Bamboo and thatches
Squared with tendrils
Of thorns descent
Cleave like thick walls
Round the palace
Of a humble peasant
Mazi Okonta stays
Flexing his thought muscles
In a dilemma
Of his petty choice
Should he sale ewu omalicha
To buy the Christmas hen?
Or should he slay omalicha
To feast this Christmas?
Each thought bears sweat
Akin to a mother in labour
So deep within him
Omalicha has grown
To be his prized Ally
In a mountain top hut
Devoid of frequent visit
And chewing of parable greased kolanut
But either way
He would be hurt
Mazi Oh!
A brisk echo of a comrade
Breaks him into an unbalanced bicycle
Treading the hills of Udi
Alas! He got hold
Of his grey hairs and red cap
My son – see my pain
So the stranger comrade
Sways his head
Like a waving flag
Only slowly
He walks away
Like his silence
Has silenced Mazi’s proding
This is Nigeria!
Should votes be sold
Or given to our conscience
Either way
We are jinxed in doom
You vote – he comes
You sale – he also comes
Who has done this to us?
They! Only with timely flashes
Of ethnicity and poverty
Deluded we are
Without foreseeing the anarchy.
