The blogger ibikunle Abraham laniyan churns out a new set of top fifty sonnets on Nigeria society.Here is a definitive anthology of fifty original sonnets on Nigerian society.
They explore the intricate tapestry of the nation's culture, daily survival, socio-political triumphs, struggles, and the unyielding resilience of its people. The collection is organized into six core thematic movements.
Movement I: The Pulse of Lagos and Urban Hustle
1. The Symphony of Danfo Buses
The yellow danfo roars into the dawn,
A metal beast that feeds on asphalt tracks,
Before the heavy morning mist is gone,
It gathers weary bodies on their backs.
The conductor hangs mid-air, a daring bird,
He bellows "Yaba, Obalende, straight!"
His raspy voice is like a gospel heard,
By thousands rushing to the office gate.
Inside, a world of strangers tightly squeeze,
A market woman bumps a banker’s arm,
No room for pride, no luxury of ease,
Yet Lagos spins its wild, chaotic charm.
Though smoke and potholes break the daily stride,
Within these yellow shells, the dreamers ride.
2. Gridlock on Third Mainland Bridge
The ocean waves look up to see the line,
Of red tail-lights that stretch into the dark,
A thousand engines hum and softly whine,
While frustrated drivers swear and park.
The bridge becomes a static, asphalt floor,
Where hawkers dodge between the frozen wheels,
They trade in plantain chips from door to door,
As morning turns to heat that everyone feels.
A radio announcer speaks of hope,
But fuel queues are long and tempers high,
The weary commuter learns how to cope,
And stares at billboards painted in the sky.
This daily penance on the concrete track,
Is paid by those who leave and must come back.
3. The Hustle of Balogun Market
A sea of heads, a wave of vibrant cloth,
Where lace and wax-prints dance in brilliant light,
The eager sellers call like hungry moth,
And pull your sleeve to argue left and right.
"Customer look here, I get your size!"
The ground is wet, the air is thick and loud,
A sudden bargain brings a sweet surprise,
Among the pressing, never-ending crowd.
From dawn to dusk the money changes hands,
The smell of suya mixes with perfume,
This is the heartbeat of the western lands,
Where every little corner finds its room.
No lazy soul can stand this heavy pace,
For enterprise is king in Balogun's space.
4. The Night Shift at Computer Village
Beneath the neon signs that flash so bright,
The technicians sit with irons in their hand,
They fix the broken chips into the night,
And bring the deadest phones back to the land.
A maze of wires, screens, and plastic cases,
Where digital magicians ply their trade,
You see the sharp focus on youthful faces,
By whom the newer modern world is made.
They code and copy, solder and repair,
With quick fingers that defy the lagging hours,
The smell of melted plastic fills the air,
As genius fights against the failing powers.
No lack of light can stop the dreaming brain,
That finds a way to profit from the pain.
5. Rain over Obalende
The sky grows heavy, dark, and sudden gray,
A warning wind blows dust across the street,
The street traders pack their goods away,
And shelter seeks for hurried, running feet.
Then pours the flood upon the zinc-sheet roofs,
A heavy rhythm drumming from above,
The rising water brings immediate proofs,
Of gutters choked by things we do not love.
Yet through the storm, the children laugh and play,
And danfos splash the muddy water high,
The urban chaos will not pass away,
It simply waits beneath a wetter sky.
The rain clears out the heat and leaves the clean,
Fresh hope upon a landscape wild and mean.
6. Eko Atlantic's Wall
They build a city where the ocean roared,
A fortress made of sand and heavy stone,
Where billionaires can match their wealthy hoard,
And live in glassy towers of their own.
The Great Wall stands against the rising tide,
To push the angry Atlantic far away,
While just a mile across the divide,
The slums of Makoko still sink and sway.
Two worlds apart upon a single coast,
One grows in gold, the other begs for bread,
The gleaming towers are a modern boast,
While old canoe-men watch the sea with dread.
Yet both must breathe the salty coastal air,
And share the destiny that brought them there.
7. The Hawker’s Scented Trail
She walks between the lanes of moving cars,
A plastic basin balanced on her crown,
Her cold pure-water shines like little stars,
To cool the heated throats across the town.
Her neck is straight, her footing true and sure,
She tracks the green-white buses as they slide,
Her small profit is honest, sweet, and pure,
Born from a deep and independent pride.
