The Struggle


(On the status quo there.)

FIST

 

We are the scab of a scarred skin

from your scalding abuse, ’Sola-r:

we are the scraped scalp that’ll

re-grow full strength to fight

another day soon, Mister.

 

We are the undying souls of the fighting pen’ers

that died in the gasping struggle

to barely live on long-withheld doles of due bread

meant to keep sickly body and soul alive:

and we are the fighting spirit of those pen’ers

that the sword of your short-rationed dues

eventually cut off; but still, it fights on.

 

We are the dirty brown smear of

bitter sweats on labourers reclining

brow, being f**cking sun-dried in endless,

hopeless, helpless expectation of the

rightful reward, Mister ’Sola-r:

oh heck, ain’t we the forced bitter-sweet rest

in labour made to mouth from angry stomachs

loud yawns of curses, and curses, and curses for

this boss that ill-manages our rightful dues and

still mouths mocking taunts at us before the world?

 

We are the fighting spirit asking… demanding:

For what reason must we go on counting debts –

And deaths?!

 

Kayode Taiwo Olla

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