Nigeria is a book

The best stories are not told by the moonlight
sometimes, they are told while listeners sip from cups of grief,
chew on chunks of broken dreams
and avoid choking on lumps of shattered hope.

This is a story of me, a bird,
flapping its wings in keen glee,
exposing my green-painted wings and my white breast,
call me 1960.

This is a story of me, a vagrant son,
that steered a rising sun off course,
soaked her halfness in a pool of blood
and tears of hungry children,
call me 1970.

This is a story of me, an unrepentant cheat,
that stashed billions in Swiss accounts,
admired the daughters of eve
behind my wife's back,
made them feed me poisoned apples,
call me Abacha.

This story is me, a tired night,
wanting to quickly yield
to the sly seductions of dawn
which holds promises of freedom
in the thighs of democracy,
call me 1999.

This story is me, a quadruplet,
birthing policies, painting smiles,
harvesting tears, refining grief,
from one succession to another.

This story is me, an insane husband,
that married over 250 girls forcefully,
paid their bride prices with a shower of expensive bullets
and rain of ghastly bombs,
call me Shekau.

This story is me, a peaceful movement turned bloody,
of men with goads metamorphosing into guns and machetes,
chopping off heads and bodies,
reversing the meaning of peace,
call me Fulani Herdsmen.

This story is on Amazon
it fits the description
for she watched fair amazons
walk into snares in Sambisa
with miscarried pregnancies of their hopeful return
written as the epilogue.

This story is on Okadabooks
it fits the description
for she has her people riding cycles -motor, bi, tri-
in never ending cycles
all in bid to escape penury.

This story is me, Nigeria,
the land of my dreams
but reality here makes us want to keep dreaming
'cause reality and dreams are distant lovers;
our journey to connect them begins with us!

© Lucky Ebere