Through toxic fumes and insults thrown in vain,
She moves with grace that royalty would envy,
A quiet soldier in the war of gain,
Who survives the city's frantic frenzy.
When darkness falls and traffic starts to clear,
She counts her change and sheds a silent tear.
8. The Midnight Owambe
Movement II: Cultural Roots and Sacred Landscapes
9. The Sacred Groves of Osogbo
Beneath the ancient canopy of trees,
Where Osun’s quiet waters softly glide,
The heavy air is cooled by a gentle breeze,
And sacred spirits in the shadows hide.
The stone sculptures rise from the mossy earth,
Carved by the hands that knew the older ways,
They tell the stories of a nation's birth,
And keep the memories of ancient days.
The priestess walks along the hidden track,
With brass bangles that jingle as she moves,
She brings the modern world’s devotion back,
To nature’s green and deeply sacred grooves.
Here time stands still, a calm and holy space,
That shields the beauty of a cultural race.
10. The Flutes of Nok
Deep in the red and ancient northern clay,
The terracotta faces look at time,
They speak of hands that worked a distant day,
And built a culture ancient and sublime.
With hollow eyes that see across the years,
They watch the changing fortunes of the land,
They survived the wars, the fire, and the tears,
Preserved beneath the rolling desert sand.
What carver shaped these lips to hold a song?
What fires baked this clay to last so long?
A silent witness to a history grand,
Before the foreign boots stepped on our strand.
Though nameless now, their artistic spirit lives,
In every shape the modern sculptor gives.
11. New Yam Festival in Ogidi
The village square is swept both clean and wide,
The old men sit on stools of carved wood,
The youth come marching in with native pride,
To thank the ancestors who made crops good.
The chief knife slices through the roasted skin,
White tuber meat is offered to the ground,
And then the drumming and the songs begin,
As roasted yam and palm wine pass around.
"Ogbuefi speaks!" The crowd falls still and low,
He prays for peace and plenty in the year,
That every child may live and safely grow,
And every farm be free from blight and fear.
The mortar pestle sounds like thunder's beat,
A joyful noise that echoes down the street.
12. Argungu’s Golden Catch
A thousand fishermen stand by the lake,
With large hand-nets and gourds against their chest,
A single gunshot makes the silence break,
And sends them diving on a muddy quest.
The water churns with splash of leg and arm,
In search of giant fish that hide below,
The river spirits keep them safe from harm,
As back and forth the happy fishers go.
A sudden shout reveals the winning prize,
A massive perch is lifted to the sky,
The crowd responds with loud, excited cries,
And praises for the victor ring on high.
This ancient harvest on the river floor,
Brings unity and joy from shore to shore.
13. The Talking Drum’s Decree
The leather membrane stretches tight and neat,
Across the wooden hourglass of its frame,
The polished stick delivers a sharp beat,
That calls each person by their ancestral name.
It squeezes low, it releases high,
It speaks the language that the elders know,
A tonal voice that rises to the sky,
To guide the dancers as they fast or slow.
It tells of victories in olden wars,
It warns the village of a hidden threat,
It opens up the past’s forgotten doors,
With rhythms that the heart cannot forget.
Without a word, the drummer says it all,
And every native soul responds to the call.
14. Dusk on the River Niger
The sun drops down, a round and orange ball,
Behind the palms that line the river bed,
The long shadows of the dugout canoes fall,
Upon a water surface turning red.
The fishermen are pulling in their lines,
Their songs are soft, a gentle evening air,
While on the bank, a distant oil lamp shines,
To guide them back to family waiting there.
This mighty river gave the land its name,
It flows through history, deep and wide and long,
It saw the traders and the kings who came,
And heard the colonial master's bitter song.
Yet still it rolls, indifferent to the state,
A silent giant moving with its weight.
15. The Calabar Carnival Queen
She walks in feathers, sequins, and in gold,
A breathing statue of majestic grace,
The ancient stories of her people told,
In every line of paint upon her face.
She leads the band across the crowded street,
While thousands cheer her glittering advance,
The heavy bass-drums match her moving feet,
In one grand, colorful, historic dance.
