By Ebhohon Majekodunmi Oseriemen

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Oh, great one!

Whose shadow stretches across the ocean,

Whose feet do not walk, but are carried,

Whose hands sign decrees written by foreign scribes!

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Tell us, wise one—

Does the farmer feed his children by uprooting his farm?

Does the river quench its thirst by drying itself to dust?

Yet you say suffering is the price of progress!

But tell me, great one, who suffers? And who progresses?

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The West whispers, and you nod.

The IMF points, and you sign.

The CIA coughs, and you offer your chest.

The dollar roars, and the naira plays dead!

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Oh, great one!

You have cooked a pot of policies,

But only the rich can eat.

You have built a mansion of reforms,

But the poor sleep outside its gate.

You have written prosperity in bold letters,

Yet the only ink we see is the blood of the common man!

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Tell us, master of strategy—

When the people cry for food, do you not give them taxes?

When they beg for shelter, do you not show them exile?

When they plead for mercy, do you not repay them with a fuel price hike?

And yet you say the nation is healing!

Tell me, great one, is a man healed by taking more poison?

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Ah, but see how they hail you!

Your praise-singers drink from the cup of your favor.

Their tongues drip with the oil of your kindness.

They call you a reformer!

They call you a genius!

They call you the architect of the new dawn!

Yet the only thing new is the abnormal length of the people’s neck!

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Oh, great one!

The naira no longer bends—it crawls on its belly,

Groveling before the dollar

like a rebellious slave

who has lost all his energy.

And you, wise one, you call it growth!

You say, “Let the poor breathe,”

Yet you tighten the rope around their necks!

You say, “We are moving forward,”

Yet the only movement is the exodus of your youth,

Fleeing a land that should be their inheritance.

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Tell us, ruler of the borrowed throne—

When will the poor eat from the table of the nation?

When will the streets stop swallowing the dreams of the young?

When will justice rise from the ashes of deception?

When?

When?

When?

When will senior citizens

stop rolling, stop wailing,

Like white-garment prophets

on cracked floors,

Begging—

not for heaven’s rain—

But for the sweat they already labored?

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Ah, but perhaps the answer lies not with you,

For history has seen your kind before!

The masquerade that dances for the flute of the foreigner

Does not know that when the music stops, he will be Zelenskied.

The puppet that thinks itself a king

Will soon learn that strings do not last forever.

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Oh, great one!

Your name shall be written—not in gold,

Not in honor, not in songs—

But in whispers, in curses,

in the silence of empty streets.

And when it comes—the reckoning,

Even the gossip will spit out your tale!