By Adesida Adetiloye
I crave the indulgence of my pockets,
As I embark on this journey of no definite return,
If I work my ass off in the morning,
And crown it in the evening with a keg of pammy,
On whose account do I credit the receiver?
And in whose name would I debit the giver?
I crave the indulgence of your pockets,
As I begin this milestone of no return,
After working my ass off on the farms,
With the hope of a future assured,
And some big fat ants and their masters,
Suported by some gone-gores,
Kills my only hope of survival in harvest,
In whose name can I fight this raging injustice?
And now comes Hemi-strata,
Dangling in the face the hope of 10 shillings for a thumb,
That’s a pot of soup for one week,
Bundles of stomach disturbances at stake,
But even bundles of future infrastructures in the mud,
The future can wait while I eat my tomorrow’s yams,
I will choose a thousand times the piece of my stomach,
Than a penury-stricken peace of mind.
Even in the midst of plenty I sacrifice my harvest,
For morsels of democratic malfeasance,
My harvest returns as levies,
For huge benefits of pocket and imaginary disgrace,
I toil in the day, only to be rewarded in the night,
By a bunch of international disgrace in an unholy matrimony,
A wedding presided by a priest-in-deceit,
Sordid marital vows renewed every four years in dishonour,
I so prefer the peace of my stomach,
Than an already massacred piece of my soul.
This is impressive to read, well articulated just loved it.