From Mary Slessor road to the stadium floor,
The city burns with high, artistic fire,
A celebration from the southern shore,
That lifts the national spirit ever higher.
She is the mother of the festive light,
That banishes the darkness of the night.
16. The Weaver of Akwete
Her fingers dance across the wooden loom,
She chooses threads of red and royal blue,
Inside her small, sunlit weaving room,
An ancient pattern is born anew.
No written chart is placed before her eyes,
The geometry is carried in her head,
She makes the traditional eagle symbols rise,
From basic lines of intersecting thread.
A cloth for kings, a fabric for the grand,
It takes her weeks of steady, patient strain,
This craft is passed down by a mother’s hand,
A priceless heritage that must remain.
With every strike of the heavy wooden comb,
She weaves the comfort of her native home.
17. The Durbar of Kano
The horses charge across the dusty plain,
In cloaks of velvet, silver, and in steel,
The riders hold the leather bit and rein,
With practiced skill that only experts feel.
The Emir sits beneath his parasol,
A sea of turbans bowing to his crest,
The long trumpets blow a piercing call,
To welcome every high and royal guest.
The muskets fire smoke into the air,
The sand is kicked up by a thousand hooves,
A grand display of power rich and rare,
That ancient northern royalty approves.
The dust settles as the sun goes down,
On this historic, mud-walled ancient town.
Movement III: The Resilience of Daily Survival
18. The NEPA Outage Blues
A sudden darkness falls upon the room,
The fan stops spinning with a dying moan,
A collective "Up NEPA!" breaks the gloom,
Followed by curses in a bitter tone.
Then comes the chorus from the neighborhood,
The small generators start to crank and roar,
They choke the night with smoke that is not good,
And shake the concrete of the bedroom floor.
We buy the diesel, and we buy the oil,
To feed the monsters that provide our light,
A heavy tax upon our daily toil,
Just to keep the darkness from our sight.
Yet in the dark, the children find their way,
And tell their stories till the break of day.
19. The Petrol Queue Longing
For three long days my car has occupied,
A spot upon the dusty highway lane,
While station owners keep the gates inside,
Locked fast to maximize their illegal gain.
We sit on plastic chairs beneath the sun,
And share the latest rumors of relief,
While black-market hawkers start to run,
With yellow cans that sell a costly brief.
Oh, land of oil, why must your children bleed,
To buy the fluid that your soil provides?
A victim of a deep, systemic greed,
That all our wealth and natural glory hides.
Yet we endure, we joke, we play some cards,
And watch the station gates with constant guards.
20. The Academic Strike Strike-out
The lecture rooms are locked and full of dust,
The cobwebs grow across the blackboard face,
The lab equipment turns to orange rust,
And silence settles on the learning place.
Another strike has stolen half the year,
The union argues with the state again,
While students wait at home with rising fear,
And see their youthful dreams wash down the drain.
Four years of study turns to six or seven,
A heavy burden on the parents’ hand,
Who pray for quick intervention from heaven,
To fix the broken schools across the land.
The brightest minds are packing up to fly,
To seek their learning under foreign sky.
21. The Mechanic’s Wisdom
He sits on a worn-out tire, covered in grease,
With rusty spanners scattered at his feet,
He brings the dying engines back to peace,
And makes the oldest danfo sound so sweet.
He looks at smoke and knows the inner fault,
"Oga, your piston ring don weak inside!"
He needs no laptop for his smart assault,
His forty years of practice is his guide.
He trains the younger boys who stand around,
To learn the secrets of the iron trade,
From early morning on this oily ground,
The future drivers of the road are made.
He has no degree, no fancy title deed,
But fixes everything the nation need.
22. The Civil Servant’s Ledger
She counts her naira at the kitchen table,
The minimum wage can barely buy the rice,
To pay the school fees she is scarcely able,
With every market trip at double price.
Her shoes are worn, her skirt is neatly pressed,
She goes to office every single day,
Though for six months her salary has rested,
Inside the banks of those who will not pay.
Yet she keeps files with a steady care,
And seals the letters with an official stamp,
She fights the deep temptation of despair,
Beneath the dimness of a single lamp.
She is the quiet spine that holds the state,
While politicians argue at the gate.
23. The Japa Exodus
The passport office is a crowded hall,
Where young Nigerians wait in long, straight lines,
They heard the distant Western nations call,
And read the troubling domestic signs.
