lets compare truths by crushing green zucchini leaves on green soaps
and see how much of white lather foams in the middle of it;
tell me if I speak of Gehenna or a nation,
a nation restrained by the gonads
struck to writhe in trauma.
Lets cut this silence that unfolds
like tumours on the lips we lock,
kissing raw-idiocy into darker places
where pretense throbs.
Let us make the Yoruba talk Igbo
And even if we be Hausa,lets make love
in fulbe while the symphony in our hearts
beep in sweet Efik moans.
The Circles around your breasts are no different
from the squares caging our hearts…
Let us knead the breasts of our agitation
into an official language of revolution.
For if we remain in this farmhouse,
overseen by the chief herdsman,
there’ll always be a way;
a way to transmit joblessness to lifelessness
and allow distraught landlords,
a breathe of fresh air.
When the breeze of freedom finally eases in,
they’ll bowl over in pretend upset,
of the stomach, tumbling away
into their graves,for they never knew
that while they stood,askant…watching our tryst climax
the winds sighed,the clouds rumbled and sighed,once more
for their folly.
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.