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.