YOU ARE NOT MY AMIGO
Hey! You who putrefied our land morally
Nutritional source to fat-bellied pseud nationalists
Officer-in-charge of putrescence of ethics
We hear the thrum of your banjo – I tell you the drummer is skilled
But my legs are still. They aren’t tempted by its melodious tune
We even see your musculus trapezius at work. Real work
The way it ruined our robust prided savannah
and added quinine water to the potatoes from our farmlands
 Your amatory affairs with Abacha and the virulent kiss is no secret
The way you two ruffled yourselves on bed like cards
The tale isn’t fabled

But wait!
Are you a woman whose skin is iced with raw sienna?
Or is your skin a combination of chocolates and papaya
Your complexion. Is it of burnt wood or the Fanta drink?
Are you as light-skinned as the sun or did your melanin choose the colour of black abalone?
Whatever it is I don’t care. You will never be mine
Even though you’re smooched and tickled by many
And your name is well-formed on their debauched lips
Listen to me! Mama sells brooch, she wouldn’t offer you one
For you’ll never be my pride or bride

If he’s a man,
Bring him, bundle him here without hesitation
That daemon called corruption
If he refuses to cooperate – you remember 2014?
Those acrid soldiers sent to monitor stealing of ballots
We can reach to them for help. They should be able to replicate their brutality on you
For the Friday and Sunday noisemakers we depended on
To cast and bind, to help eliminate the legion
You’re real pals; kith and kin

For my oculus to perceive you reclining on the couch
Plundering with ease into the hard-earned grains, well-planted tubers and sweet wheat meals
wrought by the tireless hands of citizens never pissed me
but for my pinna to horribly digest that you were apprehended
and all you did was to give the man in wig and gloves a share
so as to discharge and acquit you has made me furious

After you’ve thrived with plentitude like farm grass
I cannot even afford a pen to write this piece. You’ve pocketed them all
Oh! Ye recipe to poverty enough of your hypnotic stings
And your presence shall never make me a Quaker or even amimic.