Written by Editor

In the days of kings
When men were Men,
Brotherhood born,
Women Mothers.

Love! our shibboleth,
Truth our discourse.
We lived in nature
and nature in us.

handwork was ours,
In the woods lay moolah,
Joyful resound of our weapons and traps,
We ate the works of our hands.

Calculation of duration,
Solely entrusted to the heavenly bodies,
Relinquished and forgotten,
We entitled our times to a plate-like creature.

Zealously anticipated by all and sundry,
With our trumps and drums,
Chiefs, King and he’s array of Queens.

Our songs, Our dance steps.
Our sweet-scented food,
We lived in disputed-peace,
In groups with our clans men.

Our loves were trapped,
In processed cellulose pulps,
And tales of night-time
Enslaved in Inks.

We were bought,
With truthful-lies,
Heightened imaginations,
From the strangers lore.

We were given prayers,
Our blessings taken,
Our civilisation captured,
By words on tipped tongues.

Taken and placed in nudity,
Taught and trapped in our civilization,
Made ignorant of our wise and stupidity.

Given to a color,
anonymous to the bright.
We lionize their Servitor,
In our Dark-Light.

Oh! Mama…..
Bring us back to our wise.
Our refinement intoxicated,
In Truthful-Lies.

About the author


Bada Yusuf Amoo holds B.A in Literature in English from Obafemi Awolowo University, he is the publisher of thespeakingheart.com. He started the website in 2015, he has published both his works and other budding writers and poets on the website. He is a public commentators and his articles are on different websites.