1914, it was,

The birth of a diseased baby

With tens of legs, like crooked logs,

joined to the trunk with bathe water

and ready to disturb the kindled fireplace
1914, it was,

that saw the creation of

a dis-FIGURE-d HEAD

Looking on the world on behalf

of a body, dismembered, but

without an acknowledgment; rotten

 

For her weight

and her short numerous legs,

she waddled through near-five decades

slouching against a freedom

half earned, half given

As the centenary docks,

a fortuitous twist of fate

lurks in the crevices –

the borderlines between the bloodied

green-white-green

It dances on the bomb-embossed

Maps of the nation, bewildering

Demanding the real breath of fresh air

Long-sought

 

This twist, fortuitous enough

to dare hands that steal and ‘corrupt’

to beckon the surrender of figures that bomb

and to sate the persons for whom Nigeria was made

is all we need

It is CHANGE,

And it’s happening in a few hours,

Whatever direction the hands swift