Angels lay in the pool of their own blood,

Their fire snuffed out, the ashes blown away,

The barrage of lead their fragile flesh could not defy,

To nocturnal marauders have they fallen prey,

Thus by shine or shower we ceaselessly mourn,

Despondent, miserable, bereaved and forlorn.

From whence, and why these menacing cannonade?

The back of tripod-stones has become the habitation of snails,

The cat’s back finds home with the earth,

The hands which the cradles rocked now the graves dig,

The owls have indeed awakened the crowing cock,

Alas, fire dies in the billow’s presence.

The drum is now beating wildly pit-a-pat,

Too incongruous for the royal masquerade to do his dance,

Trousers are pulled up, but the flood soaks you still,

What matters then, wither you go now, or where you turn?

He that does not want strange footsteps in his backyard,

Must fence it up, and further raise the fort.

For how long shall we fold our arms and live in fear?

While the stream of innocent blood flows in our backyard,

For how long shall the guns rotten in the shade,

While the oafish birds shit on our heads,

The fire next time, whose hut shall it burn?

The flood next time, whose child shall it drown?

Whoever kills a vulture lives not to see another year,

Whoever hunts a phoenix does not live to see another moon,

If death strikes on the right,

Obaluaye cue a cry from the house evildoers,

If pestilence strikes on the left,

May it spare not the shed of terror agents.

Ogunyemi Bukola (@zebbook)