It was a hot afternoon,
and the sky looked tired,
its face painted with red dust.
A man without a crown stepped into a “peace meeting.”
But his hands did not carry peace.
In one hand was an AK-47
in the other, a sharp rocket,
as if they were wedding gifts.
His guards stood tall like iron poles,
the government men grinned like actors on a big stage,
for who dares frown at the landlord of fear?
Nigeria is a house with no doors,
its windows always open to thieves,
its gates guarded by men who sleep on pillows stuffed with corruption.
The bandit shook hands with the leaders,
and their pens danced happily,
writing agreements on paper that smelled of blood.
The lunch table was covered with shining plates,
but what they truly served was fear
seasoned with betrayal.
The elders said:
“When the hunter dines with the hyena, the goats will never sleep in peace.
For in the heart of the feast, there is no difference between the eater and the eaten.”
In Nigeria today,
the hyena is everywhere,
It now knows how to use a spoon.
It smiles in photographs with governors,
sits in air-conditioned rooms,
with senators
and eats steaming jollof rice with ministers.
They laugh together over plates of meat,
while widows drink tears
and refugees chew dry crumbs.
Here, banditry is no longer a crime ,
it is a business run by the bold and blessed.
Better than selling petrol,
almost holy like the offering bag in church.
Everyone knows the price of a kidnapping,
everyone knows the buyers sit inside government houses,
wearing perfume instead of guilt.
Villagers count their dead under the moonlight,
while leaders count their profit under warm chandelier lamps.
When guns are invited to meetings,
the power of words becomes very small.
The killers laugh wide for the camera,
the government frowns behind closed doors,
and the people kneel in dark corners,
because God is now the last policeman.
Nigeria, my Nigeria ...
the world watches like it’s a comedy movie with a very sad ending.
Afghanistan nods like a brother in pain,
Gaza sighs with tired lungs,
Ukraine sends condolences.
But our trophy of shame shines bright,
because here, the hunter and the hyena eat from the same bowl.
Nowhere is safe,
for the hunters have sold their guns to hyenas.
The hyenas wear parliamentary suits,
smell of expensive perfume,
and guard the sheep with fake smiles.
The monster sleeps soundly in government houses,
the bandits wear crowns of gold,
and the people…
wear only the black cloth of grief.
And so the banquet continues.
The killers toast their wine,
the leaders nod in approval,
and the ordinary people wait for rescue that never comes.
Nigeria is a grand theatre,
with stage lights shining on terror,
its actors dressed in government suits,
and the script written in blood.
One day, the curtain will fall ,
and all the diners at the king’s table
will see that the feast was cooked
with the tears of the land.
EBIKABOWEI KEDIKUMO - writes from Ayakoromo Town, Delta State
