I haven’t come this far to live in Nigeria’s hell,
there is a bat whistling in my face, there
oodles of stench holding form in poverty,
I am unpainted.
My luxury items are my thoughts as I bend my back to see the sky. I wonder what being a citizen is if I have to feed on my flesh daily.
How horrendous is the strip of sovereign crust, just a few are living the life, others crawling into an eternal space of deceit, hunger and languishing, they call it cruise.
Others too jet away in a muscle mixture of acceptance, bedridden in time as their talents evaporates into jeopardy.
Nigeria is a sad story told to the devil himself.
* A poem that evolved into a spoken word yet, incomplete. ( Writer’s note )
Sanshwen
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