single women will start paying the bride price of seven men,
on the matrimonial altar
where marriage shall be for adam and adam
and not for cock and cockereal.
virginity will no longer be the pride of infants and adolescents,
but for foetus sucking the milky breast of the womb;
homosexual scene will be the movie
juveniles will begin to act
on the theatre stage of subsequent generations,
if sexual immoralities and rape assaults
are not sentenced into the cave of life imprisonment
before the conception of 2050,
lucifer would ordain himself as the priest
who’ll be putting on the loin and cassock of sin;
on that sacred pulpit, his deceitful sermon will be preached,
false teachings, which will surely shake human’s feet.
before the bell of 2050 rings,
economy recession may still be adored as king
if looters keep looting the treasures of africa’s mother
and her empires keep dancing
to the talking drum of corruption.
crude oil may decide not to flow anymore in annoyance,
if vandals keep cutting the oesophagus of pipelines
and avengers keep setting the shrine of oil depot ablaze.
will there be a breathing life,
in the next century to come?
when terrorism slays like sword
and bokos of haram gives people
the visa of death
through the embassy of insurgency.
heaven and hell might be the abode
we’ll be living,
and not these cramble walls architectured with bricks and sands.
before 2050 will come,
the earth might have sleep on the cradle bed of death
and refuse to wake,
till the angel of armageddon
percussion the melody of the last trumpet.
you’re the wheel
that rolls salty tears on mother’s face.
you’re the ailment
that infects father’s destiny with illed fate.
for nine moons of month,
you ate and drank
from the eatery of that sacred womb—without paying.
instead of paying back
with a life seasoned with longevity,
you fade away like a falling star
whose light is a taboo to the whitish sky.
you were christened with bitter kola and kolanut,
to live long like the scorching sun
cum blooming moon.
you were benedicted with cubic sugar and candy honey,
with salt and water that knows no enemy,
you couldn’t wait for the fulfillment of all these blessings,
until you turned the priest’s prayer
to a truthful parable of ‘april-fool’.
you become a log wood,
burnt like smoked meat in the fire.
you become a raw flesh
inscribed with the nibs of hot knife and sharped razor.
you were baptised seasand times
like a fainting coward,
of all this, you couldn’t wait
till your withered flower fades away.
you hold in your palm
the power of death and resurrection.
you visit and go
like the bob of a swinging pendulum.
you’re the kokumo
who finally tasted the vinegar of death.
you’re the kosoko
who turned papa’s home
to an abode of chisel and shovel
abiku— you’re the malomo
whom death stinge finally cajoled away.
abiku— you’re the kuforiji
whom death is too cruel to forgive.
abiku —you’re the durosinmi
whose parent finally planted like a tuber of yam.
abiku— you’re the durojaiye
who couldn’t wait to enjoy
the pleasure of this sweet world.