The Corona virus
Is nothing but a hybrid
Of history and literature;
ICT and biology
And international politics.

In the “Eyes of Darkness”
Decades ago
Was the Wuhan-400 bred
In some biology laboratory in Wuhan.

How it started spreading
Like some malware virus
Through the internet in 2020;
Attacking world powers and economies.

In Africa, the dark continent,
The virus means nothing
As the people there
Have far worse viruses
Living with them.

There are splinters of rumours
Of a few cases
Here and there in Africa.
We will wash our hands
But we know better.

The political class and governments
Of Africa are far worse:
They feed on Corona virus.

Come away you savage city girls and boys.
Come away to the natural countryside.
What is it that makes you think you’re civilized?
Your dry urban toil or white collar employ?
That break your bones, waste your days and leave you pain?
Come and feel the sleekness of nature’s valour
Come and see the meekness of the wind’s colour
You have around this place, but so much to gain.

You boast of your club life how you drink and smoke
But you know just how too often you go broke.
You brag of the cars you drive but it’s funny
How you’d take to fright on sighting a donkey.
Your girls think they are as beautiful as they seem
But come and behold a country girl after a swim
No make-up, no sparkling ornaments or lace
Just a soaked wrapper, dangling beads and her face.

You consume too much obscene books and videos
That you know nothing about your inbuilt radio.
You dine with Satan everyday by your ways
Though you never miss a service on church days.
Such is the hypocrisy of city life
And such is the wastefulness of all your strife.
Come away to learn something about nature
And free yourself from urban drill and torture.

There is so much left here for you to enjoy
If only you put your city pride aside
And in quiet, ask yourself the question why  
Why the city seems stripped of all forms of joy.
Come away and eat the freshness of our grains;
Drink from our salinity and get your cure.
Our herbs possess a potency that is sure
And our serenity to soothe your tired brain.

Let the hot sun go.
Let the sweet breeze blow.
Let the big sea grow
As the rivers flow.
And the oboist blow
At dusk, his oboe.
That darkness should grow.

This day is once more sinking
And the night is tired of waiting.
The poor cower in grief.
The rich cackling in relief.
Night, no longer of blackness
But of thick darkness
In which courage is slaughtered
Again and again.
And fear has grown beards
In the hearts of men.

Let the hot sun go
Let the sweet breeze blow
Let the big sea grow
As the rivers flow.
And the oboist blow
At dusk, his oboe
That the night should show.

The cruelty of our green god
Shall be felt one morning at Ogoni.
He will hit you on the brow,
Whether you were guilty or not
Until you are hung on a noose.

t may be at dusk or dawn.
It may be the verdict of a kangaroo court.
But once it’s done,
There will be only tears to show.
Let the dark night go.
Let that old **** crow.
Let the morning flow.
Let the tide go low
As the rivers flow.
That a day should grow
With bright light to show.

A fateful new day
With dews fresh on the leaves.
No one smelt death
Until suddenly we heard him:
“Come out here!
You and your eight brothers
Whose days I have numbered.”

Hence their noose kissed the necks
Of the victims.
Victims of black gold.
And the world was spitting fire
And you groaned away in a deep sleep.
What a noisy way to sleep!

At the edge...
Which is also the end
You are haggard and tired
So many flaws you wish to mend
As you look at your back
But all you have is reminiscence
…You are to look but never to go back

Your life is grinding to the verge…
Your intuition is supposedly at its peak
But your flesh has grown weak
Your only weapon becomes your slow speech
Your life line begins to crack
…But you are only to look and never go back

Dream young man, dream
It is not wrong.
Dream of flashy desires;
Classy women and high self-esteem.
But burn your youthful fire
With the fuel of your fresh valour.

Dream young man, but not without labour
Dream of the good, good things in life
And follow up with great strives.
But if after a while you do not get them
Then it is your personal problem.

It is funny to have fun
All sort of fun under the moon and the sun
But when you are done
When your youth is gone
Fun begins to sound no longer like fun.

Run now young man, run
Run after a trade or degree
Now that your blood and thoughts can agree.
But if you go on wasting your youthful bubbles
Then you are in for great trouble.

Lose your focus on earthly slavery
And place it on celestial mastery.
These canal craves
Are but a drive to eternal grave.
Look at the earth and heavens so divine


Fear and marvel at the one  
Who put everything in line.

There is great light when this is done  
But if you did not know this much
Then you need some biblical touch.
Wake up and get to work
Now that the day is still young
And your might equally as strong.

Pick up your ***** and pitch fork.
Begin unearth every precious stuff
You dream so much of.

Once the day begins to grow old
Your might might find it hard to hold
But if you choose to laze in your bed
Then you are as good as dead.

