Good Morning Nigeria,

On a wintry morning, I listen to a journalist’s voice,
crackling on the radio, feeding me tales on how to rebuild a broken country

I watch a bird fly into the fog and lose the path to its nest

I fold my palms and succumb to every government hoping to find solace
with the manifestoes that once sweetened the soul but hissed away

Tyranny becomes a norm

How do you define your country?
Watering a plant that’s unwilling to grow

& what do you see when you stare at the Nigeria of the Streets?

I see millions of wounded citizens, & I listen to their voices, clamoring to be healed, but the government doesn’t understand the language they speak

Speak for them

I want to speak, I want change, but I’m sacred tomorrow I might be in jail.
& I’m just sixteen, the moths might have chewed my bones before my parents even recognize their own graves

& how does it smell when you taste the River Niger?

I smell un-nurtured scars on my country’s skin where no dictators heal

I hear you scream fatherland!
I hear your scream fatherland!

I want to be heard, but I’m in the unripe age
& my tongue is not curled enough to criticize peace

my country is an unknown metaphor―
always frightens me with my silence, my silence, my silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Maximilian Hofer on Unsplash