Four years from threescore
Her shrine stinks still
Littered with filthy chief priests
Eating roasted yams with palm oil
In an earthen pot.
The worshippers are crushed;
They offer tip off sacrifices
To appease the gods of the roads
Who bathe their hands
With foul on their warmth palms.
O gods of the highways!
Sometimes clothed in black
Sometimes clothed in green
Sometimes clothed in blue
All wolves in lamb's costume.
They stand where two roads meet
They stand at t-junctions
They stand at the centre
Like the highway gents
With barricade made of dead woods
They'll roar " park well...!"
They'll order '...your papers!'
They'll stretch hands for the expected
The tipper comprehends
He tips a usual note and zooms off.
But they'll goggle and roll the eyes
Pointing finger on each symbol
The tipper is tied to a stake
If he tips not a note
But his real papers.
But away the dirts are swept
Off her roads
In the hands of the unfair gods
At dawn when the sponger appear
So we'll emigrate to escape them.
Divramredje Lawrence Efeturi