Said the Robin to the Sparrow:
‘I really like to know
Why those anxious fellow below
Hurry and worry so.’

Replied the Sparrow to the Robin:
‘I want to believe that it must be
They don’t have anyone within
Such one who cares for you and me.’

In Chibok,
An IED finds it way
Into the mind of a savage sect
And made good use of the emptiness therein.

In helplessness,
Some school girls are bundled up
From their school compound;
Taken for a noisy ride into Sambisa;
From where they will forget
Their mothers’ voices.

On the tube,
There is a very loud lady
Anathematising the “sharing” of blood
In Borno.

When she is done,
The media is awash with the sound of
‘Na only you waka come?’

As if it is a joke
To ****** young Nigerian girls
From the four walls of their classroom
Into the coldness of the wilderness
To dwell amongst wild beasts.
To learn new lessons;
Weird lessons.

In bed at night,
My wife talks of
Church bombings;
Internally displaced persons;



Slaughtering of citizens
And the role of government in all of these
And the security of our country
And I pulled at the hairs
From around her second mouth
To make her change the topic
And she falls for it and changes the topic.

The white bearded Mallam
On the rickety bus to Yola
Fixes his eyes on me
Like some foreigner
And I feel the fire
All through the trip
And I burn and burn and burn
Like the victims of Nyanya motor park blast
It feels good though to know
What it takes to
Be burned into countless degrees.

But after three weeks
I am back to normal again
I can feel again
My senses are back again
Working optimally
And I can hear again
As the presidential pit-bull
And the black parrot
The one that used to be
In the fourth estate of the realm
Begin to mete and dole out
Slippery speeches, speeches you can’t hold
That comes upon our ears
To push out every substance
From our heads


Everything except this load of hopelessness

This bitter bile in our mouth
This unwanted fetus
That no one would claim

And then the hash tags;
The media craze;
The count down
The women in red
And the men that joined
The bring back our girls
The Michelle Obama
The celebrities from across
The noise, the sweat, the blood
The ****** thighs of those girls
Their torn underwear
Their wails, their sobs, their pains
To say the least
The echo, the deafening echo
And how we wave them all aside
And look the other way.
Like it did not happen at all
Like it was just a movie
Directed by a director
That must be a sadist  
We sweep it under the carpet
Like our other numerous
National issues

But I won’t write another story on betrayal
I won’t write another poem
On how a nation
Could forsake her innocent children
Instead I would write of a country

Steeling, steeling, growing
Growing resilient to emotion;
Becoming many times dead

To any feeling
Tearing its tissues to pieces
And building new ones
That will be senseless
Lifeless
Bloodless.

And the noise
And the noise
And the noise.






















In Chibok,
An IED finds it way
Into the mind of a savage sect
And made good use of the emptiness therein.

In helplessness,
Some school girls are bundled up
From their school compound;
Taken for a noisy ride into Sambisa;
From where they will forget
Their mothers’ voices.

On the tube,
There is a very loud lady
Anathematising the “sharing” of blood
In Borno.

When she is done,
The media is awash with the sound of
‘Na only you waka come?’

As if it is a joke
To ****** young Nigerian girls
From the four walls of their classroom
Into the coldness of the wilderness
To dwell amongst wild beasts.
To learn new lessons;
Weird lessons.

In bed at night,
My wife talks of
Church bombings;
Internally displaced persons;



Slaughtering of citizens
And the role of government in all of these
And the security of our country
And I pulled at the hairs
From around her second mouth
To make her change the topic
And she falls for it and changes the topic.

The white bearded Mallam
On the rickety bus to Yola
Fixes his eyes on me
Like some foreigner
And I feel the fire
All through the trip
And I burn and burn and burn
Like the victims of Nyanya motor park blast
It feels good though to know
What it takes to
Be burned into countless degrees.

But after three weeks
I am back to normal again
I can feel again
My senses are back again
Working optimally
And I can hear again
As the presidential pit-bull
And the black parrot
The one that used to be
In the fourth estate of the realm
Begin to mete and dole out
Slippery speeches, speeches you can’t hold
That comes upon our ears
To push out every substance
From our heads


Everything except this load of hopelessness

This bitter bile in our mouth
This unwanted fetus
That no one would claim

And then the hash tags;
The media craze;
The count down
The women in red
And the men that joined
The bring back our girls
The Michelle Obama
The celebrities from across
The noise, the sweat, the blood
The ****** thighs of those girls
Their torn underwear
Their wails, their sobs, their pains
To say the least
The echo, the deafening echo
And how we wave them all aside
And look the other way.
Like it did not happen at all
Like it was just a movie
Directed by a director
That must be a sadist  
We sweep it under the carpet
Like our other numerous
National issues

But I won’t write another story on betrayal
I won’t write another poem
On how a nation
Could forsake her innocent children
Instead I would write of a country

Steeling, steeling, growing
Growing resilient to emotion;
Becoming many times dead

To any feeling
Tearing its tissues to pieces
And building new ones
That will be senseless
Lifeless
Bloodless.

