Which tenure, believed, this martyr
the one, which seeks, the masses’ window and backdoor
entry, to die for?
What living horror could best qualify
for the crumbs that drop from plenty
and the sighs that leak from many
when men, measure men, in manifestos?
An awakening, of few, brittle minds
with millions to spare
for the simple, a many simple minds
in millions to bear with pious pain
the hopeless hopes of change again
sold on a platter of gold to the senile again
whose face still reminds us day after day
our vote’s worth, more than, jingoism vain!
Also Read: The Timeline of Agbada, Etibo and Babariga
We, after every four weeks of months in twelve
swarm the streets to deify these grisly gods
with jawless mouths and grumbling belly
and eyeless holes that see no farther beyond the nose.
And never learn, from history pages
‘There they go again!
Like zombies depicted in Fela’s song
we gape at faceless nameless men
and dance around the church screaming AMEN!
But forget to gauge the omen
that waits lurking at a four-year door
screaming on rooftops
‘It is a façade! Spit it out!’
Alas! We all are dead deaf
and this poem, another failed attempt
at the first three verse.