Skip to main content

The Cowboys

This is not to instigate war. It's rather a warning to the deaf ears in the corridor of power. If nothing is done, swiftly enough, to curtail the mayhem unleashed by Fulani 'headsmen', the trampled shall one day grow spikes and pierce the oppressor to his very soul.

Poem 5: The Cowboys

Cold morning of harmattan

Your cattle and boys rode into my town 
Gunned all the women and children down
Blew up our barns in our face
Set our drought struck farms ablaze
Rode your mules on our maize to graze
Where there was hope now empty space...
Who dares resist your light train pace?
You own the land, oh cowboys.


Outlaw! 

Armed and dangerous 
From North you trickle down southwards
Grazing heads
For your skinny herds
Breaking hearts like chinaware
Who dares raise dusty brows
Against your bow and arrows?

The king's favourite you are

So your silver bullets makes him smile.
My mothers can weep
My fathers can flee
My brothers they take to the streets...
The king, he frowns 
He bares his fangs
Like a masked man blinded by his friends...
And none can stop the cowboys.

Rustling cows and loaded guns
Run down towns
Just before dawn
We are caught off guard.


Enough cowboys! 

We'll chase you long and hard 
To show you how it feels to be scarred
We'll feed you same fears that mapped our scars...
We shall glaze your heads
We shall graze your herds
We are just farm boys
But we shall reap on you
The seed of fear you sowed in us!


You may be the king's kinsman

but here we know the hangman
Over that tree where you lie in wait
And conspire to raid and maim
Is dangling the hangman's noose
Waiting wild to be let loose 
Wanted you are on our hearts' wall
Haunted we are, soon your tears must fall.


Who dares the raging cowboys?

Aye! We do and it won't be a draw!


#365Poems

#Pengician
#SSA

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.  "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies"  "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat"  After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?"  "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener  pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold  patriotis...
Post a Comment
Read more

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....
Post a Comment
Read more