Like a knitted braid
Falling fast like ripe cashews
Littering the earth in “creche” disgust
Flapping sideways like sagged breasts
Milked dry by herdsmen.
Our rivers like ‘Nassarawa’ deserts
Have had it’s busy share
Of desperate tourists
Making a match to milk and honey
Unminding the deaths done to crabs and traps
Feared away by their clipper ‘vooms’
“Ghost mode; dem no dey see me”
We wish we had said
When they came digging deep
Into our sacred hearts
‘Petering’ off our blackest diamonds
And browning our greens and rays
Now the price we pay “suo motu”
With ugly kits and kins always hungry
For food and news of megre posts
Written by: Ayiba Tare Ojukonsin
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
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