They Too Are Letters

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Like the thick shadow

Of a baoba tree in the

Bright mid-night sun,

They all form large part

Of our existence uncut.

Their umbilical cord is

Gehazing grave greed

That gates them in Kuje

In one, twos and more

What a grave yard flies!

National cake turns so

Sour that our children's

Teeth yet unborn ache

By the stigmas of our

Progenitors now in hell.

Serial divorce becomes

Pride of the negroes as

Against our movement,

Creed, belief and fate:

A torn home we have!

Fraud fermented foes

Feigning friends for fun

To truly trade terrorism;

Thwart peace to pieces

And soil our garments.

Go ask the rich or poor,

Kings or their subjects

Their source of wealth,

It's always a filthy rag

Borne by loot and theft.

Like the poli-trick-ians,

Like the clergies who're

Licensed ritualists yet

Shouting allah-luyah to

The folly of all citizens.

Hope of the hopeless,

Friend of the masses,

And defense of nations

Are all sojourners here

As souvenir timeline letters.

©Tosin Abegunde 2017