The doctors, nurses, programmers, and brains,
Are packing boxes for the London flight,
They leave behind the infrastructure pains,
To seek a future that is clear and bright.
A painful loss for mothers left behind,
Who weep at airports as their children part,
No greater sorrow can a nation find,
Than this slow bleeding of its youthful heart.
They go to build a world that is not theirs,
And leave their homeland to its private cares.
24. The Pure Water Vendor
He carries freezing ice within a tray,
And runs between the lanes of burning heat,
To sell refreshment on a dusty day,
To every dry mouth on the scorching street.
"Cold water! Give me one!" the drivers cry,
He hands the sachet through the open door,
He drops the coin before the light goes dry,
And turns to search for thirsty throats for more.
His profit is a pittance, tiny coin,
His shoes are thin, his legs are long and lean,
Yet in his stride, a thousands youth join,
The hardest labor that the world has seen.
He keeps the city hydrated and alive,
An honest boy who only wants to thrive.
Movement IV: Faith, Belief, and the Spiritual Landscape
25. Sunday Best in the Mega-Church
The auditorium holds a vibrant sea,
Of ten thousand souls in Sunday best,
They sing their praises out so loud and free,
And lay their heavy burdens down to rest.
The pastor stands in custom Italian suit,
He speaks of blessings and a sudden turn,
The holy congregation is not mute,
Their eager shouts of "Amen!" deeply burn.
They want a miracle for poverty,
A visa out, a healing from the pain,
A sudden break from generational history,
That leaves them weeping in the dark again.
They give their tithes with hope that cannot die,
And look for answers from a gracious sky.
26. Friday Prayers at the National Mosque
The white robes gather as the noon sun glows,
A quiet rivers flowing down the street,
They line their mats in long, symmetrical rows,
And take off sandals from their dusty feet.
The Alpha’s voice is deep, a melodic stream,
That floats above the city's noisy hum,
He speaks of peace, the true prophetic dream,
And promises of justice that will come.
They bow as one, a field of white and gold,
Their foreheads pressed against the cool floor,
An ancient faith that never will grow old,
Passed down from father's hand for evermore.
In this brief hour, the urban struggles cease,
And heated hearts find true, fraternal peace.
27. The Village Shrine’s Endurance
Behind the concrete church upon the hill,
Where giant iroko trees block the sun,
The ancient native gods are living still,
Their quiet rites are secretly begun.
A bowl of palm oil and a broken kola nut,
Placed gently at the foot of carved stone,
Inside a small, mud-walled, traditional hut,
An old man sits and whispers all alone.
They call it pagan in the public square,
And preach against it from the pulpit high,
Yet when the modern doctors bring despair,
They seek the old ways under midnight sky.
The ancestors do not resent the slight,
They wait patiently in the silent night.
28. The Miracle Crusader’s Poster
A glossy billboard stands against the sky,
"Night of Fire: Your Poverty Must Die!"
The prophet smiles with a gleaming eye,
And promises a cure for every lie.
The sick, the blind, the jobless, and the old,
Will throng the stadium by the break of day,
To buy the holy oil and cloths of gold,
And chase their private demons far away.
For where the state has failed to give the bread,
The church becomes the hospital and bank,
A place to feed the hope that is not dead,
And give the missing government a flank.
We are a people drunk on holy signs,
Who read our future in celestial lines.
29. The Kola Nut’s Covenant
It travels in a plate of simple clay,
A multi-lobed and bitter crimson seed,
It welcomes every stranger on their way,
And satisfies a cultural, holy need.
"He who brings kola brings a long, sweet life."
The elder breaks it with a steady hand,
It heals the ancient wounds of tribal strife,
And seals a peace across the native land.
Four lobes for blessings, five for sudden wealth,
A simple ritual that connects the race,
It asks the spirits for continuous health,
And brings a dignity to any place.
Before the wine is poured or words are said,
The holy kola nut must first be broken and fed.
30. The Night Vigil Intercession
The clock strikes two, the world is fast asleep,
But in the hall, the prayers are boiling hot,
A hundred women pace the floor and weep,
To change their children's difficult, earthly lot.
They clamp their hands, they stamp their naked feet,
"Holy Ghost fire, consume the enemy!"
