His face was smile-rent, men make tears off dent
He turns tears to gold amid his form, shakily old
And feet blest with leprosy, snow-white and bent
He is the least of citizens if there such a thing be

Election comes, candidates yen win, loathe loss
Seeing via his wilted orb, the bent-feet did toss
“Beholding win and loss is how men grow up”
His syllables winged unwelcome as the grave

After day campaigning, wearily men hug pillow
While in sleep men rot, Oke sat by the bent-feet
Like a wind in midst of a wind bent-feet spoke
Words flow like seas of rapture, only Oke sips

Amidst winds lodging on amidst the treetops
Chasers chased hoping El-dorado was in sight
Amid election chase men tread men, life-force
Deserts souls of the thumped, fittest win fight
First-citizen victor lends his few hale men gold
Aye those souls who wrestled shield by shield
With him with one plea (to fetch him victory)

Few rainy days pass, rust gnaws gold in mass
Shades roam land, from lack men fall as ants
Soon the hale and hearty are told “take heart”
They cry to first-citizen, ‘mine is bare’ he says
Time gave doses of justice to even the giants

But truly showers or dew cannot rust an idea
Though man with bent feet in time turns ash
His words slumber not, they vibrate terribly
Aye! Thunder and lightning of words raved
In Oke’s mind pictures from past did shake

As Oke tasked his odd mind to unearth cure
Lyrics spoke on from bent feet’s silent ash
Lines turn stanzas, stanzas grew into essays
Till his words become full blown goldmines
For with his counsel Oke grew a fecund trade

Vast gain hailed Oke’s trade for ‘twas learnt
By only him and he did face no competition
O! But success is the girl most ached by lads
Now the fruit of tail is ached by men of that
Land tottering on in unsure democratic steps
Aye, the “Fruits of first citizen became last”

(c) Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey.

Picture courtesy pixabay.com.

First published by Nthanda Review.