Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
I’ve had this dream now for a while,
But the real world’s where I choose to stay,
The time is now for standing up,
To reach out for that brighter day.
Unite to lend a hand to those who are in need,
Unite against them, whose souls are consumed by greed,
Unite and lend a hand, and we can change the world,
We’re the ones we’ve been waiting for.
Walking past two souls holding hands,
I see that it’s true love conquers all,
A dreamland where we all sing and dance,
And hands to catch us should we fall.
United, it’s in our hands,
United, it’s how we stand,
United, across all lands.
Empathy, we understand,
Together, it’s how we stand,
Unite with one voice, One Hand.
I do not know?
Oh say can I see
By the big florescent lights
Once so proudly now has fell
Fell into reality?
Fell into right?
Fell into a time where there should have never been a fight!!
With ’In God We Trust ' printed on every dollar.
But God got kicked out so Columbine became the shocker.
But was it also ' In God We Trust ' when we failed to see nothing but color?
With the hoses put down,
and Dr King no longer around,
is ‘The Dream’ still being reached?
Is it a sign that the first homes we see
are no longer a possibility?
When the Towers came down,
we were 'United we Stand'
But when gas prices rose it was,
“You're on your own, man!”
‘A penny saved is a penny earned,’
is from the man that first helped us try to learn.
But when we stopped asking what our country can do for us,
is that the time when the table turned?
Now that Rosa will no longer be on the bus,
I wonder who will now take that seat for all of us.
With Miss America in the cast,
when will we ever see Miss Disability last?
What happened to the times of ‘I am not a crook’,
it took a back seat to the Man who wrote the Book.
And the rockets red glare,
with bombs still bursting in the air,
is it wrong to fight for the night
when our children’s children will still be there.
An old man looking out his door,
gaze fixed on a distant shore,
reminiscing to a time, not of happiness,
or, the prospect of a bright future,
to when he was sick to his very core,
to when as a youth, he went to war
A time before infallibility had meaning,
patriotism and bravado the craze,
the future was still unknown,
vigor for life at its all time high,
a time for romance, partying, buying,
no thought of pain, deformity, dying
Too young to understand or question,
ship to foreign shore, medals abound,
will impress the girls next time in town,
sacrifice not temporary,
a legacy etched into a wall, few will remember,
flesh shredded, burned, torn,
A time, when he willingly went to war,
will happen no more,
all lost in youth, now unrelenting,
no blind obedience,
long life, his number one ambition
As he turns back from the door,
he thinks of the youth,
here now, soon no more,
lessons never learned,
the call to war,
to common the roar,
complacency the mood,
another generation removed
The old man agonizes
over what was originally not known,
war is preventable,
life too precious to waste,
the solution simple,
his vision, maybe too late
Send old men to the front to fight,
arthritis, heart disease, poor eyesight,
let the youth enjoy their life,
his near over, its only right
Send old men, to the front, to fight
ask them to give up their life,
patriotism and bravado, still alive,
will and desire would not last the night,
old men do not rush to death in their twilight,
failure inevitable, the old man smiles,
knows he's right
Wars not possible,
if old men, are sent to fight
Our first image of a gorgeous black Aphrodite
To inhabit the halls of power with charm,
Mrs. Obama moves over the sacred fields deftly
Reclaiming the realm with femininine form.
Sensuously challenging those who dare deny
Her right to bare her bronze sun-kissed skin
As the queen in a staid pallid white world,
She assumes her role with no hint of giving in.
A worthy image of beauty to accompany a giant of a man,
Mrs. Obama came riding eastward her sword at her side.
She planned for an agenda about change most would scorn,
As a product of northern honing oil and heartland pride.
And she feared not the hard and awful destiny ahead
For a beautiful black woman in a loveless town;
As she brought her fashion for elegance and flair,
Allowing a gawking world to see her face was brown.
As a Capricorn, Mrs. O keeps her keen focus on success,
Never surrendering to impatience, doubt or hesitation.
Her aim is narrow and exact, skillfully chosen
And moored on a carefully thought out foundation.
So doing she has inspired black women to reach higher
And see themselves as lovely creatures of great worth,
Endowed by God to motivate, teach, feed and entertain,
With her nurturing, an emerging color diverse earth.
I am not made a full blown beauty..
Nor I live a life of purity; charity & piety..
All I like to do is to live with identity..
Not of being a witty but a life of humility..
I tried to be a more social person..
Cracking out the shell I have put up..
Breaking from my own weakness..
Doing best in my found strengths..
I have craved to reach out to people..
Widening my horizon, increasing my knowledge and awareness..
Learning to acknowledge fellow human beings..
Regardless of who they are and where they from..
They said: "I must not do this as it is dangerous.."
but I stand to what I know: "Inside all human beings is the reflection of God.."
I give due and equal chance..
As my God have freely given me opportunities too..
We people are living in same earth..
Different are we because of status, faith or race..
Let not this be the reason for us to be divided..
Rather we must come in unison conquering divisions..
Dawn again in this gaol
The jailbirds are imprecisely numbering
One hundred and sixty million
Or more of my countrymen.
The jailors are three hundred and sixty humpty down
And 109 dumpty members up.
