Weak tears struggle down wrinkled faces
of mothers with sagging breasts—
Looking down at ballooned bellies;
Their children lying in graveyard laps
oblivious to flies playing around
blood-shot eyes;
Boko Harim rides off laughing—
leaving behind survivors
consoled with the pangs of hunger;
With blood-shot eyes
we grow tired of morning news:
turn on the coffee pot to peculate;
And with muffled sighs
of late night uncontrolled fun
ask what’s her name, the weather!