Two, Two hundred or Two thousand?
We debate numbers, carelessly offhand.
In an orgy of violence, in this desolate land,
while children are slaughtered like salah rams
In numbers to rival Bar beach grains of sand
and the zoo masters feed off goats and yams
So if I must die, and die, one day I must
I fear not, either a svelte bomb or a crude dagger
I ask for this one wish; honour my plea in trust
Let me die in far away Paris, not here in Baga
Here sons, now enemies; Boko Haramites
multiply like an army of fornicating termites
Take me there, far, far away from here.
For here, many the toga of terrorists bear
it is becoming so very hazy for me to really tell
between Dasukis and his many master-devils
A case of who is evil and who is purely evil?
All parties sullied, to darkness their souls did sell
Here, they piss, shit and spit on my grave
In this town I am ignored, cruelly scorned
Take me to France, lay me under Eiffel’s cave
Where I shall be honoured and mourned
by one million souls who’ll remember my face
CNN will call my name from sea to sea
Even old Fox will fold me in her cold embrace
while Dokpesi and NTA air Liverpool-Chelsea
matches and owambes; political parties’ campaign
And drink of my blood mixed with fine champagne
And on my grave they gladly, gleefully dance
Hapless, to deaf ears may I not plaintively cry
for between cowardice and cluelessness, I die
If I die, do not bury me in baga,
take me far, far away from Naija….
© Juliet ‘Kego Ume-Onyido (All rights reserved).