ANTHONY ANIGBATA

We are the people, the people of Africa
We are black and proud
We are mighty and strong
We are the giants in the green Sahara;
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dark clouds cover the blue sky
angry wind wangle so wild
men and women dart here and there
like running from a wild beast
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The bells I hear ringing
The yells so near to us
A year’s heading to the dust
Flowers filling the empty floors
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WE HAVE GONE TO SCHOOL

We have gone to school
Took the tough path with bravery
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THE WIND SAILED BY YESTERDAY

The wind sailed by yesterday
At twilight ere the night
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O, see how, many years can make a man,
A very strong man now a weakling
A handsome lad, now a clownish looking fellow.
His coiled black hair now grey like the sky
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MOSQUITOS

Little creature, little creature
You sing to me a sad song when
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Worry not always you being
Worry not of tomorrow and future things
Worry not of what you cannot change
But plan to face them as they come.
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Nothing is easy to start at first
But we all just need to start a thing
Burn our past and move ahead
To new things we dream and want.
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Change your thoughts, and you will change your life.
Nothing shifts if the mind remains the same.
The road to greatness rises first in thought;
Think yourself small, and small you shall end.
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The beautiful ones are not yet born
The beets’ harmattan-spirit
We should wear
Ours’ have been a wasted propagation
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By Anigbata Obiora Anthony
Sweet sweet Africa
The sight of your land gladdens my heart
Your motherly warmth, the touch we all desire
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We are all the same, whether black or white
Don’t hate me because I’m black
Because I’m from the interior part of Africa
Or because of my ancestral link to them;
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Give me my own share of the national cake.
I am not corrupt; I only need a fair share.
Oh, I only need a fair share.
I am not corrupt; I only want my own cake.
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We have come a long way
Through paths of the storms and thorns
Leaving some of our patrimonial past behind
We traded the white cowries for silver coins
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I sing to you a black man’s song
His succulent love song.
I shall read you poetry
Poetry written in the moon
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Woman of the hilly lands, woman of the hot lands
With basket on your head
Come close to me,
And fill my forlorn days with mirth
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Because I am black
Does not mean I am spontaneous
Untrustworthy and lazy
The leopards and zebra all have spots
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in front of his monument, we all stood
with soggy eyes
and cheeks, washed white by weeping.
that freedom fighter has fallen
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the sun sail to sleep at the west
the moon matches and mounts the sky
the sparkling stars stare at empty earth
as trees bow to the push of breeze
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