Where?
Are we not all funny,
Dressed as professors, yet looking like zombies?
This thing we call a country—what is it, sef?
A personal shelf, a donkey, or both?
What is this?
A note to self, or am I an endangered specie?
Why do we gawk, gormless, too afraid to see?
Is this the triad of blood promised, or are we too faithless to believe?
We’ve been deceived,
Stooped too long to conquer.
Our backs are breaking, mouths falling into spineless bunkers,
And the whole world is shaking.
The complaint counter blazes with murmurs—
What are we doing? Is the messiah sleeping, or snoring?
The ship is sinking, the car stalled in headlights,
Wheels swollen, green fingers severed in the garden.
Is there another plug?
Where are the gladiators, the men who once swore by the Bible and the Holy Quran?
Where are the prophets who destroyed Baal before the Jordan?
And the women—are they sunbathing in hell?
The children—where is their moral compass, their bell?
What has this generation fallen into?
Where is the gold plate that Awolowo harried mint through?
Why do we embrace this ridicule?
No fuel, no food, no light, no water—
No pride, no integrity, no dignity.
Just empty bass and banter,
Filthy hands chasing money and impunity.
No love, no lot,
No words, no guts—
Nothing, just buts.
