Saturday, 28 April 2012


Born in to a land of wooden ploughs

A country of mean men and plans

Where the streets are a dreadful to the fitly

Those queues of salt tells my story

Suddenly the thunder stuck again

The same rain that washed away the nomads

Here comes the prince of deceit and con

An era of promises to build huts in the air

For years we swarm in the swamp

Struggling with the quicksand of tyranny

Blood flowed like the Ogun River freely into the lagoon

The Oriri birds were caged and could not sing

Suddenly the Iroko fell

Without warning, without a word

There was relieve as if from a deadly boil

But not for too long

There came providence in person

Carrying the calabash of hope for free

We waited for the message in vain

For eight moons we worshiped his majesty

His’ is splendour and unparallel knowledge

Until the fire could not be rekindled anymore

Now we are as thick skinned as the hippopotamus

Not worried or upset, even in our total state of darkness

Now the fisherman runs the foundry

It takes more than dynamite to difuse our dilusions

Even with the desert now at our doors again,

Evolution hasn’t really work on our minds!

                                            Omo-Ekun- Ilu-Nla.

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