Groundnut tusks falling on ground

Dusty from disuse

And starvation

Hens pecking up remnants

Thrown from masters’ tables

On grounds

Brown from dirt

And fertility.


Beaks peck beaks in war internecine

Over remnant taken over

As operation Trojan Horse

Actualizes itself

Grains fall here and fall there

Alas! 360 degree circulation

A diversion

A division of a people.


Saliva drops downward

To perched soils

As parched throats quack to get

The lion share

Operation Feed za Nation!

Melons red as blood

100 percent spittle-corrugated

Oh, well, it is the national cake.


One course meal on a platter…

No, not of gold, but

Of hot blood

Of patriot hens fighting

For a redemption

Lost in the vague abyss of 1914

Freedom’s now a course long overdue

Stretching round degree 360 since 1960.


Bigger beaks, bigger take

The small seek

Their grains unfound

God hen and chicks

Wrestle along dusty, futile paths

The dark owl hoots on an iroko

Sounding the dirge

Of destruction of the umpteenth Order

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