By Erasmus Ikhide
The bomb fell down in Sokoto, a thunder from the sky,
But louder was the noise that rose—the orchestrated lie.
The dust had barely settled, the smoke was rising still,
When panic seized the powerful, against the nation’s will.
They did not mourn the victims, nor ask where shadows creep,
They rushed to build a wall of words to lull the land to sleep.
“There is no beast in Sokoto,” the frantic chorus cries,
As if a map can hold the hate that metastasizes.
They think the terror stays confined, locked in the Northeast sand,
While death has bought a franchise and is franchising the land.
From Sambisa to the Savannah, the dark infection flows,
For terror needs no passport where the wind of violence blows.
They point to fields of millet, they point to grazing sheep,
“This is a farm!” they shout aloud, while widows sit and weep.
But when the wolf puts on the fleece, does it become a lamb?
Or does it turn the harvest into a sacrificial dam?
If forests hide the armory and cattle hide the gun,
Then “innocent” is just a word until the killing’s done.
They do the math of tragedy, a calculated sin:
“This town is mostly Muslim, so the rot can’t be within.”
As if the bullet checks the heart or asks how one might pray,
Before it steals the breath of life and turns the night to day.
The Churches burn, the Mosques explode, the clergy and the sheikh,
Are swallowed by the same red tide, the same venomous snake.
To count the dead by ritual is to mock the blood they bleed,
To plant the root of division is to water terror’s seed.
They call them “bandits” softly, to mask the warlord’s face,
While armies march with heavy guns to occupy the space.
They kidnap on the highway, they tax the village poor,
They rule with iron sovereignty, right at the nation’s door.
To refuse to name the terrorist is to give the beast a crown,
To let the “negotiation” burn the sovereignty down.
But imagine now the silence, if the lies were swept away,
Imagine a Nigeria that wakes to a newer day.
A land where “North” and “South” are points upon a compass rose,
Not battle lines of rhetoric where bitter poison grows.
See the roads of Kaduna, stretching open, free and wide,
No eyes watching from the bush, with nowhere left to hide.
The traveler drives at twilight, the family travels home,
Beneath the safety of the stars, beneath a peaceful dome.
No ransom notes are written, no parents pace the floor,
The knock upon the midnight gate is a neighbor, nothing more.
The farmers in the Middle Belt return to fertile soil,
To reap the wealth of honest work, the fruit of sweat and toil.
The forest is for timber, the cattle route for grazing,
Not a fortress for the killers, not a hell for raising.
The schools are full of children, their laughter rings out clear,
Unshadowed by abduction, unpolluted by the fear.
The world looks on Nigeria, not with pity or with dread,
But as a giant rising up from the ashes of the dead.
This is the choice before us, in the smoke of Sokoto:
To cling to comforting denials, and let the cancer grow,
Or strip the mask from terror, look the devil in the eye,
And build a land where truth prevails, and only terror dies.
Erasmus Ikhide contributed this poem via: ikhideluckyerasmus@gmail.com.