You will never see vessels that
Could be emptier.
Empty headed riggers; we never elected
The two other estates of the realm
Are but a sham.
Even the fourth just stroll
Through the corridors
Hoping to be beckoned in
To share of the loot.
They call it national cake.
The ignoble governors are known
For stealing huge funds
And they show know shame;
You can't show what you don't have.
And so nothing works anymore.
Yesterday, Yusuf John stole 23 billion naira
Worth of of public fund.
He was taken to court and he confessed.
The the lead headed judge,
Slapped his wrist with an option
Of seven hundred thousand naira
Worth of fine.
The thief paid instantly from his back pocket
And walked away free.
Never has there been a country like mine
Never will there be any like it.
Liberty is free
For those who take it from me.
Democracy is fair
For those who take my share.
If the lies are to persist.
As long as they believe,
The truth will not conceive
The vote that you cast.
The wind will break the mast,
System set in stone,
Broken by human tone.
They’ll hand you a crutch,
Instead of Golden touch.
Old guards take the stage,
The notion of bondage
Clearly handed down
To those who have not found
A peace of mind to hold,
A piece to call their own.
Take from me - it’s free,
This thing you call Liberty.
They are not being marginalized again;
impostors disguising with bleached faces,
noses made up to fit up to other races,
hair fried and stretched in beautiful shame,
and tongues twisted and roasted in cultural chains -
Distinguished eye-sores of social disdain,
and heads bowed awkwardly in intellectual refrain.
Yes, we are the they;
the dislocated impostors,
the dying survivors,
the iron rusting at bay:
We are not being marginalized again,
else it would have now been the right time
to compose a cry
again, or a lamentation to be sung by a frightened race.
No, it’s not as you may think. No!
It’s not a harsh tone,
you should know.
For to change is like to crack a bone,
something like doing a deep probe.
And with apologies I could say again,
we are the dislocated impostors,
and it won’t be an insult or rail,
since I’m part of the they,
and I can’t insult myself, no gain.
And now is not the time of composing a cry or izobo
but the time of composing a koboko
to probe deep into our bones
and force the phobia of our culture-sense to die
to avail us of the dwarf-walking self and pride.
We need such, if you like, call it necessary insults
to repent and make necessary u-turns
and produce tides-turning results,
to escape the irreparable black-burns
of a trans-generational insult:
If you don’t produce results, you can’t refuse insults.
Yes, we are the dislocated impostors
disguising around with bleached faces,
hair fried and stretched in beautiful shame,
tongues twisted and roasted in cultural chains,
heads bowed awkwardly in intellectual refrain –
elites with bastard successors.
Bastardy provoking as it comes, let’s close our eyes
to swallow this only medicine-hope of the painful taste
of what we’ve made of ourselves –
a foul-odor name far from chaste,
well-earned reputation far from wise,
a history not worthy of bookshelves –
Rock-bottom cultural impostors.
and now we’ve abandoned ourselves
at the middle of nowhere,
freaks of foreign stuffs,
dislocated yet puffed up,
gasping for air,
like a fish cast out of water.
And every day we go to worship
at church or
or at juju shrine,
but to seek answers that won’t stress us,
that would massage us,
and lacerate us.
Not the answers that God would give,
that would exercise us.
But that which will make us feel comfortable
at the status-quot.
And as we strut back home
and see our family roofs leaking,
our family walls riddled,
our family fences cracked,
our family barns plundered
because we abandoned our cultural habitat,
and gasp helplessly in foreign habitat,
lost at the middle of nowhere,
then our neighbors point at the collapse,
but we shake our heads,
not because we know not what to do
but that we do not what we know
and know not what we are.
Hence we live in the baseless world called momentary,
enjoying away in the microcosm called survival,
far-removed from the promise called success,
like social bastards,
and political impostors.
And we were told
“look, your house is crumbling!”
“but we can still manage to eat, drink and feast.”
“besides, God says it’s well with us.”
izobo : a Nigerian word for sacrifices at roadsides, river sides e.t.c to appease the gods or to cast a spell.
koboko : a Nigerian word for a long whip made of leather/ the tail of an animal.
juju : a nigerian word for an idol.
His daughter was getting married
So the Hon. Minister’s gate was thrown open
For just that day.
And like flies to a carcass,
The people thronged in
To see, to hail, to help with cooking,
And to gossip.
His gangster paradise
Of beautiful daughters and
Buxom young wives, a harem of them,
The assorted automobiles
Could give one orgasm.
Must have seen the Garden of Eden.
The architect who designed his mansion
Must have had
A national monument in mind.
My country’s ministers could be
Very creative with tax payers money.
They could conjure a paradise
Right here on earth.
One glaring feature in his paradise
Was the dogs.
The big fat dogs.
Over a score of them.
Easy to count as they were neither
Caged nor leashed. They have been trained.
Moving freely in groups of fours and fives.
Amazingly calm but should not
Be mistaken for our local dogs.
It would be suicidal to do that.
They were wild dogs.
They minded their business as long as
Visitors did not cross their path.
They say at night,
Those dogs don’t bark foolishly
At a trespasser.
They will eat him and lick up every trace
That even Hon. Minister will not know