Their heavy sweat drops down into the sheet,
As they fight for family victory.
The city sleeps outside, indifferent, cold,
While these spiritual soldiers watch the gate,
With weapons ancient, powerful, and bold,
They rewrite the decrees of human fate.
They do not trust the laws of mortal men,
They take their cases to the highest hall again.
Movement V: Socio-Political Crises and Shadows
31. The Ghost of Lekki Toll Gate
The concrete stands beneath the midnight stars,
A silent witness to a bleeding night,
Where youthful voices fought their country's wars,
With green-white flags held up into the light.
They sang the anthem till the bullets flew,
And turned the canvas to a crimson stain,
A sudden darkness that the nation knew,
A deep, unhealed, generational pain.
The toll gate stands, the cars are passing now,
The shiny asphalt shows no sign of gore,
But history remembers why and how,
Those youth fell down upon the coastal shore.
No systemic lie can clean the bloody floor,
Their voices echo for evermore.
32.The Niger Delta Creek Lament
The water wears a dark and greasy coat,
Where silver fish once swam in happy schools,
A lonely fisherman inside his boat,
Looks at the black and oily toxic pools.
The gas flares burn like torches in the night,
To turn the swampy sky an angry red,
While corporate empires grow in golden might,
The native children cough upon their bed.
The pipes run wide across the ancient land,
To carry wealth to cities far away,
But leav
33. The Abandoned Federal Highway
The asphalt splits into a yawning cave,Where giant trailers tilt and break their spine,A road that was a politician's promise brave,Now stands a long and dangerous, broken line.The bush has grown to swallow up the lane,Where bandits hide to catch the wealthy prey,The weary driver travels with a brain,That prays for safety every mile of way.Ten times budgeted, but never done,The contract money bought a mansion grand,In London or Dubai beneath the sun,While ruin settles on the native land.This highway is a metaphor profound,For governance that buries things in the ground.
34. The Sovereign’s Empty Treasury
They sit in chambers carved of marble stone,And pass the laws that favor their own pocket,While outside on the street, the people groan,And inflation rises like a fiery rocket.The billions vanish in a cloud of smoke,"A monkey swallowed it," the papers say,A bitter, tragic, continental joke,That steals the future of the youth away.They drive in convoys thirty cars in length,With sirens clearing out the common trash,They mock the nation's dying, failing strength,And turn the commonwealth to private cash.Yet history is writing down their deeds,And matching them against the nation's needs.
35. The Silent Northern Village
The mud walls crumble under burning sun,The fields are empty, food is left to rot,The terror came with horse and heavy gun,And changed the peaceful peasant's simple lot.They fled by night into the crowded camp,To beg for maize and water from the state,Beneath the canvas of a leaking lamp,They nurse their sorrow and their bitter fate.Where is the government that swore to shield,The poorest citizen from lawless might?Their promises are broken in the field,And left to vanish in the dark of night.The land of agriculture bleeds in vain,A victim of a cruel and structural pain.
36. The Currency Metamorphosis
The old note dies, the new note is not found,The banks are besieged by a crazy crowd,They sleep like dogs upon the concrete ground,And shout their anger to the heavens loud.A mother holds her baby, weeping sore,She has the money but she cannot buy,The simple bread inside the corner store,While monetary policies run dry.An artificial famine made of ink,A stroke of genius from a boardroom high,That brought the economic wheel to the brink,And left the small traders down to die.Yet through the cash crunch, people found a way,To trade in trust and see another day.
37. The Pensioner’s Last Stand
He stands in line beneath the open sky,A fragile soldier from the old regime,With yellow papers held with shaky sigh,To chase his long-forgotten, honest dream.He served for thirty years without a stain,And taught the children of the rising state,But now he begs for crumbs in heavy pain,Outside the massive, locked-up ministry gate. "Verification is not done today,Come back next year," the lazy clerk replies,He turns his weary face and walks away,With tears of sorrow in his cloudy eyes.He dies before the check can reach his hand,A faithful servant in a careless land.
