Everybody's Business Poem by John Chizoba Vincent

Open the book of history chapter 19
Allow your shadow to roam on its surface, turn to verses twenty and
wait. trace your finger forward, keep going; then Stop! Do you see that word corruption marked In red complexions?
That was who they made us to be
after the amalgamation of our thought
through their thought to find home.

You bottled up yourself and elected sickle cell patient in office to rule
While the youths lazied at home.
Last time was a woman and his wife,
a man; and you cracked yourself up,
Break every bones of your marrow biopsy complaining and singing how
Womanly he was to lead you home.
Now, what is the scores for Chelsea?

open the constitution of your land,
Flip towards section 111 of the book.
Where was it written an eye for eye?
Was there a mouth for jungle justices?
I know is not your cup of tea to see a
Brother beaten black and blue alone.
He pleaded not guilty but they killed him, has he sinned more than the
cocktail Politicians that stole money?

I broke my silence and spelled pains
and tears and sorrowful agony
To those that killed themselves in themselves before the end comes.
I agreed with my fears when I saw no
PVC among my people but naijabet papers. I made my doubt fixed my broken legs to shave off angered tears.
You need yourself cos here is chaos.

When we cry to be free and clear,
Our grandmothers collect cups of rice
On the campaign ground for all of us.
Don't you know to be poor is a way of life and to be rich is a way of death?
When a fly passes by you rant and call
Government who has sent them to you.
I agreed with my fears that government will place that morsel into your mouth!

2019 is everybody's business to handle
We can couple together those broken
Laughter left on our humble fine faces.
Dusting of every road in the state is everybody's business to talk about.
Those colourful children in the street are everybody's business to care for.
Not my cup of tea if you fail in your business of patriotic service to the land

Now, close the book in your thought
Let me tell you a broken tattered tale:
Our ancestral politicians are the disguise herdsmen in the greener street of our home. Don't mention my name to any ear finding truth in this lie I just told.
I am going home now, my mother seek my face for an errand I have to run.
We are all reeked flag and coat of arms.


Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent