They call it "shelling,"
We call it raping.
They call it war,
We say no more.
It is a means mala in se;
A way of being for the insane,
The beastiality of the beast
In the "Congo" to say the least.
"Alekiri put in chuckling"
"I shall never put up with that kind of thing.
Is that the spirit Africa or African?
Or do you idle away , while they chase asawo as they can?
"I don't bother about that kind of thing"
Men bore me, except when they do their thing.
 Mama Iyabo, Hey!
"Sip a little beer"
Don't mind your sister there.
Don't you know they can break your back,
If you dare to bark?
Just lie and, I mean lie it just happen
Or just exclaim, the war made it happen.
Lest I forget, it's no more "congo" shelling
Thats old, the new is "congo shining"
The Americans, not Germans
Call them "Mother Fuckers."
Huh! Not a moral slapping on the wrist?
The baptism of the priest,
And the immersion into the pool?
For newcomers and sinners to drool.
"Alee are you sleeping?"
Or just mopping
"Christe, I am wide awake"
Like a keeper in a wake
So we drive all over in our Rover?
And say the war is over?
Greeting happy survival?
Oh Africa or African, did you survive?
Or are you surviving?
But you must know that
On Ibekwe's room was lit
By the setting sun, a rectangle of light
His trade flourished
His business expanded.