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When we announced “new beginnings” as the theme for the July 2026 edition of Literature PADI Poetry Competition, we expected verses about hope, sunrise, and fresh starts. Fidelis Iyengumwena gave us something much more profound. His winning poem, “The Bell That May Yet Still Ring,” is a devastating exploration of interrupted education and the trauma of school kidnappings in Nigeria. The piece, which earned a massive 1,788 votes, struck a collective nerve within our community. We recently sat down with Fidelis to discuss the heartbreaking real-world events that inspired his work, his stance on AI in literature, and how he weaves the “palm oil” of figures of speech into his craft.
RA: First of all, massive congratulations on your recent win of the July Literature PADI Poetry Competition. 1,788 votes is a huge turnout. How did you feel when you realised you had won?
Fidelis: Thank you.🙏 The feeling of being a victor is always fulfilling. Especially after a tensed battle with two other competitors. It was satisfying.
RA: Did you expect your poem to get this level of attention?
Fidelis: Optimism is a watchword for me daily. So, putting my work on your platform, made me hope for a wider reach whether I eventually win or not.
RA: “The Bell That May Yet Still Ring” is a very emotive poem. What exactly inspired you to write this poem? And why did you choose such a painful approach to the “new beginnings” theme?
Fidelis: Thank you for this. Honestly, I had a round table discussion with some of my students on the trauma of being a kidnap-victim. In the course of this, I alluded to the pupils and teachers abducted in Oyo State, and the infamous severing of the teacher’s head from his body. I didn’t just sympathize with the family of that teacher, I empathized and imagined how the family must have felt seeing the video circulating online. In same light, I emotionally made them wear the shoes of those pupils, and several others who have been kidnapped too. To not flog this too much, same evening, I reflected on the whole thing with the students and how they cried. That birthed my decision to write “THE BELL THAT MAY YET STILL RING”, putting into words the emotions I felt during the discussion.
RA: Did you find it difficult or exhausting to write?
Fidelis: Not really… Passion always gives one a soft landing about their craft no matter how exhausting it may seem.
RA: There are two expressions I find captivating in the poem. One is “answered instead by the grammar of gunfire”. The other is “widow dressed in charcoal”. How do you come up with brilliant metaphors like that?
Fidelis: Poetry is best eaten with the palm oil called “figures of speech”. And one being able to weave them into his or her work, allows readers and audiences resonate with the subject matter. Then again, growing up around a grandma of blessed memory, fortified one with dozens of proverbs and parables. Incorporating this into literature, becomes a total package. Lastly, the advent of artificial intelligence in recent times allows one’s thoughts come to life if used effectively.
RA: Speaking of artificial intelligence, what do you make of it in the creative process? What line should writers not cross?
Fidelis: Advancing or window dressing your original idea or work with artificial intelligence is a welcome development any day. But outright reliance on AI is a no, no for me. Reason for this being that writers soon lose themselves, their authenticity and above all, creativity.
RA: Thank you for your take. Let’s talk about your writing schedule. What does your typical writing routine look like? Do you prefer writing at night or during the day?
Fidelis: You are most welcome. Without mincing words, I prefer night time. If I am so engrossed in wrapping up a project, then I do so during the day but with mother nature’s help – TREES, WIND, BIRDS.
RA: What do you do when the words just refuse to flow?
Fidelis: Na to relax o.😅 Refresh and comeback later. Else, the aim is defeated.
RA: 😄 Life is not supposed to be hard. Now, aside from writing poems, what other things do you do?
Fidelis: Exactly!🤝😅 Life is supposed to be seamless. Aside writing, not just poems, I am a media person. I teach, I create contents. I do stand up comedy, as well as Master events. Above all, I survive being a Nigerian.😅
RA: What advice would you give to the other poets who participated in this competition?
