Aftermath...

Weak tears struggle down wrinkled faces

of mothers with sagging breasts—

Looking down at ballooned bellies;

Their children lying in graveyard laps

oblivious to flies playing around

blood-shot eyes;

Boko Harim rides off laughing—

leaving behind survivors

consoled with the pangs of hunger;

With blood-shot eyes

we grow tired of morning news:

turn on the coffee pot to peculate;

And with muffled sighs

of late night uncontrolled fun

ask what’s her name, the weather!