they are not sounds, the ordinary,
they are not muffled,
they are clear,
my last words.
that though great the challenges
even greater the success.
yesterday we were together
doing this struggle for liberation,
today I am sitting on the fence backing the scene
and I see our sweat flawed,
flawed by the generation for whom
we gave out our lives.
I see our land helpless in the embrace of
no, this is not the Nigeria of our dream.
no, this is not the future that we saw.
no, this is not the road that we toed.
somewhere, greed has taught our children well
and they choose hell over heavens.
please tell me Waves, is it true?
is it real the Nigerian man can suicide-bomb?
yes, they say they swear, Lord,
they are the ambassadors of god,
hawking the gospel in a brutal tray.
that for those who bought, there should be no
and serve those who do not, pieces.
tell me, has Nigeria been recolonized
so that our children have no swords
to break the arm of disgraceful disrespect
to the sanctity of life?
to say ‘no’, this is not what the trio and the rest
evil knows well that man will protest
so it hides its face behind money
and lectures our sons and daughters
the way against them.
and they take to sentiments –
my tribe, my region and my religion
and, curdling moneys, forget brotherhood.
then evil cackles from afar
he has set them apart.
and our own land was stolen by our own ourselves.
shame unto us whose food was not enough
yet, spit on the little by a way of protest.
shame unto us who pollute our waters
because our waters are being polluted.
shame onto all heirs that squander their
Zik, division threatens our unity
and the boys refuse to heed
that the cloud that parts never makes rain
norths and Souths Korea and Sudan
picture the future of secessionists.
yeah, still in our country?
hope none from south entertains
this fiction of hope
for we have had enough of deaths,
enough of evil in our clime and so,
i, Zik with Ikemba, do meet to say
if lasting freedom be our desire,
we shall wait for time while we stir
with our voices like June twelvers.
this, it would push us to the throne.
no more the use of arms,
no more the misuse of youth,
no more the abuse of privileges.
last when I saw sardauna,
didn’t I tell him that the herders
hang on the lips of man,
that freedom has a limit,
that ewe bites when presses to the wall?
and, like you, he was bitter.
for how could the heirs of freedom,
choose to live in bondage?
asked he me.
and then continued
let the ardos all over
roll over their voices
that freedom which threatens freedom
brings about confrontation
and, only the war-ignorant
would grin at the approach of one.
what says the Awo’s tribe
or like the wise hypocrites
sit on the fence,
shedding tears and chuckling
to pave their ways to prominence?
no, but their share is mild,
their youth that hate discipline
terrorise their rest
and although, still mild,
souls involuntarily give their lives
for rituals for others to be safe.
and men, like women, children and olds
do miss for ransom’s sake.
but this is wind, it blows even heavier
within your men
and it blows among Sardauna’s too.
then, o, welcome Sardauna,
where’s Awo and Isong and the rest.
hear what i’ve heard.
shall we give a message to Waves
for the leaders of today?
yes, yes, yes, yes, let’s do.
the hungry man is an angry man, Awo.
the empty mind is devil’s home, Sardauna.
the abandoned one is a potential threat, Zik.
the cheated one is a revengeful one . Isong.
all. to the masses, the persistently insatiable losses
the little he has at last.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A.G. Giwa is an educationist and educator, with major in English language. Born June 6, 1976. Lives in Kaduna with his family of four. Author of children’s verse play: Mukaila the Disobedient Child, yet to be published novels, To Hell with Dad, and The Mistakes of Our Hero.