The Curve And Colors Of Hate

When the evening news had broken
Father spoke with a tone of pain and
anger “Nigeria is a whore,”
And my mother agreed
Painting sensual scenes giving you
pleasure of what looks like a garden that
hides a landmine.
And how trying to walk through it
becomes slippery
A journey asking for crimson libations,
full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while
you looked over the fence for greener pastures

Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills
but you are served double horrors
She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when
it relinquishes you of value,
Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’

My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock”
Wants of men despised
Sullen moods recorded in poems,
speeches, and events, snubbed
For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s
on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied

“Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I”
Guilty to a fault
Pained by happenings that come with
fire and brimstone
Let loose from bellies that should hold 
patriotism
But use religiosity as the excuse for
what deserves blames for our incompetence
Blames why we fold arms that should
hold arms and hound down impunity,
And watch the headlines nodding our
heads, forgetting as soon as we hold the
remote to change the channel

“Son, my plea remains that you and the
generation to come, opt for a change
outside the formula of our failed
generation,” father spoke vehemently

A burden had been passed with no rest
promised as the smoke of burnt down
villages endlessly ascending and its attendant,
Memories still singing
It had dawn on me that I am an
instrument of change.

- Uwen Precious Ogban

Enjoyed reading? Commenting is now easy. I introduced Facebook Comment feature. Please help my blog grow by leaving a comment and sharing with friends. Thank you!