I

Shekau is Jay-Z

Singing I’ve got girls, girls,

Girls, girls.

Pointed rifles and aides flanking him

On CNN

A Neanderthal in turban

Brazen and psychotic,

He holds the world to ransom

Call it terrorism

He kills in the name of a God

Leaving this god neither anonymous,

Nor blameless.

Bombs burst open

In market places, churches, parks, mosques

With seething effervescence

We condemn his gore and guts

Whilst our impotent imperialists masturbate

In clandestine spaces

The nation grows amok

Anomie twinkling persistent blips

The nation has been sabotaged

And they wave a flag of indifference,

Then a flag of denial, then a flag

Of amnesty, a flag of deliberation

In the face of carnage

Bombs, new land mines

Detonated by strapped suicide bombers

They die by diffusion and hope to fuck

Virgins in heavenly suites. They shout God is great.

But we already know. Man’s wickedness is greater

And God does not speak for man’s wickedness

When He called us after his image.

God is no poet; he does not fancy imagery,

He would have said: Man, look into a mirror

What you see is God.

Gory images spread across newspapers.

Everyday a new death. Not famine or

Malaria, not automobile mishap or Filaria

Not old age, the good death or dying,

Not even cancer, the new worm or

Diabetes, death from being too sugary–

It is suicide motivated multiple homicides

Just happy go lucky bombers who

Blast their god vehicle in a frenzied

Rant about the greatness of God.

Yes, man’s wickedness is greater. Look into

Craters and see blood flowing,

Tributaries connecting Buni Yadi to Izghe to Gamburu

Coalescing within the confines of

Lugard’s eternal mistake.

II

Then there was Chibok.

Chibok was inevitable, like death itself.

Chibok of yellowy dust, bucolic and sleepy

Like an octogenarian’s afternoon

Chibok happened upon Chibok

And the town’s name became its tragedy.

Insurgents razed the town

Stirring and stoking it with petrol

And vitriol.

They made away with 234 virgins

234 lives,

At the very least 234 dreams.

The world was silent when they were taken

It was denied, their kidnap was first amnestic,

And  remembered in slow bursts.

Who says hashtags can’t fan revolutions?

Catch a fire my friend.

But who keeps the vigil lamp burning?

Who keeps the dreams drumming?

Who sits as sentry at the fish-mouth

Of Sambisa?

Who keeps the memory fresh by

Watering planted placards at Falomo?

Who?

This poem carries every name,

Every face, every trace of tear, every

Ounce of fear that these girls suffered

They have been scarred for life

This memory may not decay

How will they remember themselves by,

In the span of days, an innocent virgin

Becomes known by a prodding terrorist

His member, his stiff ramrod

Jabbing into her with the persistent unease

And the frenzy of a house owner locked outside.

He squeals his seeds into her,

Cuddles smearing her bruised sensitive side,

This rape is dual, of mother and daughter

Country and citizen.

Bring Back Our Girls fired up

By hashtags, social media props

That don’t give; social media activism

Is struggle at its laziest, pundits sip tea

And medicate retweets.

Retweet won’t bring back our girls,

Neither will hashtags, our voices have

Reverberated all over the world and that

Is enough for pushing our luck.

Whilst soldiers shuffle in their boots,

Dancing the feeble dance of the infirm

On the skirts of Sambisa.

Inertia is a new dance.

Inertia is a new trance

Inertia is a new prance

Inertia will not bring back our girls.

*A year has passed. We haven’t forgotten or forgiven.