Call me a poet,

When the cock crows.

One who will scribble this stories on the parchment of remembrance,

From the edge of our country homes,

At the pasture of our livid experiences,

How our feet were soaked in the blood of our sores.

And we crawled on the rough road,

With bullets sprinkled on our thighs

 

Call me a poet,

Who knows how we came down,

As the generation whose bloodlines lingers on the echoes of anguish, leaving footsteps of blood on the farlon threshold.

Killed by the day, robbed by night,

And jailed at forenoon.

 

Call me a poet,

SARS! Mean. Fierce. Blood!

When they took our lives, like it's theirs, our blood like their wine

We wailed to the high heavens. Stained in the sins of the state,

The transgressions of the sovereign,

And the genocide of a country ungoverned.

On this space we called up the future,

Walking on the sinister trademark of state forces.

 

Call me a poet,

To reach out to Adofi Etua,

Today is our day of recompense,

From these graves of our confidante,

We march into your reckless souls,

Drowning you in the evil of your tempest,

Camping around the shadows of our grievances to pour out pain to the deaf throne of your iniquities. .

Where you drag us to the dangling portion of your greed.

 

Call me a poet,

To take back our cowries,

From the Lekki gate of blood,

Where our struggle was stolen by the sovereign,

Whose unknown soldiers cracked up our fortitude, leaving our resolve stronger.

 

Call me a poet,

To take these lessons,

Before I go to Rabbi to bring back the ark of prescience.

Nnasu is propelled to roast these inordinate charlatans,

Who delude the prognosis of our redressive allegiance and will our sacred entrails to the sand of hate.

Call me a poet!

 

Evans Ufeli Esq

© 2020

October.

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