by Ebhohon Majekodunmi Oseriemen

Where is the sun?
It rose yesterday, but today it hides.
The earth drinks blood, not rain,
And the wind carries whispers of names long forgotten.

The drums are silent—
Not for lack of hands,
But because the hands that beat them
Now clutch their own throats in fear.

O elders, do you not hear?
The rivers are swollen, not with floods,
But with sons who drowned in the greed of men.
Our daughters, their wombs stolen,
Buried in gold-lined pockets of the powerful.

The town crier wails, but the chiefs turn away.
They trade truth for coin,
And call it wisdom.
They see the headless and say, “The gods will judge.”
They see the rifles and say, “Peace will come.”
But peace does not come to an empty compound.
Peace does not sit at a table where all have been devoured.

I ask you, where is the sun?
It hides behind the smoke of burning villages,
It flees from the footsteps of those who sell lives for silver.
The sun is weary, like the people.
Too tired to rise.
Too broken to shine.