My Golden Father Land Poem by Akade Emmanuel I

How pretty you were
In the hands of robbers!
A bunch like termites
Like a rose garden
Grown in the midst of thorns
We envied, yet couldn't feel the aroma
Of your smoothness.
The best of you like castles
A pride of the intruders
The worst like prisons
Our fore-fathers huts
Who fought and won
With pride for your safety.

O my gold!
I was told
You're mine-our gold
How prettier you're
In our hands
Like a juicy apple
Brewed up by a bunch of amateurs
Dished out by infants
Out of greed and hunger
Taste sour - undone!
Yet the best is reserved
Which the dwarfed do not taste.

Oh our gold
You're old!
But how is your age?
For we invoke and praise
But do not insure to please
Who were maimed in disdain
As they mined in earnest
That you shall live entirely
As a living entity
And still be ours
Our gold-our father land.

I will mourn till noon
For your past was doom
And pray from here
For a golden age!



(On Nigeria's golden independent anniversary; 1960-2010)