If independence is achieved on a platter of gold,
The institution of colonialism will remain forever it strong and old.
Yet, we dream and follow promises compiment their fake-interests.
Everybody was creating the blames,
Nobody was fixing the problems.
Long Ago,
In the African World.
The old father's the young immediately after sunsets.
When it was time for storytelling.
Our folklores, Alo ati Orin ibile.
Time for entertainment and moral lessons.
When it was the normal, in the black society.
Grandma tell me this!
Grandma tell me that!
Grandma tell me why the tortoise have a rough, shelly back?
Why is the dog a hunter's pet?
And why is lion the king of the jungle?
That was so much fun,
The children would gather under the gaint mango tree.
Singing historical and cultural songs.
Alo o! Aloooo!!
Follows another set of mind blowing riddle.
Flashing their smiles, showing off their expensive dimples.
The children would rack their minds to answer grandma's questions.
Brain cracking, riddle follows.
Then, as I heard.
Children would laugh to Grandma's stories and ask brainstorming questions.
With words of wisdom where everyone could think by themselves.
So I was told...
And now, I'm growing.
To what our life and living has become;
Like a bird's empty nest, that was once filled with life.
Now, I stare at the African life of nothingness.
What I see is failed promises and bloodshed.
Bokoharam, Herdsmen attack, EndSARS now!
A dark, starless world in silence.
As the youth of today cry and seek for the best.
Hoping for a future that like a fairytale, might never come.
When the best is traded for selflessness.
What are we doing?
Where are we going?
Who is our tomorrow?
When today is full of sorrow.
Are we getting wiser?
When all we depend on is Google and the internet?
Fake news, swimming in the air like flies in dirt.
Are we even blessed?
When we await betterment from our so called leaders.
Would there ever be a change or are all these sufferings are permanent?
Year after year, we await to fill another hungry lion.
Or have we forsaken the gods of the land?
Which is which? I need to know.
What is next, we need to think.
Why is our tomorrow,
Laying at the end of the brink?
War of independence,
Seen through it's eyes.
That sees no transformation,
All in the name of change.
They change for the post of power that never satisfies them.
The war of independence is war of death!
Lasted with several years with thousand souls, dead.
Dusted and forgotten.
Women and children,
Expecting genuine freedom from colonial rule!
The independence they promised was not real, ungranted.
Everyone was hungry to sit by the side of the power pot!
The rich were getting richer and the poor, poorer.
We were made as a stepping stones for the colonial masters.
Those days and still now.
Independence turned out to be opposite,
Corruption and injustice.
© Madinah_Writes
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Fragrance From A Black Flower
Poetry#1 in blackpoets This collection of poems is intended to give some account of the conditions in which African oral poets produce their works, and the audiences to which they address themselves. However, even the most summary account of this topic is...
