PẸNKẸLẸMẸ́S

We were once rivers that tided the same estuary, serenading in one tongue with our griots skillfully beating the àgídìgbo drums, with the moonlight bright enough to crown a king.

Then came the infidels with strange tongues that later set our home and yam barns ablaze, birthed a clan that never prayed to be born— a bride veiled in alien colours of opprobrium.

Liberty came with agbádá too stiff to dance; the politicians feed fat on children’s future; bandits now ride where emirs rode—poised; and ritualists openly take over the Holy Grail.

This battered bride yet paints her lips red with blood at Enugu, Owo, Kaduna, dancing on. We lose guard; Lugard loosened our guard. We toasted red wine; the soil tastes blood.

While revered monarchs fight over supremacy, clergies patronize courts to fix a divine order; bootlicking bourgeoisie praise-sing politicians for responsibilities to which they are oathed.

Legal luminosity backs backdoor certificates as palace coups romance security advisers. That’s the aftermath of yesterday’s sour grapes that set the children’s teeth on edge today.

Nnamdi now blames Bola, Farouq, Natasha for self-induced peculiar mess; how time flies! An abode once warmed by the same sunlight is now a shadow of death for great and small.

When will laughter outrun the shame of guns? When will insanity stop curing madness? When shall intelligence be domesticated, or must we always achieve peace by pieces?