Ours is a Landfull of Chameleons,
Tigers and Hawks;
a wild community of Vipers, and dicers who build us castles of snakes, with cancerous legacies,
a trail to blaze by our generation.
and as a people, ants, and sheep’s who
shadows in red silence and eat pains as honeycomb.
Ours is Golgotha a Realm
for CRACKED meals we make for vultures and worms from the savagery of northbound guerrillas and cow lords.
Chibok’s freedom, a folktale; red Benue,
badoo and relatives, some sad pasts awaiting rebirth.
Ours is a Community of certificate woes
illy. red hot and black
and our streets, a validity of its misery
with grads, hunters to traverse the ‘hero
that bears the signature.
Ours is sahara, an Empire
for sweet is our Intercourse with dryness.
Eternally trampled by earthlings
that even the worse of Sycophants
laugh at our unwaning errors mouth-wide
The center, the reservoir for National cake and The rest can war for crumbs that fall after Gehazi’s addictions,
“Things fall apart”.
Ours is a Race of Travellers,
those, BROKEN, who take shelter as slaves aliens, and Those, who globetrots and despise our beautiful heritages
Ours is a Domain of STRIKES
where Paper dreams are stretCHED;
Health victims, long suffering, a virtue Must have;
and of habitual Oil drought that chronicles our blackness, ‘SHITHOLE’.
Of religious prejudice that unwebs our oneness;
the rippling Naira to stern Dollar;
of generators-full dark Land yet with beastly bills
To the One monster that sharks in every corner painting us all dark and Corrupt,
I am green, and genius with piloting artistry but to septuagenarian and beyond I must travel to hold reasonable throne,
Ours is a Nation of farming dusk
for hunger unbeauty our faces, our bowels, dark cribs for starved creatures; and one trouble to win and give relevance to ‘manliness lies in the might to keep Bloods united with lean living payroll, or be trademarked the Bible’s infidel as Adam.
What is white with us that we cast stones Abroad?
Tell me, infrastructure? Or …?
Or what joy to recount of the hopes we fantasized as toddlers for the sweet Niger area?
From birth I grew through the needles eyes to my now embattled homeland
where teeth’s are gnashed and the joy of my sun constantly arrowed.
Trump, Sir, and Compatibles, We are not ‘SHITHOLE’.
Paint us Black no more for our darkness
is finely clad in nights paintings.
As independent mourners we ask that we be left but make them whole, our folks who take refuge in your America
and don’t arouse the venom Martin Luther King Jr. fought and won a thousand years ago.
Are we doomed to never get better,
Nigeria or Nigerian’s
that we moan for a better yesterday?
But this ink, I give, not just a hand to
beautify the world but a voice to rebuild fallen Land and to walk till Our new morn I behold.
(This poem draws its muse from the recent comment made by President Donald Trump, describing African countries as ‘Shitholes’ or ‘Shithouse’. These words do not applaud him in any way for his comment, but portrays the realities with us as a nation, NIGERIA.)
Copyright© 2018 (Igiri Victor)