Unlike the good days of yore, we roast like oxen on hot coal!
A man screams fire! Fire!
We swing to action by setting up a tripod, moving our fingers in the rhythmic flick, clicks!
We are delightful news pioneers, stacking up contents for our fans and blogs rather than helping a distressing compatriot.
Our lives rest on the shoulders of callous licensed men of guns,
pronouncing upon us guilt with their bullets ploughed into our lungs.
Maybe the sporadic shooting is strategic – to shrink the plebeians.
The land groans of the agony of a trapped rat in scrambles for breath and survival.
Desperate youth want to make quick money and buy Benz,
hunting for feminine underpants here and there.
Ritualists disguised as beggars, as you offer your money free, your manhood also flees.
Depressed souls cry out; “Where is the hope?”
In an intense loathing for life, gulp down “sniper” like sweet wine, with a note planted next to their corpse.
The note drifts to the media
And the dead explodes in fame – fame of shame.
We have lost our script of joy as a Nation and our staff of faith to walk upon.
We cannot sleep nor slumber
Nor can we sleep with our two wretched eyes closed, lest, the clock may be put on hold.
Our units of glory withers like the declining leaves of autumn
We don’t live anymore, we strife to survive!
Poem written by Ezekiel Archibong (Oluwasalvage)