POSTED 07/03/2018 11:33
When the evening news had broken
Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger ''Nigeria is a whore,''
and my mother with a sigh agreed Painting sensual scenes giving
you pleasure of what looks like
a garden that hides a landmine.
And how trying to walk through it, becomes slippery
A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures
and 'Had I knowns' while you looked over the fence
for greener pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu
full of thrills but you're served double horrors.
She, Nigeria abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value,
Truly, she is an old 'whore'
My father picked it up from there, "Nigeria gets hard as rock''
Wants of men despised
Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events snubbed.
For as long as it makes sultry suplex's on a comfortable ring - Nigeria is satisfied.
''Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I''
Guilty to a fault
Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone
Let loose from bellies that should hold patriotism
but use religiosity as the excuse for what deserves blames for our incompetence
Blames why we fold arms that should hold arms to hound down impunity,
and watch the headlines nodding our heads
forgetting as soon as we hold the remote to change the channel.
''Son, my plea remains that you and the generation to come,
opt for a change outside the formula of our failed generation''.
A burden had been passed
with no rest promised as the smoke of burnt down villages
endlessly ascending and its attendant memories still stinging
It had dawn on me that I am
An instrument of change.
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