Fidelis: The competition was an avenue to test waters and determine our writing skills, learn from each other, and look at the bigger picture – putting out works out there. It’s a launchpad for the next phase. So, the best advice is to not let their ink run out…. BUT SHOULD JUST KEEP WRITING.🤝
RA: Finally, what’s next for you? Where can our readers find more of your writing or connect with you?
Fidelis: Forge ahead with everything thing I do to stay afloat in the country. As for writing, it’s more of a leisure thing for me. I just write when I’m in the mood, or I see any writing project that catches my eye. Like I said in the winning speech, I mentioned being a writer of unpublished works. To catch up or connect: mc_kkz both on Instagram and TikTok. KKZ Tha Comedian on Facebook.
Poem by Fidelis Iyengumwena
THE BELL THAT MAY YET STILL RING
Weeks ago,
a mother tied dawn into the ribbon
around her daughter's hair,
kissed her forehead, and watched her disappear through the school gate,
believing, as mothers always do,
that every goodbye deserves a homecoming.
A father drove away
with one simple promise to his son:
"I'll be back when the final bell rings."
But the bell never announced
the end of lessons.
Not break.
Not dismissal.
Not freedom.
Outside,
the sun completed its journey.
The children did not.
The teacher,
that patient gardener who watered young minds with the quiet rain of knowledge,
who declared that courage is virtue,
that learning is light,
that nations are first imagined
inside classrooms:
stood before the frightened harvest
of his own lessons.
His chalk broke!
His voice,
which once called the register,
was answered instead by the grammar of gunfire and caressing of machetes.
What darker metaphor can language endure
than a head detached from the body that carried wisdom?
By men who wear heartlessness
like ceremonial robes.
Even now,
an exercise book lies open,
its unfinished sentence
still expecting the return
of the hand
that abandoned it unwillingly.
A sharpened pencil
keeps its lonely vigil
upon a desk by the window,
its point still eager to spell tomorrow.
Now, the bell rings
to empty chairs.
The blackboard waits,
its dark face stretched like a widow dressed in charcoal hoping for fingers that may never write again.
A football’s roundness,
waits the feet of dozen Ronaldos and Messis,
rests abandoned upon a field where even echoes have forgotten how to play.
Their beds remain untouched.
Their pillows still cradle
the shape of absence.
Their plates continue waiting
for hands that may no longer arrive.
Their names wander through living rooms
like orphaned prayers,
whispered between tears inside churches, mosques, market squares, and trembling vigils.
Tell me!
What victory is won when childhood
becomes ransom?
What honour is found in making mothers
count sleepless nights?
What future survives when classrooms
remain cathedrals of unfinished dreams?
No!
Call it what it is!
The bankruptcy
of the human soul.
Nigeria endlessly mourns.
The trees stand like grieving elders
who have exhausted every proverb.
The wind ashamed of the news it carries,
hesitates at the gates of the silent school.
More than forty dreams:
teachers,
dreamers,
future physicians whose healing hands
were stolen before they touched a pulse;
future engineers who might have persuaded rivers to kneel beneath bridges;
future poets whose unwritten verses
remain imprisoned inside frightened hearts;
embodiments of various leaders whose speeches have been interrupted before their first sentences;
and carried away by men whose guns speak louder than mercy.
The road that once escorted children
towards alphabets and arithmetic,
towards futures with gigantic dreams,
has become a procession of unanswered prayers,
each footprint
another Psalm left unfinished.
Weeks after,
somewhere inside a lonely forest,
a frightened child still remembers
her mother's voice,
his father's promise,
and the lie that school would always
be safe.
Yet every nation must choose:
whether tragedy becomes its ending,
or the place where it begins again.
For new beginnings
are not wishes.
They are promises
we protect.
They are classrooms where fear
is never enrolled.
They are bells that ring again when justice finally find its voice.
For tomorrow does not begin
with sunrise.
It begins when every child can leave for school
and return home.
Because every child stolen
from a classroom today
is a page torn
from the tomorrow.
And every child that
returns safely
is the first line of our truest
NEW BEGINNINGS.
— Fidelis Iyengumwena
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