The voice of the people cry out in the wilderness:
"Prepare ye the days of the next overlord."
They dream of wild money and tarred net streets
But can only be guaranteed not a single day to be bored.
Cast your vote, like exorcism in a closed building
Where faith died! You know the head-spin
Is the moment the vomit spells your inevitable failure.
Votes mean nothing when owned by demons.
I dreamt of choosing a president all mine,
But that's not mine for the choosing,
And despair cooks witch spells in the back of my mind
To drown my dreams in dreary musing.
I dreamt of choosing the laws to rule
But one person rules the parliament supreme
And waves a wand if any should dare to speak
In his presence of the forbidden or of another team.
I dreamt of choosing the mayors to ride,
But the Boss not mine defines the governor
And delegates another to give them orders and more,
And decides what moves, grows, or becomes manure.
I dreamt of a great nation in Africa's armpit
But got a snapshot of generations in the belly
Of the Beast. Maybe I shouldn't be dreaming,
Maybe I should just stand for truth; just maybe.
(c) nyonglema
Tag Archives: elections
In Justice
The cats have given way to the lions, which is but normal,
And the dogs have left the hyenas too, which is but normal.
The deluge is feeding the thirsty soil, then drowning it.
Crowds gathered and stuck their eyeballs to the CRTs,
Tuned their ears to the frequencies scrambling out the court
Or council, picking the words apart, indulging in idea sport
And clinging to one hope…the unspoken one, the forbidden one.
Then the judge and justice did the Rocky dance and none won
And the lawyers lied, then bent the truth, and justice died,
While a whole nation bent over in pain and cried.
Never had I seen injustice in justice, or madness in wisdom.
The deluge is so bad that Noah is thinking of making a comeback
To the land he saved once, to save again, to save our pack.
(c) nyonglema
Scream #oldDictators
“I can’t breathe!”, I screamed. “I can’t hear!”, was the echo.
Think about it,
It’s thirty years the first promise was crafted
Yet, nothing positive has been thought or drafted.
The promises turned back on the journey to greatness,
And pain ossified them on the spot into vain… but wait, let’s
Go in deeper.
Roads, buildings, hope, dreaming, ‘dults, children, pots, three meals,
School, jobs, lost meaning when you lost will and, I guess, hearing.
It’s thirty years the first promise was crafted,
Or more, I can’t see what weird appendage has been grafted
To the future of whole generations aspiring
To be something, but vainly perspiring
And this instant
Promises pile, plausibly nigh, but possibly high, impossibly Pi
That nothing’s decided, nothing resides in the blank page on this side
It’s thirty years the first promise was…well more,
And each one feels like a Cinderella-before-fame chore
While the voices rise from the depth of democratic thorns
And die unheard, buried in the land of miles of dictatorial scorn.
And nobody hears the screams:
Hearing-aids titter on the side of the screen.
(c) nyonglema
Gabonese truth #Gabon
In earnest beyond the Pings and Bongs of firearms
And call to live your life on the ground with raised arms
I see one dying people
Taking shots from lying people
And, they, dear friends lose again amidst the hearse’s palms.
(c) Nyonglema
waghni 