Feast of the Vultures

A fiery poem calling out greedy leaders and the nation’s rising hunger for justice.

I have seen the banquet of kings,
served on the spine of the poor.
Your laughter drips with oil and stolen blood,
your teeth sharpened on broken ballots.
Even God must frown when He watches your feast.

You call yourselves honorable,
But even hyenas know shame.
You sip champagne from skulls of promises,
we drink silence and dust,
And still you call it peace.

You wear patriotism like perfume
strong at first, then sour in the sun.
My people sleep in queues and hunger,
while your pockets swell like Agbada of deceit,
And your bellies round like Abuja budgets.

You preach unity on Sunday TV,
but your tongues trade in foreign currencies.
You swear on Qur’an and Bible alike,
then fund your sins with holy tithes.
Thunder dey laugh somewhere, I swear.

Enough.
We’re done praying for miracles.
We are the miracle,
and we’re coming with fire in our mouths.
No be curse, na warning.

When the streets remember their power,
Your sirens won’t drown the truth.
Your convoys won’t outrun judgment.
Your names will rot on marble,
And we’ll dance barefoot on your statues.