38. The Cyber Hustle (Yahoo Yahoo)
A glowing screen illuminates the night,As nimble fingers chase a phantom prize.The hungry youth, denied a legal light,Spin golden webs of digital disguise.They weave romance or promise sudden wealth,To distant souls across the ocean blue.A desperate trade executed by stealth,Because the homeland offers nothing new.The village cheers the boy who made it big,Ignoring how the dirty money grew.They dance and feast beneath the palm-tree twig,And praise the hustle that pulled family through.But conscience rots inside the glowing screen,The saddest harvest that the land has seen.
39.The airport terminal is packed at noon,With heavy bags and heavier young hearts.They leave behind the bright Nigerian moon,To seek their fortunes in far foreign parts.The doctors, teachers, engineers, and techs,Are lining up to hand away their visas.They flee the broken grid and bounced paychecks,To build a life where winter winds will freeze us.A nation bleeding out its finest minds,While leaders shrug and pocket public gold.The aging parent stays alone behind,As family stories across seas unfold.The land we love becomes a waiting room,Where everyone prepares to flee the gloom.
40. The National Minimum WageThe union leaders argue at the table,Demanding thousands for the working man.The state replies that it is quite unable,To stretch the budget to a living plan.A monthly pittance cannot buy a crateOf basic eggs or half a bag of rice.The civil servant yields to heavy fate,And pays for transport at a double price.They sit in offices with empty bellies,And watch the bosses drive a brand new jeep.While children watch the cartoons on the tellies,The parents quietly lie awake and weep.A minimum of wage, a max of pain,The working class is suffering again.
42. The Wedding Party (Owambe)
The drums are loud, the aso-ebi bright,A sea of lace and towering gele caps.We dance away our sorrows through the night,Forgetting all our economic traps.The jollof rice is steaming in the pot,The seasoned meat is stacked in giant trays.We spray the cash we truly have not got,To catch a glimpse of happier, grander days.The praise-singer calls out a wealthy name,The money rains upon the sweaty brow.For just one night, we play the regal game,And banish every worry from the now.An Owambe can cure a broken heart,Before the Monday morning hustles start.
43. The Midnight Grid Collapse
The sudden darkness drops like heavy lead,The fan stops spinning with a dying groan.The heat descends upon the sleepless bed,And leaves the frustrated citizen alone."The grid has failed," the news reporter sighs,For twenty times within a single year.Beneath the vast and starry African skies,The sound of generators fills the ear.The national control center is still,A monument to structural decay.We pay the highly inflated monthly bill,But live in darkness till the break of day.The power shifts to those who buy the fuel,While poverty remains direct and cruel.The yellow jerry cans line up like guards,Along the perimeter of the filling station.The drivers sleep inside the station yards,A picture of a paralyzed nation.We sit on oil but cannot buy a litre,Without a fight or paying double price.The black-market merchants find life sweeter,While honest citizens pay for the vice.The sun is blazing on the asphalt road,As tempers flare and engines overheat.We bear this heavy, unnecessary load,With blisters burning on our weary feet.The resource curse is heavy on our chest,A wealthy land that never finds its rest.
44. The Agbero at the Bus Stop
He stands in rags beside the yellow bus,A wooden baton swinging in his hand.He screams commands and kicks up dusty fuss,The tax collector of the broken land."Owo mi da!" he bellows at the driver,Demanding cash for passage through the street.He does not care about the poor survivor,Who hustles daily in the summer heat.The state looks on and gives a silent nod,To thugs who keep the motor parks in chains.They rule the highway like a local god,And pocket millions from the drivers' pains.A system built on legalized extortion,Where lawlessness has grown to grand proportion
46.The Inflation Monster
The market woman counts her paper notes,And shakes her head in bitter, deep despair.The price of pepper, tomatoes, and goats,Has vanished high into the smoky air.The currency is falling like a stone,While food prices ascend into the sky.The father listens to his children moan,And wonders what his meager wage can buy.The thousands of yesterday are hundreds now,A shrinking basket for a growing cost.The farmer sweats behind his rusted plow,But feels his labor is entirely lost.The silent monster steals our daily bread,And leaves a hungry hopelessness instead.34. The Floods of LokojaThe confluence of waters starts to rise,And overflows the sandy river banks.Beneath the gray and stormy autumn skies,The muddy deluge breaks through human ranks.The houses submerge up to the zinc roof,The farms are swallowed by the brown lagoon.The climate shifts provide a bitter proof,That devastation will be coming soon.The displaced families huddle in a school,Without a blanket or a plate of food.The politicians use it as a tool,To show a brief, manufactured mood.The waters recede, leaving silt and clay,And wash our fragile livelihoods away.
