The crows of ignorance,
Have eaten the last seeds of logic.
The grave yard is the wisest
Because intellect has been buried.
As the wind of superstition,
Sweeps clean the halls of ivory,
Nay the intellectuals
Clean the desk of politicians.
The tone of the Nubian sage echoes a foreign voice.
From the hill top, he postulates dark prophecies,
Unable to steer the ship from the wave of uncertainties,
Sacrificing research, for the juice in the maiden’s loins!
Why are your pens, drunken with drought?
A century of years, your ideas have no clout
You are a doctor of science, but a patient to superstition,
You analyze the problems, without proffering solutions.
O ye intellectuals,
You have become fugitives to knowledge!
Yours is a light, reinforced by darkness;
And your laxity has put Africa in bondage.
Two centuries and more, since slavery ended,
A decade halved and more since we’ve been free,
Independence. You can only boast of your titles,
Rather than making lives vital.
Ye are the vultures that feed on the carcass of empiricism.
Ye are the famine, the drought that dried the fountain.
Your pen spills the ink of ethnicity,
Rather than innovations and ideologies.
You use analog principles in a digital age,
Award degrees to thugs and urchins,
Yet deprive the kids, with exorbitant fees
You are an anathema to the minds of the sane.
No tasks to put our brains to work,
No tools to conquer the environment around us,
No theories to redirect our faults,
Ye are the curse of our resource!
meet the poet: Nwakanma Chika