And the noise
And the noise
And the noise.


In Chibok,
An IED finds it way
Into the mind of a savage sect
And made good use of the emptiness therein.

In helplessness,
Some school girls are bundled up
From their school compound;
Taken for a noisy ride into Sambisa;
From where they will forget
Their mothers’ voices.

On the tube,
There is a very loud lady
Anathematising the “sharing” of blood
In Borno.

When she is done,
The media is awash with the sound of
‘Na only you waka come?’

As if it is a joke
To ****** young Nigerian girls
From the four walls of their classroom
Into the coldness of the wilderness
To dwell amongst wild beasts.
To learn new lessons;
Weird lessons.

In bed at night,
My wife talks of
Church bombings;
Internally displaced persons;

Slaughtering of citizens
And the role of government in all of these
And the security of our country
And I pulled at the hairs
From around her second mouth
To make her change the topic
And she falls for it and changes the topic.

The white bearded Mallam
On the rickety bus to Yola
Fixes his eyes on me
Like some foreigner
And I feel the fire
All through the trip
And I burn and burn and burn
Like the victims of Nyanya motor park blast
It feels good though to know
What it takes to
Be burned into countless degrees.

But after three weeks
I am back to normal again
I can feel again
My senses are back again
Working optimally
And I can hear again
As the presidential pit-bull
And the black parrot
The one that used to be
In the fourth estate of the realm
Begin to mete and dole out
Slippery speeches, speeches you can’t hold
That comes upon our ears
To push out every substance
From our heads

Everything except this load of hopelessness

This bitter bile in our mouth
This unwanted fetus
That no one would claim

And then the hash tags;
The media craze;
The count down
The women in red
And the men that joined
The bring back our girls
The Michelle Obama
The celebrities from across
The noise, the sweat, the blood
The ****** thighs of those girls
Their torn underwear
Their wails, their sobs, their pains
To say the least
The echo, the deafening echo
And how we wave them all aside
And look the other way.
Like it did not happen at all
Like it was just a movie
Directed by a director
That must be a sadist  
We sweep it under the carpet
Like our other numerous
National issues

But I won’t write another story on betrayal
I won’t write another poem
On how a nation
Could forsake her innocent children
Instead I would write of a country

Steeling, steeling, growing
Growing resilient to emotion;
Becoming many times dead

To any feeling
Tearing its tissues to pieces
And building new ones
That will be senseless
Lifeless
Bloodless.

And the noise
And the noise
And the noise.

I am many things but confused
I know myself in depth
But somehow have I lose grip
On issues that concern me
And even though I so much want to,
To take control,
I really can’t have it.
So for a start, you can call me helpless.

I have been speechless for decades.
I remember once at Ogoni
When I thought I should speak up.
How my tongue was hung on a noose
Along with eight others.
So, you can call me voiceless.

I am a richly endowed woman
With the ******* of a ****** maiden
That is pointing to high heaven
Like a cross breed of orange and papaya
Attracting them from north, south, east and west.
And when I say west, I mean West.
So call me beautiful.

They tumble on themselves
To **** at my *******
To insert their huge long pipes
Into my fountain to drill for sweet richness.
They say my milky juice is rich.
It is painful the way the gag;
The way they drag and tear;
Leaving me with scars all over.
So in pity, you can call me mutilated.



The hairs of my head
And my beards beneath and below
Are thick and bloomy
Like the rain forests and mangrove swamps
Cross crossing the coasts and inlands
Of the deltas of the Niger River
So call me fertile, fruitful or rich.

My daughters are sharp and beautiful like
Grace Alele Williams and Agbani Darego;
My sons are intellectual giants and warriors like
The John Pepper Clarkes and the Tompolos
They cut across in greatness at every endeavor like
Blessing Okagbare, Clement Isong, Louis Edet…
So please call me proud and blessed.

My fountain flows endlessly
In spite of my turmoil, with thick black gold
Which smells rich and sweet.
So call me verdure, elegant or evergreen.

Nobody cares for me
They delight in ****** me:
These oil companies
And my conniving governments.
They leave me wounded all over
Without treatment or care.
So call me degraded or exploited.

My only hope for freedom someday
Comes from the loud sounding canons
Fired by my aggrieved children
Every now and then.
So you can call me a dreamer.

When one day freedom eventually comes,
Then you can call me emancipated.