Conversation of a Nigerian With Nigeria

Uncertainty, 'grand potentate', swathes my lure For renewed insight. I dropp upon My groove, primed, to settle my lot. Help! Modest citizen. Our battles, girthed For selfish intent, lunges at your faceless sense. We have rasped our own reasons from Bullets impassive, gratifying bills Upon your waters of slackness tethered slow He, skirmished hearer to define this Wit-flourished folly, clasps sweaty palms, Murmurs chrysalis of half- hearted wishes: I slack to lack, vision spires for tatty hope Tosses my insight upon starved ambiance. Help! No thrill, no ornate flight for thought, Just one 'grand potentate' nods frugal, Spreads fancy upon polished strips We saw you lose route upon hundreds and Tin and columbite- we glimpsed sprouts Of your self-righteous mutiny kindled By flat angst. We falter at your gates of defiance. Fifty-two fetid years, freshly dour for me, Turns my flesh to scales. Forgive, 'grand potentate' To fling at me abundant pellets, lost or left. Of grisly death I sniff, brash and fierce Fifty-two fetid years flame my scales We must fling pellets, but now, your allies Must bolt their greed against your waters, hassled And strew you nether with backward tides A resurrected applause in steep praise. His cabinet Indulges my lassitude to forbear further Moans and tears Fifty-two flaming years, will me not, sheer contortion Only one stirred heart to fight along many