When we gape
At our torn Independence
Hoisted on shaky flagpole
On that day of jubilee,
We will count fifty stains,
Blood stains on that garment
Of our farcical nationhood.
Trumpet herald of merriment
Will shepherd us
To arena of jubilee
Where we will drown in jubilations
With ale and crumbs
To quench our thirst,
Our hunger
And anger.
And singers
Will soothe our eyes
And ears,
We will be lost
In haze of jubilee.
After jubilations,
Termites will nibble again
On our flesh,
Refusing to devour us,
Refusing to leave us alive.

By Chidi Anthony
(From Author's Facebook page)