Sixty-five candles,
yet the flame gutters in the wind,
smoke curling over a nation
that learned to crawl backward.
Independence, they said—
but what freedom lies
in a land independent but totally dependent,
a giant bound by its own chains?
Broken roads,
broken homes,
broken people trudging through
the wreckage of dashed hopes.
We speak of the dead,
the dying,
the better dead,
the long gone—
our roll call of grief
longer than any anthem.
Mega-churches swell with hymns,
while empty classrooms echo with silence.
Masjid al-Haram finds its mirror
in the scattered prayers of almajiri,
children of dust and hunger,
trading tomorrow for today.
Unknown gunmen stalk the night,
kidnappers trade human flesh for ransom,
killer herdsmen roam unchecked,
ISWAP writes its scriptures in blood.
We are ruled by an oligarchy,
mocked by lame duck chambers,
betrayed by sleazy courts,
and counted by INEC
like sheep corralled for slaughter.
Forgive us, Mother,
for we demand without giving,
we milk you dry yet curse your barrenness,
we ask you to blossom
while we uproot your roots.
We have turned your green to dust,
your anthem to a dirge,
your hope to a hollow word.
Nigeria, at sixty-five,
we do not sing; we weep.
Your children clutch at your hem,
but never lift you from the mud.
We kneel in shame,
for in your house of sorrow,
life is brutish,
and short.
May this giant rise one day, but today, we bury her dreams.
Osmund Agbo is a medical doctor and author. His works include, Black Grit, White Knuckles: The Philosophy of Black Renaissance and a fiction work titled The Velvet Court: Courtesan Chronicles. His latest works, Pray, Let the Shaman Die and Ma’am, I Do Not Come to You for Love, have just been released. He can be reached@ [email protected]
