The hot blood describes it,
with tiny strains on its rims.
The ghosts hanging on the sky
are wrapped up in mysteries
that lodged their dreams back
into the corners they were dreamt.
It was a deep dark blank evening
where the ghosts discovered
their sudden loneliness in a wilderness;
they wondered in discontentment
like a child trying to reject
his mother’s food without fish.
The week had great designs
in our memories with 200 killings by men
who tend to divide us.
There is a thick blood seeping
from the eyebrow of my country
and those who should mend our heart
are singing the songs of war,
while some say we should pray.
Then I wonder what God will do when
we cannot create some peace within our hearts.
We cannot tell the tales of our sorrow
without a dimmed mind for the Fulani,
for Islam, for Christianity, for the tribes
that neighboured us and for the gods
we have sold their artifacts into foreign lands.
I doubt my existence as a man
living with disturbing sensation
of mysteries around my being, my country.
We missed a lot of things and focus on power.
Power is a metamorphosis that be
when man laid claim to what belongs to men,
life, nature and all that we met on earth.
I began to lose me when fear began
to coil itself on me and gauze bandages
on my nation green white green.
The death began to grow like cassava stem
on a fertile earth.
I finally lost into somewhere
I cannot describe
until Dark Lagos brought me here
like an existence. Maybe I now exist.