CROSSROADS
The moment we realized we were
no more chattels to tyrants wearing
turbans whose devilment belched forth
bombs like whiffs at the North-eastern
suburb of the Niger was the genesis
of our quick exodus from that peninsula
of obliviousness; a state of mind we were
caged in by our fear of death
We sons of the south have seen how
thieves on khaki disguising as friends
had battered the budding destinies of
her youths, abused the use of power
given them by the chief Nazi, the god
of our land whose age exceeds the
Firstborn of Methuselah’s (selah)
On our journey from fret to aplomb, we
saw a signpost erected on a crossroad,
on it written 5 miles to autonomy, the
other 3000 miles in hostilities, while
some are still held in a strait betwixt
two; those who seek genuine change
moved,
choosing to fight for their rights rather than
dining in sorrow, feasting only on crumbs
falling from Nebuchadnezzar’s table.
Written by Daniel Ezeokeke
Also Published on Eboquills
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