Poem: Vultures of the underworld {A Nigerian political satire}

Hark the tale of the vultures of the underworld, 

A horrific tale-
Whispered only in the odd hours:

Of vultures robed in bride's drape


They neither belonged to us nor anyone,
but to the Lords of the underworld!

Surgeon with me, I'm a Nigerian;
And peep the carnage


The horror of the vultures,
blood-thirsty jackals,
None is left their fangs!

They were 'saints'

We had consecrated through the polls-
They were holier than the temples of Enochs
But when robed in the Lord priestly apparel,
neither the land nor the temple was spared desecration!

I'm not a preacher-man,
So I shall tell you no more of a religious sermon!

Hide me through the manholes,
I heard the wailing voices in Agatu,


Echoed in Jos and down the red hills of Enugu-
Wailing voices of infants,
Of feeble fleeing fellows,
Of hapless sufferers,


Dissected as lamb in the slaughter-

The heavens shut,
And the gates of hades smile.


In the wee hours of the day,
It was a gruesome harvest of cadavas!

Both the Army and the Herdsmen have become feasting twin-siblings on our feeble flesh!

Flee with me,
I have more stories in my jotter-note,
Lest my hands grow feeble:


The holocaust years have kissed us in the face,
Now food and drinks are sold for silver!

The men of the underworld in the upper chambers shall carnage feed on the feeble famished flesh
And drink of the baby blister blood
Alak! their urine shall bliss rain on us to wet our throat.
And wailers hawk shall likewise be melodious when it falls on their ear lobe.


This is a nightmare that has become true!

And hark,
The olive branch offer:
The first rule was to bear his surname
Or have his scar lacerated on you,
then your sins are atoned for
and your blames bloated out.

And soon will air be for a pound of gold
and our blood
wired to a central canal
At their pleasure drained.

When i grow grey and shutter
my limbs numb,
Shall we as lambs live cold and loudly silent?

Who'll tell the stories?


To speak is treason!

Confined in the cocoons,
and the barrels over my head,
I numbly write:

Tis a story of mindless cruelty ;
Of bitter mongrels and the lambs;
Of those the vulture bore old scores;
Of tribes and religions;
of anyone who held a pen or trumpet;
Of any fingerlin that may become a shark,
All were disected as a specimen in the lab.

By Eferebo Chibuzor Ezekwesiru

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