47. The Examination Malpractice (Expo)The hall is quiet, but the phones are bright,Beneath the desks where hidden answers glow.The supervisor looks away tonight,For just a little bribe to make things flow.The "miracle centers" charge a heavy fee,To guarantee an excellent report.The students graduate but cannot see,The toxic nature of the game they court.The certificate is shiny, neat, and bold,But represents an empty, hollow mind.The standard of our schooling has grown cold,With actual knowledge left far behind.We cheat the system just to get ahead,And kill the future of the youth instead.
49. The Traditional Ruler (The Oba/Emir/Obi)
He sits upon a carved and grand old throne,In flowing robes of rich, embroidered silk.His royal ancestors have long been known,To feed the local poor with honeyed milk.But modern politics has changed his role,He bows before the governor of the state.To keep his stipend and his staff of soul,He plays along with those of earthly weight.The palace walls are cracked and turning gray,A metaphor for ancient power's decline.He blesses politicians everyday,And pours the traditional libation wine.A golden relic of a grander past,In modern storms that buffet him so fast.
50.The plastic tents are pitched on dusty soil,A crowded refuge for the fleeing crowd.Away from home, from violence, and from toil,Wrapped in a gray and melancholy shroud.The children born inside this wire fence,Have never seen a proper school or home.Their childhood stolen by a war intense,That leaves them with no option but to roam.The aid supplies are stolen by the chief,Who sells the bags of rice for private gain.The victims find no comfort or relief,Only a long, continuous loop of pain.A nation's shame inside a fenced-in square,Where citizens are dying in despair.
51. The Fake Prophet
He wears a suit of bright and spotless white,And promises a miracle of wealth.He claims he speaks with God into the night,And sells anointing oil for perfect health.The desperate congregation weeps and screams,And empties out their pockets at his feet.He feeds upon their broken, fragile dreams,While driving sports cars down the muddy street."Your poverty is caused by witchcraft's hand!"He shouts aloud to mask the system's fault.The poorest people in a broken land,Are locked within his superstitious vault.He builds a mansion from the widow's mite,And turns the gospel to a dark deceit
52.The Niger Delta Creek
The black oil seeps into the mangrove root,And kills the fish inside the dark lagoon.The local fisherman has no more boot,To sail beneath the polluted moon.The gas flares burn like torches in the night,A constant flame that poisons all the air.While multinational corporations take flight,With billions from the land they leave so bare.The youth pick up the rifle and the mask,To fight for what was stolen from their soil.But sabotage becomes a bloody task,That wraps the region in a violent coil.The wealth of nations flows beneath their feet,But poverty is all they ever meet.They look at quotas, tribe, and state of birth,Before they check the merit of the mind.They value where you come from on the earth,And leave the brilliant candidate behind.The offices are filled with favored kin,Who cannot do the job they were assigned.While excellence is treated as a sin,And progress is completely undermined.To balance up the multi-ethnic state,We sacrifice the sharpest and the best.We lock our future behind a tribal gate,And put our developmental dreams to rest.A policy designed to build accord,Has turned into mediocrity's reward.
53. The Mega-Church Cathedral
A dome of steel that seats a hundred thousand,With marble floors and air-conditioned air.The architecture is grand and proudly columned,A sanctuary from the world's despair.Outside its gates, the beggars line the ditch,With outstretched hands and hollow, sunken eyes.Inside, the preacher tells us to get rich,By sewing seeds that reach up to the skies.The university the church has built,Is far too costly for the poor to pay.The members contribute without any guilt,But watch their own kids turn and walk away.A holy kingdom built on earthly cash,While public structures tumble down and crash.
54. The Local Government ChairmanHe sits inside an office without light,And signs the allocations with a smile.The public roads are in a terrible plight,But he is building mansions all the while.The local clinic has no basic drugs,The primary schools are falling down to dust.He surrounds himself with violent, armed thugs,To guard his ill-gotten wealth and trust.The third tier of our governance is dead,A proxy for the governor's greedy hand.The grassroots populace is left unfed,Across the length and breadth of the land.The closest government to the common man,Is just another money-stealing plan.
