Posted in POETRY




Is it to your elegance

That our inks dance

In this tirade of misfortune?


What filth oozes forth from your

Imperial sore

Of misruled rulership


Wouldn’t your eardrums

Be tickled by the drumming

Sicknesses that grow?


When the feathers of your nest

Begin to prick and fall, remember:

The vultures would wait.


(From APOLOGY – Poems in Honour of Mr. Charles Ayede and a burning Nigeria)



Some all-rounded writer with the wits to turn anything and everything to words with inspiration... cheering to glory and on...

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