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Voice from exile
True life poetry.
It’s been awhile,
I’ve been asking, why?
Why suddenly our stars desert their sky?
And our well lit nights,
Discard their sights?
Leaving our earth, a horrid site!
It’s over a fortnight,
Since our once glittery earth,
Lost its sun-bright light,
It was amidst this plight,
That I felt the time was right,
To make my hastened flight,
Carrying nothing but a bat’s uncertain flight,
Looking down from great heights,
I felt a beam of light,
That made my mind ignite,
Beautiful Ireland in her glorious sight,
Green fields and mountain peaks of high,
On this island, man need not thirst,
There is enough water,
To flood the Sahara,
And enough pasture, to feed a thousand herds,
The islanders are not acquainted to strangers,
And life is distinctly contrasting here,
That which I’m neither accustomed nor aware,
On this island, the weather can be bitter,
The heavier your robes, the better,
Wherever you go, you are sure to get a watcher,
Like an actor, in the strangest of theatres,
They tell great stories here,
Their poetry, an art to desire,
I listened to stories of Cuchulainn in Connemara,
And lore of Monaghan fishermen and their stormy encounters,
Read about the famine and was ravaged by shudder,
My painful past, it made me remember,
A stern reminder, of life in the sub-Sahara,
...
Ireland has given me a better life to steer,
But you see, I have no cause to cheer,
Now I should say damn you hunger and your spear!
Or to hell with poverty and its stinging rear!
For in my life, banished and disappeared they are,
But the above, who am I to declare,
When my brothers and sisters cry and die,
From thousands of miles,
I ponder about our beloved tribes,
Wondering about their fates under regimes of crime,
Their tears sour,
Their voices unheard,
After years of callous slaughter,
The lands cry still for revival,
The innocents’ blood blots the sun,
And the vegetal cover,
Connive with blight,
Rivers burst their banks in violent anger,
And fertile lands become deserts,
All, in protest to the corruption of law and order,
And yet, people still ask,
Why have we come here?
Should we have stayed at home and not thought of here?
And condemn ourselves to starvation and death like poor others?
As Our people’s sorrows wax stronger,
Our leaders pouches grows fatter,
We owe the G8 not a cent!
Neither do we need their self-centred help!
We’ve had enough foreign AIDS!
What Africa lacks are seasoned leaders, so let our youths come and train!
The powerful 8 must desist from being centuries old robbers,
It’s time ‘The illuminati’ use their medulla oblongatas,
And find real solutions to the problems of Africa!
I’ve been asking, why?
Why suddenly our stars desert their sky?
And our well lit nights,
Discard their sights?
Leaving our earth, a horrid site!
It’s over a fortnight,
Since our once glittery earth,
Lost its sun-bright light,
It was amidst this plight,
That I felt the time was right,
To make my hastened flight,
Carrying nothing but a bat’s uncertain flight,
Looking down from great heights,
I felt a beam of light,
That made my mind ignite,
Beautiful Ireland in her glorious sight,
Green fields and mountain peaks of high,
On this island, man need not thirst,
There is enough water,
To flood the Sahara,
And enough pasture, to feed a thousand herds,
The islanders are not acquainted to strangers,
And life is distinctly contrasting here,
That which I’m neither accustomed nor aware,
On this island, the weather can be bitter,
The heavier your robes, the better,
Wherever you go, you are sure to get a watcher,
Like an actor, in the strangest of theatres,
They tell great stories here,
Their poetry, an art to desire,
I listened to stories of Cuchulainn in Connemara,
And lore of Monaghan fishermen and their stormy encounters,
Read about the famine and was ravaged by shudder,
My painful past, it made me remember,
A stern reminder, of life in the sub-Sahara,
...
Ireland has given me a better life to steer,
But you see, I have no cause to cheer,
Now I should say damn you hunger and your spear!
Or to hell with poverty and its stinging rear!
For in my life, banished and disappeared they are,
But the above, who am I to declare,
When my brothers and sisters cry and die,
From thousands of miles,
I ponder about our beloved tribes,
Wondering about their fates under regimes of crime,
Their tears sour,
Their voices unheard,
After years of callous slaughter,
The lands cry still for revival,
The innocents’ blood blots the sun,
And the vegetal cover,
Connive with blight,
Rivers burst their banks in violent anger,
And fertile lands become deserts,
All, in protest to the corruption of law and order,
And yet, people still ask,
Why have we come here?
Should we have stayed at home and not thought of here?
And condemn ourselves to starvation and death like poor others?
As Our people’s sorrows wax stronger,
Our leaders pouches grows fatter,
We owe the G8 not a cent!
Neither do we need their self-centred help!
We’ve had enough foreign AIDS!
What Africa lacks are seasoned leaders, so let our youths come and train!
The powerful 8 must desist from being centuries old robbers,
It’s time ‘The illuminati’ use their medulla oblongatas,
And find real solutions to the problems of Africa!
By: Akeem Ajayi-Taiwo
