Vultures Of The Underworld Poem by Eferebo Chibuzor

Hark the tale of the vultures of the underworld,
A horrific tale-
Told only in the bed hours:

Of vultures robed in bride's drape
subtly came.
They neither belonged to us nor anyone,
but to the lords of the underworld!

Surgeon with me,
And peep-
The horror of the vultures,
blood-thirsty jackals,
None is left their fangs!

Alak! i've become fray
to tire your ears with the horror of a vulture emperor.

Saddle with me,
I shall tell you a more heinous raid than the ghestapo's:

Of the 'saints'
we had concecrated through the polls-
they were holier than the temples of enochs
but when robed in the priestly aparel,
neither the land nor the temple was spared dececration

I'm not a preacher-man,
So i shall tell you no more of a religious sermon.

Hide me through the chimney,
I heard the wailing voices in Agatu,
echoed in Jos and down the hills of Enugu-
Sober voices of infants,
of feeble fleeing fellows,
of hapless sufferers,
disected as lamb in the slaughter-
the heavens shut,
and the gates of hades smile.
In the wee hours of the day,
It was a gruesome harvest of cadavas!


Flee wit me,
i have more stories in my jotter-note,
lest my hands grow feeble:
The holocost years have kissed us in the face,
Now food and drinks are sold for silver!

The men of the underworld in the upper chambers shall carnage feed on the feeble flesh
and drink of the baby blister blood
Alak! their urine shall bliss rain on us to wet our thirst.
And wailers hawl shall likewise be melodyous when it falls on their ear lobe.
This is a nightmare that has become true!

Hark the testimony of a widow who was blessed with rodent that foraged into her boiling pot.
Ofcourse her pot was without salt nor peper!
And look down the road
those are her children in the wee hours of school day,
escavating the gutters
and one's been knocked by an insane cyclist.
That's the twist of a burden she has to bear.

And hark,
The olive branch offer:
The first rule was to bear his surname
Or have his scar lacerated on you,
then your sins are atoned for
and your blames bloated out.

Then the vast disgruntled peasants
that cluster the shanties
would queue through the night to buy kerosine,
whilst the price of bread's hiked
a high raised hanger only the vultures could hinge.

And soon will air be sold for a pound of gold
and our blood
wired to a central bank
At their pleasure drained.

When i grow grey and shutter
my limbs numb,
Shall the stronger of the lambs live cold and loudly silent?

Who'll tell the stories?
To speak is treason!

Confined in the cocoons,
and the barrels over my head,
I numbly write:

Tis a story of endless strife;
of bitter ravalry;
of those the vulture bore old scores;
of tribes and religions;
of anyone who held a pen or trumpet;
of any fingerlin that may become a shark,
All were disected as a specimen in the lab.