A 911 Call To Mother At Midnight Poem by Harry Biosah

Hello Mama, can you hear me?
Mama it's your son Uwadiegwu calling
You mean I should have known what time it is before calling?
No Impertinence Nne, but our elders say that
A toad never scampers at dawn without cause
You see, I would have wished you christened me Ozoemena
Because the scars of imprisonment from our colonialists,
Has not reneged; Your children are still in chains,
Shackled by their own kinsmen
Mama are you there?
Are you listening?
The coupling appears to be under a spell
Regardless, from your grave top where I lay
At this witching hour, in my nakedness and outstreched arms,
In solitude forswear of hopelessness and helplessness
I shall roar you non stop
Until you harken to my petiton
Though my voice wean, weary from deep hallowed calls
From our splintered continent
Like a forlon snivel for ease in backcountry
My spirit shall not wane or weaken
Until the renegade annex of sleaze, chauvanism, spleen and pleonexia
Are irrevocably and indelibly stapled and disabled
Like a terminal virus from our mores
I shall suffuse my soulcase to stupor in Nzu;
I will lay naked on your grave every witching hour
And chant your name interminably
Until our loved ones no longer have to bite the dust
In the mediterranean sea in a coercion
To make it or surrender their ghost
I will not stop hollering your name
Until all abducted lass from Chibok and Dapchi
Are returned unharmed.I shall lay here and scream your name,
Until Fulani Herdsmen impede their derangement;
Until you supersede these rancid peppers masquerading as public servants who bite our eyes and sting our bodies
With fresh green peppers that are subtle to the eyes
And gentle to the soul
Like the time-honored tortoise who scrounged pinions
From it's peers to attend a tryst in the sky
And snookered them of their quantum
Our public servants and kirkmen have taken our hard earned sweat
Bequeating us with a litany of white Elephant projects
Stricken with howling owls and blood sucking bats
Instead of beseeching for manner from Nirvana to slake our famine
They rain destitution on us
Instead of giving us manure for bumper harvest
They baptize us with their corrupt dung
And leech our blood like lice
Britain and United States used to be our Mecca
But now, it has become anywhere belle face
Our loved ones call India, Timbuktu and Katmandu heaven
Those who manage to scurry to Gabon and Zambia
Have joined the fray; They flood Nigeria at Christmas and New Year
To allot hard earned Rupees, Kwacha and worth not,
Hiding the scars and squash on their vertebral column
All in a jostle to be counted as bintos
Instead of yielding us good roads, our slave masters fly private jets
Winking at us from the sky, leaving us to brawl with pot holes, kidnappers and highway robbers
They know there are no robbers or wetin you carry officers in the sky, Because the higher you fly, the cooler it becomes
So, they sup and quaff under friendly skies, while we like malnourished vultures, patiently angling for a carcass, await the morsel from their buffet. Mama, please, quadrapule their cruse control mid-air
Like the proverbial tortoise, they will land on hard soil and have splintered backs like interlocking stones bonded by Uhu
Then we shall know them by their fragmented backs.