Shut not your doors

We are coming at noon,

Won’t let the sun set at our cold backs

We woke up to the serene morning, wishing to track the wind

Some of us had our feet covered in dust, had more laterite roads to trek

And our faces bloated

Some left no food for the crying babies; the pockets are full of holes

We trekked through the haunting dusk

Flattened the bush on our paths

Because we believe the country is ours, not a tyrant’s.

So we traversed the odds to fetch our last hope

For we want to track the new wind and straighten its course

This wind had wondered wild

As if we had no god watching over our shredded shoulders

With a pale karma, we yearn for the change

But over and over, we are loathed with threats, lies and insults

But we never knew, nor do you, that our land has other immortals whose votes outweigh the ramshackle land.

 

Shut not your doors

We are coming at noon, won’t let the sun shimmer.

The boxes have our votes but hopeless that the wind will pass our neighs

Repeatedly, they remind us that our votes are void

For it is the god and his jinn who forfeit our state

So we are only slaves to their perfect choice.

 

Shut not your doors

Because he soffocates our votes; eternates the throne

And the noon sun will once more be shut on us

One by one, our cold souls will sneeze

One after the other, we will be rotten bracts

Our plights will be unknown like the votes we lost for generations.

 

Shut no your doors

Because we will scuttle behind the curtains

To lay our weary breathes on your warm corridors,

Our land can’t we have to ourselves anymore,

For African elections are buffooneries to seize our remaining lives.

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