Chidi,
In the midst of all the pains, agonies and cries in our land
In the rivers of blood
of innocents
where vile men wash their crimson linen
We must hope still
Chidi
In this wilderness where tears and anguish suppress laughter
As stomachs groan for meal
to assuage killing hunger
As vile men decree pain lawfully
We must hope still
Chidi
In this jungle where men bask
In their ability to evoke a groan rather than a moan from our tender babies
damning reason
promoting brutish passion
We still must hope
Chidi
In this forest where insatiate men rape our senses
with bestial frenzy
we must hope...
We must hope that one day minus one today
Good men will rise
One day minus one today
Good women will rise
One day minus one today
We shall chase these beasts away
and create a golden world
Where beasts will no more lurk to plunder the treasury.
Tunji Azeez
Arugo Agog!
(For Chidi...)
Once in a while
even in the midst of
the numbing struggles
to scrape a meagre existence
the Arugo motor park
remembers...
Once in a while
even when Nigeria is
ill at ease, and the
Political Leeches are still
hard at work,
the Arugo motor park
remembers...
'You don hear?'
The mechanic said
to the agbero...
'Oga Chidi don dey old o'
'Ehnehn! How old him be now?'
'Him don reach fifti'
'Eewo! Life just start be dat!'
Once in a while
even when it seems
the numbing struggle
will be stillborn
the Arugo motor park
remembers...
And we remember too.
Adeshina Afolayan
By Chidi Anthony Opara
Daybreak.
Dew-like drizzles
Dulling the bright demeanour
Of this budding August break day.
Drizzles,
Downpour.
Fore flavour of Ramadan feast.
"Today is the eighth day of August"
My mind murmured.
The dull demeanour of this August day
Peeped into my den,
I peeped.
A congregation of choristers
Converged,
Besieging my den door.
"Today is the eighth day of August in 2013 AD",
"Today marks your fiftieth year on earth",
"Today marks your golden jubilee on earth"
The choristers chorused.
"This jubilee is not golden"
My mind murmured.
I mused,
My mind meandered the maze of miseries.
Hordes of hapless citizens
Hamstrung by unholy homilies
Huddle in public places
Homeless,
Hungry,
Angry,
Hunted by self-anointed holy warriors,
Hunted by militants of all manners.
My mind moved to Biafra,
To other vanquished lands.
My mind gazed at the genocide.
This jubilee
Indeed is not golden
My mouth murmured.
(This poem is in commemoration of the author's fiftieth birthday anniversary. All Rights Reserved).
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