NIGERIA; BETWEEN THE RED SEA AND CHARIOTS OF PHARAOH

Emerging from years of been battered in the Hands of political mismanagement and its immoral births of infrastructural deficits, debts accrual, insurgencies, and various monsters emerging from the depth of Human misconduct. Nigerians have endured decades of slavery not in the Hands of foreigners’ post-independence era, but in the Hands of their own Rulers. Flogged with the whips of corruption, held bond by recessions, the Masses has suffered and continue to toil; baking the National cake that some minute elites have Greedily gulped down their oesophagus from generation to generation. These pharaohs are startled at our geometric increase, yet they roll their tongue around their lips; for they see an Army of Laborers ready to be manipulated to achieve disdainful end increase.

We have been sojourners in our own Land; like one held captive in the Land adjacent the Nile, deprived of decent living; grappling with poor education, poor healthcare, poor security, and poor remuneration; except the Favor of the LORD. Postcolonialism; we’ve seen Pharaohs arise in our domain; they become deliberately oblivious of the former struggles and good works that brought us freedom, they do not consider the labour of our Heroes past; rather, their decrees have been; “double there burden”! Give them no more Straws to make bricks; let them find and gather their straws instead. And lay the same burden of bricks which they formerly made when we provided them straws; upon them. From Militarianism to “Facade Democracy”; since the death of our council of Joseph, Nigerians have only known Labour, Hard Labour, Wanton labour; all that could wipe a people off the earth, if not for the ruler-ship of the GREAT ONE called; GOD. And as we approach the stage and period of mass decision and election; an opportunity availed to us to escape from the Egypt atmosphere in our land, we’ve put one foot forward already by registering for and collecting our voters' card. But now oh GOD; from the ruling party and the formerly dominating one; who asserted to have woken up from its slumber; we are faced with the Red Sea and Pharaoh charging from behind; Please send forth our Moses now!!!

Bolaji Olaniba (2018)

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MY FATHER

Many framed men Hefty yet without course Many Huge men; many but yet not strong Many Daddies comes handy, yet not really Daddies But you my Father; you are out of this world Of the frame of a house set upon the hill which cannot be hidden A man brimming with daily tenacity Considerable yet wise A custodian of truth not lies Ever seen a structured entity with a structured approach; yeah that’s my Father Relentless as the Eagle strolls the skies for her eaglet in winter and summer Many men may refrain from the cold as a bane; yet in it, you toil, not issuing complain Spent time with you; never really seen your frowning face; still, u didn’t spare the cane Many men there is, yet a Good man is scarce But amongst the few; you aim for the stars @ ½ a century and 1 still bouncing like a boy I am certain you will reap many years in abundant Joy @Bolaji Olaniba (2019)

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For every blackout; a billion made For every darkness a bullion van Always wondering, why the contentment with our present state Men in a mask – politicos, importers of the noise engine causing us a headache For every dilapidated school; a billion made Invisible hands causing the deepest quakes For every salary not paid; a billion made Authoritarian hands multiplying the masses pain For every collapsed building; a billion made Men who threw the integrity test sheet away Now the walls cracked; not only was the foundation faulty: But some Men failed For every pond on the expressway; a billion made For every pit on our highway; some men got paid So many have somersaulted, but some has gained Oh the hydra-headed monster with tail soiling our fabric with stain How many billion more is worth the pain? How many men are still queued for the gain? Know that such gain throws millions into pain Is our life really for the billions or f...

THE FATE IN OUR HANDS

In the mid 1960s Dinga area, the tension became as steam rising and oozing from boiling water in a kettle, the Just amalgamated newborn in; Dinga was like a baby learning how to walk, however, her case was as one with too many instructors; I could say more than 1 parent dictating the pattern of walk each deem as ideal for the young nation, eventually confusing the tender one. Ali Balrebe was 25 years old son of a Cleric in Northern Dinga, He had just returned from Academic sojourn in the United States of Alerica, after been schooled on Islamic rudiments from the age of 8 years old in Daure town of Northern Dinga, His father: though a staunch Islamic fundamentalist showed a little soft spot for western innovation and ideals secretly allowed his beloved son a trip to the west for academic enlightenment, a much-forbidden act by the Northern dinga society. On course, Ali was a student of Peace and conflict studies at the Howard University of Alerica. He gained insight i...

THE SOCIAL INTROSPECT

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