My voice is the libations
Of our penury‘s liberation
Poured in the heart of Aso Rock
Which do not appease the
Tenanted gods of the house.
My voice is the peeling souls
Of pregnant babies sucking
Their skeletal fingers instead
Of their mothers’ withered breasts.
My voice is the muffled moan
Of the dying bones
Inhaling the perfumed fart
Of abandoned promises
Instead of the breath of fresh air.
My voice is the school children
Nursing the heartbreak of strike
In their indefinite honeymoon
Whose ceaseless clarion calls
Are buried in the grave of silence.
My voice is the scarlet scenes
Of Boko Haram‘s massacres;
The dice of tears teeming from the
Eyes of men who witnessed Baga’s carnage.
My voice is the Giant of Africa
Dodging the fogs of her cabals
Wading through the claws of sunset
Trapped in the womb of insurgency.
This voice is a widower
Whose dear wife is Nigeria.
Sponsored by: Sir Eriata Oribabhor, ANA Abuja Chairman
Powered by: Words Rhymes & Rhythm (#WRRPoetry), #VerseUp!
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