prayed would disappear,
became my sharpest teacher.
It taught me how to see clearly,
how to hold loosely,
how to walk away without losing myself.
It showed me that not all losses
are meant to be mourned
some are meant to wake you up.
And now
when I touch that scar,
I don’t flinch the way I used to.
Because I know
without it,
I would still be searching for answers
in places that only knew how to break me.
Some lessons don’t come gently.
Some arrive bleeding.
And somehow
that wound
made me whole.

7. Maybe by ~Drew~

8. Where Does It Hurt? by Khadijah

WHERE DOES IT HURT?
It hurts in life as I’m confused, is depression from my past that remote my present self is one I dare not know.
Is it real?
Is it fictional?
For me reality is a part I’ve lost in the abyss, maybe I’m paranoid, the burden is that I can’t afford.

WHERE DOES IT HURT?
Maybe my head as I can’t make out his reasons.
Maybe my limbs after that day the outside world is that I can’t fancy.
Maybe my eyes as they are the quest of making lakes out of a desert.
Maybe my heart as it is too numb to say.

WHERE DOES IT HURT?
It hurts in love cause with you poetry felt heavy, my heart, a burden of things I should not write.
Every feeling was at its last with all he said he tried.
Leaving with the opened wounds of yesterday, the lover of Tomorrow and the joy of today.
I’m now stuck with versions of myself I thought would heal.
Craving and Leaving are the words I failed to understand.
My heart bleeds for every feeling it wrongfully pursued.
The pain moved through places I’m too hurt to notice.
But I dare say it hurts every nerve and my whole trembles.

WHERE DOES IT HURT?
It hurts with family until I stopped waiting to be looked at.
As they never learnt my language so I started loving them in subtitles.
They thinking I’m my parents daughter unknown, but I’m the storm they’ll tremble at the thought to look at.
The abnormalities they can’t treat or control.
And that’s ok their love is too much, I’ll never lose myself to be seen as normal.

WHERE DOES IT HURT?
It hurts when mum looks worried, she doesn’t say but her eyes held the pain of seeing her child not known, too mature to tell mum it all.
It hurts with mum tears, always on a quest to make things right, even though I’m a lost cause, I’ve made my own company.
In her eyes I’m one they’ll always judge, for I’m the truth they won’t know how to hide or deny.
Even though I’m disappointment but with her, I’m all she sometimes need to feel right.

WHERE DOES IT HURT?
A whisper in my mind even though I already told.
Now I’m quieter, I can miss and not chase.
The hurt was loud so I learned to go still.
I learned my dreams don’t need their tongue.
And I can only be proud when I said to my self.
It does hurt but it made sense I grew up to hear my voices too….

9. Dawn of Ashes by Silver Secret

A hot ball of fences screams,
Perhaps the dragon’s snare is scared by a lion’s roar.
So long, so far; yet how is it so cruel?
Eyes smile through tears too heavy to hold, and swiftly soars with pride.

Saints fade without regret,
Whores, thieves, blasphemy growing every hour.
War and greed stain the terraces of power,
Innocent voices trampled to the wilderness.

Religious centers turned to hatred circuses,
Gunmen govern where dead souls sing of peace.
Liquor and humor mask a grief that won’t break,
While elders scrounge, youth becomes scavengers.

The economy bleeds under costly prices, whilst the Tsars sit relaxed as the people starve.
And at the end, every cry births a silent dawn
That asks: will it bring a smile, or a fateful nemesis?

10. June Sixteen by Zakie_Poetry

Ho! Yes, it’s June sixteen,
A day we remember those vibrant teens.
Their lives they lost for liberation’s gleam,
Singing freedom is coming tomorrow, a cherished dream.
A tomorrow they never did see,
A tomorrow they hoped would forever be,
A tomorrow to wipe all anguish, setting their spirits free.

Ho! Yes, it’s June sixteen,
A day the phoenix rose, a vibrant scene.
With songs for liberation, they took to the floor,
Dancing in solidarity, leaving traces for evermore.
To their graves they sang and danced along,
Their voices heard, their moves a strong, clear song.
Liberated they were, where they truly belong.

Ho! Yes, it’s June sixteen,
A day we mourn, a colorful sheen.
With heavy hearts, for freedom’s fight, we rejoice,
Hailing our lost heroes, a resounding voice.
Who believed in Africanism, upholding its might,
And fought for its values with all of their light.
A day we believe is for the African child, shining ever so bright.

Thank you for reading this edition of Poetry Korna, a digital literary journal published by Inkundla Spaces, a Sierra Leonean arts organisation building creative infrastructure for artists across the continent. This edition was shaped by Admire Bonnie and S’phongo.