Abacha
your voice broke through
the hanging and dirty clouds
of verdict’83,
marching on your smoking boots
you led the parade of khaki vultures to scavenge
on the chest of our motherland
you tilted your beret
and rested your military
pot belly
in the peppersoup joints
of ibadanland
in the twilight of another dawn
your voice whistled the gap-toothed
march pass of maradona
you began to waddle
and saddle your green belt
with machiavellian joker cards
you murdered sleep
at the dawn of hope’93
you set drums and cymbals
singing a dirge on the grave
of our hope
what an open grave
you dug, waiting to receive
corpses as landmark
of your blind madness
your stoned faced goggle
threatened the moon
of our motherland
you mowed our fathers
you drove our brothers
aborted the pregnancies
of our mothers
brutalize our sisters’ virginity
with the nozzle
of your gun
your madness challenged God
you killed saro wiwa
enveloped ogoni
with blanket of agony
the Niger Delta, you irrigated
with blood of our sons
how can we remember you?
let your silent grave
speak about the agonizing
loneliness trailing your
path to the table of history.
Copyright © Patrick Uanseru | Year Posted 2007
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