On feet like a toddlerâ€™s I stand,
Afraid of my next step
Unsure of what awaits my tread, in the hands of my children
You whom I entrusted with my life,
Have now betrayed me.
I blessed you with all I denied your counterparts
In Nations of pompous affluence
I have given you,
Landscapes of breathtaking sights
A fertile land,
That you may not hunger and die
I endowed you with Natureâ€™s riches
Made you The Heart of Africa
I made you the cynosure of Nations
But you in turn chose to mock me.
You took from the wells of my wealth,
That which I love most
That which I reserved for you and you only,
My oil of priceless worth
My Black Gold
You traded it in for money, greed took your soul
At the expense of my children whom I apportioned this lot
To aliens not named in my will.
You played with power,
With weapons of intended murder
As always in your uniforms of flowing garbs,
To keep my children at bay.
You carted away their rights to enrich your pockets
That which I gave to them,
My Black Gold.
You have no conscience
Feed them lies with your sweet tongue
Never caring about the starvation and suffering
You inflict on them.
My children whom you turned to lesser mortals
Witness the rat you have made them become.
Scurrying for a cup of my oil, and set ablaze in the quest to survive.
You never care about the waters in my land,
Nor the creatures that are becoming extinct due to your insatiable thirst.
And because of your lust,
You snuffed out the life of one who stood to oppose your abominations.
Him whose eyes could not overlook the ills of your greed
You spilled the blood of an innocent soul
You made me weep
I still weep
O my children,
Why do you torment my soul?
Why do you rejoice in perpetuating chaos and anarchy in my land?
Why do you shame me in the eyes of friends and foes?
No! I cannot!!
I shall not rest till I am appeased
An atonement for those poor souls you have erased from the earth
For I tell you most solemnly;
A million years of payment, of a million silver coins day by day,
Will not be enough to resurrect our dead.
Oil On Milk
The cold hit me with bitterness as I touched down from the plane
my woollen cloth, seemingly thin to protect me
â€˜quite a reception for a virgin travellerâ€™ I thought
but more was the surprise to come
Every street alive with man and gadgets, as expected of a developed world
paradise on earth as portrayed by all
yet quiet and lonely to my heart.
The frantic hurried strides of people suggested tension with every step
the silent cold stares of unuttered undertones baffled my senses
a great contrast to the friendly countenance of my homeland
Every man, wrapped up in his own world,
unwilling to share his feelings; afraid of being pried into
every man, a lone ranger.
Every meal left me hungry soon after,
in my attempts to adapt my stomach
the ceremonious procedures at the tables, too odd to tally with mine
the â€œfree style eatingâ€� of home, hit me with nostalgia
The act of heralding a visit, even to a brotherâ€™s,
so strange I wonder if the knocks on our African doors are pesters
surely I would die in-doors to the ignorance of the world, if I adapt this rule
The thought of hardening myself to sorrow,
to cry with my heart shielding the ocean of my pains in publicâ€¦
What ever happened to â€œtearsâ€� freely shed back home?
The constant disrespect to elders and ceaseless dislike for the aged
The non-display of family ties and extensions
The constant destruction of lives to unburden pent-up emotionsâ€¦.
Africa never prepared me for these
Now I know better,
may have moulded myself to give respect to this land;
the glitters and gorgeous displays of it all constitutes a faÃ§ade
Truth be toldâ€¦.
The originality of a motherland can never be replaced.
My widowâ€™s mite got rejected by one called â€œfriendâ€�.
A gesture once valued in Mother Land,
now spelt insult and generated a bruised ego.
Communication became severed, a grudge borne
My crime for being Ala Beke
On salutes of â€œhello!â€� you announce what booties you receive
from travelers like me, with undertones of shaming me
Expressing displeasures at demands I cannot meet.
Come friend! Come this way I wish you.
Experience the blues you envisage of a sojourner
Feel the coldness of man and atmosphere alike
The malice behind smiles for black-bred brothers
Play the hide and seek game with the law, in the race of survival
Feel the life on the streets; the war to earn a penny without â€œpermissionâ€�,
Or support from a â€œgod-fatherâ€�
Feel the vacuum of family home awayâ€¦.
The ache of lonelinessâ€¦ the misery of it all
Come friend! Come this way I wish you
Confess the fortune you strike
Once you set foot Ala Beke.
Not the â€œcollapseâ€� chant of my nursery hood rhyme
nor the display of manâ€™s gifted handwork
but an ensemble of humans as I see
Come every eight hour of a working morning,
and catch a glimpse of a captivating parade.
Black coats and jackets, on white skins of all sexes and sizes
dominating other human colour alongside them
Trotting from the â€œstopâ€� of London Bridge,
to the big towering buildings of the city
To the likes of Oxford Circus, Monument, Aldgate, The Squares,
and other blocks of business ventures.
On for an hour, this walk goes
A match past of human soldier-ants
in a disorderly, but interesting line as you watch aboard a bus
Yet a threat to your imagination
when you hear the vibrating thumps of their soles
as you stand awaiting your bus
Like a stampede coming down on you.
Not even the â€œCMSâ€� of my renowned â€œLagosâ€�
possesses such awe as this
Come every eight hour of a working morning
and witness this feeling.
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