We have buried so many loved ones
That we’re now masters of obituaries.
The Aso Rock has plundered us, fucked
Us with the clawed phallus of despair
from our raped hearts
That we now become hopeless activists
With death as the motto of our movement.
In a dream, I saw the sky turned rock
And falling towards the bare heads
Of my people. In another sleep—a nightmare
I saw myself waving
a dark flag with shades of dust
Leading a generation of people into a cemetery
Garnished with loaded guns
Nooses and a million dug graves. The Aso Rock
Has pushed us here. We’re in a place
Where calls for salvation
Do not echo from the minaret or pulpits
But from inner lobes of dark graves
Waiting to swallow bodies of people
Robbed of the conviction to keep fighting.
So much has been lost.
A people who used to be
Warriors of hope have now become puppets
Under the garment of despair. Today,
death is a luxury— a furniture in the mansion of
our dying dreams.
Everything has fallen. Our only
way of revolt is fall, like desert dust, into
Graves dug by the dark hands
of eagle-hearted vultures.
Sai Sabouke is a madebyNigeria writer living in New Bussa, Nigeria. He’s a dervish who sees Sufism, history and language as formidable tools for society regeneration. His writing appeared in Praxis Magazine Online, Agbowo Sabouke loves and elsewhere. beans, coffee and dreams of roasting the entrails of vultures. 142 Fragmented Palettes| LIBRETTO Magazine