Let This Poem Stand Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

If I should fall before the dawn,
Let these words keep marching on.
Not for hatred, not for fame—
But for Nigeria's wounded name.

When I am gone, let this remain,
A witness carved in blood and pain.
Tell my daughters when they read,
Their father spoke where hearts would bleed.

I loved my girls with all my soul,
Yet loved my nation, bruised and whole.
For after us, the children stay,
To walk the price we leave today.

Nigeria, my broken bride,
You weep, yet still your tears you hide.
Your fertile fields now bloom with graves;
Your sons are counted not, but saved.

From Auchi road to Agenebode,
Death has made that path its code.
Bandits wait where travellers pray;
Fear now owns the light of day.

Benue mourns beneath red skies;
Jos still counts her silent cries.
Delta buries hope once more;
Every village knows this war.

Efemena fell in daylight's glare,
Justice vanished into air.
No trial, no question, no defence—
A trigger answered innocence.

A parcel held another's sin;
Yet death was sent instead of truth within.
A mother's cry still fills the night;
Who will answer for that life?

In Oyo, children disappeared;
Their empty desks still whisper fear.
Their teacher stood though hope grew thin;
The knife found flesh, not hardened skin.

The murder filmed, the horror shown;
The nation's silence chilled the bone.
How many tears must flood this land
Before compassion takes a stand?

Dennis Abuda came with love and cheer,
From distant lands to draw us near.
Christmas waited at his door;
Instead, death claimed him evermore.

Our roads are traps, our homes are fear;
The graveyard grows from year to year.
Each village counts its missing sons,
While mourning never truly ends.

O leaders, hear this humble cry;
No throne is higher than the sky.
Power borrowed is not your own;
One day you'll answer, flesh and bone.

Do what is right while time is near;
Rule with justice, not with fear.
For when the hungry lose their chain,
Even silence learns to rage again.

I write with anger, mixed with grace;
With bitter tears upon my face.
Not to curse my native land,
But to beg you—take her hand.

If I should die, don't bury truth;
Let courage blossom in our youth.
For nations rise when conscience lives,
Not by the lies that power gives.

Tell my daughters, standing tall,
Their father's love outlived it all.
For them I hoped, for them I cried;
For them—and Nigeria—I tried.