A Cry Of The Poet
By Odimegwu Onwumere
I have not been to Jerusalem neither Antioch nor Damascus but anyone who sees me spits and loathe me like one of the leperschronicled in the Holy book on the streets of these clans.
Up and down, I am fit. But, one thing!
My pocket does not tell me the truth, it is leaking like a hampered eave of a house filled with water.
There is nothing legally right I have not rested my hands on, there is no person I have not met, but hope, hope, hope I gain in reward.
When I look left and right, I see myriad of contempt unleashed on young people dying for lack of what the stomach wants.
I can't console myself any more because what would one tell a man or a woman whose father or mother just died in his or her hand because he or she could not raise common five thousand naira for those who wear white apron our lives depended on?
Reformers
When people receive mass burial, they applaud that their nation is increasing? Due to their ineptitude to make our roads!
When people are toiling the streets under the scorching sun and the indiscipline rain, they applaud that their citizens are the most hardworking people in the world.
When their men are unable to impregnate their wives, they won?t say it?s malnutrition occasioned by their ?famous? reformsbut would contact medical practitioners saying that infidelity and STDs are deep-rooted in their men they could not provide jobs for.
When hunger snatches our children, they would point accusing finger at HIV/AIDS, saying that the African child is at the verge of extinction if nothing was done.
But when the money comes from Europe or USA , the un-ordained oligarchs will pocket the money and give us hope of Reforms.
Onwumere, writes from Oyigbo,
Rivers State , Nigeria .
