BAGA: by Mesioye Affable Johnson

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Silly season of human seasonings
Perceived in seasoning of human killings,
Fear,now what everyone must cook under
Perhaps,fresh flesh be made lunch for trigger.

Morrow’s morrow laid under dying dreams
On suffocating stance of pale today
From collated gasping hiccups,sans beams
Void victory but nightmares during the day.

Boko men have casted evil shadows
Again,on our land with usual dark bows
Darting dreams’ dormitory to spill red hue
On the surface of dying offspring’s shoe.

Baga! Your soul was battered with sorrow,
Prickly anguish fell on your skin like snow,
Your breath,buttered with bloody whiff on cliff
Where your carcasses turned feeds for wings’ sniff.

Baga! By now you should be pot-bellied
With those fleshy mountains you just buried,
In your navel,I doubt if space remains
To replace gone ones with those without gains.

Instead of the promised water supply,
Guiltless thrust veins were forced to comply
With the demands of terror,sans coyness
Of erstwhile nightmares,that brought us dryness.

A happy colony danced on our grief,
That our parents are gone,I can’t belief!
A volary too laughed at slept remains,
Oh papa! why can’t you send these flies pains?

Insurgency! Where are our backbones?
You mean they have turned manures on ridges?
Evil! Why craving for more roots again?
Where are those on errand of no return?

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