55. The Okada Rider
A helmet strapped upon his sweaty head,He weaves through gridlock like a flying bird.He takes the risks to earn his daily bread,By dangers that are daily seen and heard.He carries mothers, businessmen, and freight,Across the potholes of the city street.He challenges the heavy hand of fate,With accidents he prays he will not meet.The government declares a sudden ban,And robs him of his only source of cash.Without a substitute or survival plan,His fragile livelihood is left to crash.The two-wheeled savior of the traffic jam,Is treated like a criminal and a scam.
56 .The Pure Water Vendor
A plastic tray balanced upon her hair,She runs between the cars in heavy heat."Buy cold pure water!" echoes through the air,Above the dusty asphalt of the street.She earns a couple naira for a sachet,To help her mother pay the school fees bill.She dodges vehicles in a dangerous pattern,With dedication and a desperate skill.Her childhood passes by in traffic lines,Beneath the burning fury of the sun.She sees the wealthy children's bright designs,And wonders when her schooling will begun.A drop of water in a thirsty land,Sustained by a child's exhausted hand.
57. The Independence Day Speech
The television shows the president,In traditional attire, neat and clean.He reads a speech that's beautifully sent,To paint a picture that has never been."We are progressing," says the teleprompter,"Our economy is growing strong and great."While citizens are living on a helicopterOf rising debts and institutional hate.The green-white-green is flying on the pole,But faded by the harsh, unyielding sun.The empty promises take a heavy toll,On sixty years of things left undone.We clap and cheer for ceremonial show,But return to realities we know.
58. The Pensioner Queue
He stood for thirty years in public space,And gave his youth to serve the fatherland.Now wrinkles line his old, exhausted face,As he holds a verification form in hand.He stands beneath the sun for hours long,To get the monthly pension he is owed.The system treats his service as a wrong,And adds more weight to his collapsing load.Some faint and collapse upon the concrete floor,And die before they touch their little cash.While directors steal millions from the store,And leave the old folks' lives to fade and crash.The state forgets the labor of the past,And leaves its elder statesmen to the last
59. The Nollywood Dream
The camera rolls inside a rented room,With cheap reflector screens and basic light.They weave a tale of magic, love, or doom,To be completed by tomorrow night.From small beginnings on Alaba street,To global screens and cinematic praise.The actors hustle in the Lagos heat,To find a spark that brightens up their days.We tell our stories with a vibrant voice,Of cultural roots and urban, modern life.The world is watching, making us the choice,A beautiful escape from daily strife.A shining diamond from a dusty place,That brings a smile to the nation's face.
60. The Tribalism Poison"
He is Igbo," "He is Yoruba," "He is Hausa,"The whispers echo through the office hall.The politicians use it to arouse aDeep bitter anger that divides us all.We blame our neighbor for the common lack,Of electricity and public roads.We stab our brother quietly in the back,To carry out our tribalistic codes.But hunger does not ask for your ethnic tongue,The poverty of state affects us all.The songs of hatred that are loudly sung,Will only lead us to a final fall.Until we see the human in the face,We remain prisoners of a narrow space.
61. The Nigerian Resilience (Suffer Head)
We smile and laugh inside the crowded bus,And turn our tragedies to funny jokes.We do not make a revolutionary fuss,Like other continental, angry folks."E go better," is our daily morning prayer,A phrase that keeps the broken heart alive.We survive beneath each exploitative layer,And find a miraculous way to daily thrive.But is this resilience a saving grace,Or just a weakness that prolongs our pain?We adapt to every terrible, dark place,And tolerate the leadership's disdain.We suffer and we smile into the night,Instead of standing up to join the fight.
62. The Final Hope
Yet, look at where the youth are gathering now,In tech hubs, studios, and football pitches.They wipe the sweat from off their brilliant brow,And bypass all the politicians' ditches.A new Nigeria rises from the dirt,Not defined by the failures of the past.With creative energy that cures the hurt,And builds a vision that is bound to last.The land is rich, the people richer still,In spirit, talent, and unyielding grace.We have the intellect and stubborn will,To claim our position in the global space.The giant wakes up from its troubled sleep,To harvest promises it's bound to keep.I hope this completes the collection
