Not a poem)
Good luck to the paunchy heads of state and barefooted bureaucrats,
With pouches stained with black gold and dirty carats;
New shoes decked with things expensive and luxuriant.
They are the wizened claw-pointing cronies of corruption
Breathing lies, baring their fangs.
Can you see them? they are the masked marauders,
mauling the impoverished populace.
Behind a veneer of spirituality and candor
Ravenous wolves in the wool of sheep.
Scowling and howling from city hall to church pews,
their words as tasty as a month old stew.
I write of those that tell that ancient lie
– Youths are the leaders of tomorrow –
While we scoff and sing echoes of self-inflicted hard times,
as a little blue bird tweets listlessly about
the Cataclysmic Chronicles of our fragmented state!
Every word stenciled in falsehood…
yet we see them, in their bullion vans… bullying the masses,
Canvassing across the borders.
Haranguing the weak, pilfering wealth from public coffers
In the league of deceit, they are the Harlem globetrotters.
This is for potbellied rulers, their half-truths and sugar-coated lies
Promises crafted, and designed to be broken
Pharaohs on our payrolls, tension because of pension.
They dangle a carrot and tease us with the yoyo of their propaganda.
Their singular motto is ‘chop and chop till you go yo…’
While we sink into a bitterness … please no more yoyo bitters.
Check their portfolios what seest thou o kid of man.
From Port Harcourt to the caliphate in the north
Their plots and schemes and decidedly insidious dreams –
I kid you not!
Behold the anathema in the senate house,
the gory sacrilege that denies the holy writ of our anthem.
When the rule of law becomes a safe haven for the lawless,
where the lure of wealth turns fathers into bandits.
The media screams: our senators are power drunk and thoughtless,
Chasing the paper trail of naira notes across the sea,
blinded by glint and mint.
Church rats and attack dogs, all hankering for a piece.
The national cake has long finished –
BREAKING NEWS: No more food in
Asshole sorry pardon my french Aso rock
All that is left are crumbs and leftovers
Such decadent cuisine – a million bucks for every teaspoon
Endless banter in the senatorial halls,
Yet our flag flies ashamed – see how she mourns
Far! Far! the rooks they cry
Our peace, our unity, farther now more than ever
They take to the airways and tell us
Tales by moonlight ‘cause NEPA haff take the light
We stay blinded by their bling and bag of tricks
So I write of bomb-induced tragedies and lexical genocide,
The macabre dance of apathy…
of flowers plucked from their pots and turned
into pawns in the sickening game of cat and mouse.
A brainwashed generation dancing to the tune of dupes
Hours behind the movie screen, fingers glued to our bb keys
Feeding fat on lies, growing dull by the day
Hoodwinked by their Politricks
Is there hope for these people?
Cos I see a setting sun, and my fellow Nigerians
it appears there is no more hay!!!
I write of eagles and falcons and kids who hawk.
Our nation once divided, for a while united through sports;
Where is our deliverer? – The one they call Moses,
Come lead us out of this desert into a pleasant oasis!
I write for that conductor screaming above the din of bombs and brass…
“PLEASE HOLD YOUR CHANGE!!!”
I see the endless toil of the street kid prowling the sun-drenched roads
My nose assaulted by the virulent stench that saps life
Roads – soaked with potholes,
paved with nothing but fleeting intentions…
Holes widened by the greed of potbellied rulers.
Trains rigged with many a danger… taking us nowhere fast.
I write of the lingering flame that burns in a corner!
That solitary pen that purrs and churns…
Men with words that fan the fire and stir our hope
of the light in the heart of those who dare to dream!
Of the endless fuel queues and queer events
The onslaught of questions that flood our minds
Is the Nigerian dream merely quixotic?
Have our many failures rendered us toxic?
Questions we ask as we grope around for answers
Answers we can’t find because despite the
NEPA have turned off the light