A bunch of African chiefs
met under debatable circumstances,
traded rain dances in a circle
then each walked back to their famines.
It is only when they counted the tribal face masks,
And rounded up the accountants to balance the books,
That they determined there are no rainclouds among crooks.
I had a friend underneath this same forgotten sky,
Who believed we loved each other because of the rottenness of our homes.
And that mold’s odor naturally turned us to seekers of paradise;
bricklayer dreams that needed each other to cement the deal.
That it should not be seen as corruption,
But as justification that Rhodes and other pickpockets deserve a finger.
And the best way to dish it,
Is up the nation’s buttocks.
I wonder if some of our leaders can truly be friends
Knowing their own rented smiles are stretched far enough,
And that silence is godliness if one is to keep scented suits,
entering sacred shrines to mine sleepers’ votes,
And then stripping the gods of rain naked,
sneaking out at dawn with their scepters.
Read – A Note to Jeremy – A Poem by Mogboyin Olayinka, Nigeria
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