ARE THE GODS DEAF?

I have offered at the altar,
Three pieces of kola nut,
Two gourds of palm wine and water-
To quench the thirst of the gods.
Still the gods will not eat or drink.
Was my sacrifice too small?

The old priest-
Ordered I made a feast.
For whom…?
But to the gods of doom-
To make the harvest boom.
Two bales of white clothes,
And ten wads of hundred naira notes.
I wonder if the gods spend money!

“Why not bring a hunched back cow
And an hunched back fowl-
To appease the hunched back gods?”
Asked the hunched back priest.

May be they would talk now,
And heed to the distance cry-
Of babes still to witness a momentary crawl.
The cow was slaughtered-
Staring at us and the carved broom gods pitifully.
Will you kill to get peace’s pill?
But the deed was done!

When will peace journey to our land-
To scold and scrub this pains from our heart,
Now that it seems the gods are asleep,
Are they really worth the praise?

Gin for the gods, beer for the priest
Rattling of gun in the distance-
Restlessness lurks in the dark.
Wailing and gnashing of teeth-
The shrine stood the gods a splendid feast.
Let them address our pains-
If the gods are not deaf.

To the uncelebrated soldiers

To the uncelebrated soldiers

Men of war-
Who bore this gallant blood.
Brave and bold as ore,
Sacrificed to cleanse the world-
Of hatred and oppression.

To those brave men
Who slept in the cold arms of the valley
And made friends in the forest’s den,
Feeding on water and barley-
As their souls rise and drop-
Like a withered crop.

Men who went in peace
Combing the deserts of the north
Cracking and crumbling all evil’s fort.
The brutal civil war in Nigeria,
The dastardly genocide in Rwanda-
Come to halt with your passion and palpitation.

Men of steel
Stirring this wheel
Of freedom, from Freetown
To the deserts of Sudan.
This day brings forth your crown
As we envy your courage as a man.

Men who journeyed
Among the eerie sounds of grenade
And the spits of bullet-
That made the cracked and the damaged
And this weary gauntlet
That made you prisoners with a grade
And not a shameless renegade.

We know you
As you lie still
As an uncelebrated soldier
Just to show a true son-
Of the land you are.
Let this be your epitaph-
That; here lies a gallant soldier
Who risked and died for a cause.

Living the dream

I am a dreamer like every other youth who heed to the call of the early morning crow of the cock. Living the life of a dreamer in a world where the rich oppress the poor and the wealth of the country is being shared by a few who lavish in the wealth meant for so money. They are not helping matters! I mean those politicians who made a creed to wipe the common man from any talk in a social gathering or even the zeal to learn is being thwarted based on the fact that the poor man's kid on the street has no place in the tertiary institutions which are being bought over by the rich. I wonder why schools were created in the first place? I have a dream like the great Martin Luther who rose like the early morning sun that stands the challenges of segregation in America, I rise like the firm iroko tree and heed the call of wise men who toilled and plowed the soils of our land to feed their family and also the country. There is a place for us craving youths in this country we find ourselves in, we will never give up, but rise to a course on the verge of freedom to a father land.

This soul, this toil, this pledge to be that person I long to be will drive me on and on, like Obama's audacity of hope, when you have hope, you are being audacious. There are no excuses for the youths who dwell in the buildings of neglect and scorn, what one needs is to stand up and rise to the inner call which is more like a burning flame rousing that longing to be the real person out of restraint and determination. We will live the dreams for our ancestors to be proud of their kins, we are Africans does not mean we are retarded, backward or to be subjected to scorn, we have go wits, we have got the skills and the man power to make our land a better place for all to live, right in the market place our women sells their wares and go home with smiles on their faces, right on the farm land we hoed and burnt every weed of poverty and come home with tubers of yams for the home to feast on, we will live the dream, which burns right in my heart as well as your heart.