I am an African child who,
Is pregnant with words of my
African country.
Once upon a present time during my time
There was a country who had a long walk to freedom in 1960
Hardly had things fall apart in-dependence when the ugly
Ones who refuse to die kept
Singing a sonorous song that
The beautiful ones are not yet born.
Who is a man of the people?
The interpreters or our heroes?
The arrow of God has pierced into the heart of my Excellency
For he is no longer at ease after
The day he told the streets that the purple hibiscus of laziness dwells in them
Indeed! The gods are not to blame for those words that flew out of his mouth.
It is not a bitter sweet truth that the streets has turned archers who aims their life darts at becoming an Americanah and second class citizens in the yellow yellow country..
Forgetting the paths of their past past.
Her people talent remains still born like the burning grass.
Their wishes and aspirations get stormy under the tides of crazydemo.
A quality of violence now runs in their veins for they now see themselves as beast of no nation
The howling wind has taken them deep into the Igbo olodumare
To search for the chosen one they call ogboju ode ninu Igbo for the next tenor.
The man of the people has deceived the people
by collecting bride price from those people who claim to be
A representative of the people.
He turns a palm wine drinkard who now discloses the secret of baba segi's wives
Rather than agitating for the good of democracy within.
The last of the strong ones should forget about the sunset in Biafra and overlook the events in half of a yellow sun.
For one is enough for
A virtuous woman to reap
The joys of motherhood.
Let the people of the city
Join hands in unity to walk towards the call of the last duty
And everything good will come

©®Malik Barakat Timilehin