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8
LEAST WE FORGET THE GIRLS’ KILLING CRY
(Apropos The Boko Haram Girls)
I no longer hear
the screams of the young girls
nor the whimpering
of their little brothers—
only the echoes of falling tears
of grieving widowed mothers
and the muffled shhees
to new born babes—
How much longer
must I awake
to another morning
I wish I never lived to see?
A horizon whose plains
are dotted with earthen keloids
of humpbacked graves
in makeshift cemeteries
where food crops once grew;
horizons reminiscent of
the scared skins
of the weary backs of slaves.
Another damn day deranged
brothers roaming, ravaging, raping
their sisters and slitting mothers’ throats—
Driven by a demonized illusion
of the Nile goddess of fertility,
and further intoxicating themselves
with chalices of their families’ blood.
Brainwashed and mind warped
as if by a crazed neocolonial
good luck fetish—
are these who’ve lost the free
in freedom like those who sold the in
in independence—lackeys
to and of ancient slave masters
who’ve learn well
the western ways of deception.
Unmoved and no longer
grievously concerned,
the world mesmerizes itself
with a deceived sacrilege image
of a revered Nile goddess—
Meanwhile, no longer news worthy
wretched of the earth sisters
continue to suffer ethnocentric
rape and “gendercide”
from their hoodwinked brethren.
