When hot cakes of hope deferred run out in ovens of renewed hope,what other phantom food can mother stuff the mouths of her bawling babies?
When our blood was shed under jackboots of our messiahs, when our sweat, tears and blood were unguent for our creaking statecraft, oh, when the Naira wept like tapers in neo-liberal hell and we all gorged on cast-offs and leftovers, we heeded the mantra to tighten our belts for the promised Manna.
Ours has been only the gospel of giving and giving, of endless sacrifice without harvest.
Our rulers, caring as God,
never tire of blowing the vuvuzela of thrift while they burn our barns and waste our wealth in orgies of privilege.
Once heaven now hell
whose fury barbecues our land once green green with promise of plenty.
This long long night
spanning years of darkness and death has made weeping our national past time.
Now the desert approaches, hoofbeats sounding staccato drumbeats presaging slaughter and drought.
And the sea, the sea robbed blind, it can no longer see the land, nurses a grudge, one day soon to reclaim her own with vengeance.
Memory of wrong,
Our land: bleeding sword dripping…dripping stalks in broad daylight sowing mayhem in home and highway.
This hunger, this anger,
what ticking bomb we call home!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Prof. Chris Anyokwu is of the Department of English, University of Lagos (UNILAG).
Monday January 8, 2024
