you watch the weary halved yellow sun sink
into the wombed cavity of a blooded sky,
at the close of a dawning sundown.
you hear of the noised rumbles and
crumbles in the dispatch billows
of boko blasts, and reminisced
about the warful death of a little country
that was, and is no more, and remains within us.
you hear of corruption cankerworming
our armory, of boko haram being in
the top defense ranks too, of base
betrayal, of sorry setups, of
military mutinies, at first:
and of terrorists’ bombings, and arson,
and massacre, and abductions of
wombers and issues–
and then you remember the unfinished
saga of chibok and sambisa forest …
you overhear the silenced echoes of
a screaming silence from chibok
ugh the labor pang of the barren,
the deafening cries of the stillborn,
and visible voices and felt sight of mamas’
kids and kids’ mamas no longer there,
and the groping ache of severed umbilical cords.
but all of the souls’ lingering scream are now only
submerged in the voiceless noise of politicized
rights campaigns; and of the present,
passing pandemic …
and we die of viral ebola and
bombs, like the prophetic plague of
hails engulfing a corrupt gomorrah,
a green city, outside us, that
once was, too.
we die again, but not for so long; and true,
we walked ebola out the same way it had
stalked in to us: but the bombings renew,
and we die… yet again.
but yet the crying silence from chibok
and sambisa had now been silenced
off into voiceless echoes…
and you ask at this dawning sundown
of a presidential term–you
ask: is this
The Beginning …?
Kayode Taiwo Olla