Again they’ve refloated another wreck – Obigbo;
shy men of culture with a deep hatred
they consider themselves patriots, statesmen,
devout Muslim, intellectuals, earnest Christians
but they look on with folded hands.
That’s why you saw me: massacred in Asaba – ’67,
beheaded by fanatics in 2002 as George Orji,
murdered in cold blood in Abuja – APO-Six,
burnt to death like a criminal over Danish Cartoon,
deported from Lagos as an alien without recourse.
Wherever storms rage, there I perish
none contemplates the ashes of my burnt livelihood,
lends a voice to a to-be mother whose womb
has been split – the unborn reaped by miscreants
or consoles a father scavenging shallow graves for his son.
Which tribe are these ready for the Final Solution?
No one cares, or reckons, knowing them is a penance:
the gruesome sight of their mangled corpse
will dint your conscience with blood-guilt;
I am nothing to my countrymen – a mere game.
Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords | 2020