Poetry

I Am The Victims

Thou may wonder why I write
In the first narrative style—
Here’s an answer to thy questions

I am the accused villain
Beaten hard on the face
with the rough hands of politicians

I am the raped and abused girl child
Weak and helpless
Cheated with strength and power
And turned into a machine of pleasure

I am the R-rated boy child
Overestimated stones with souls

I am the voice of the voiceless l
The handicapped—the neglected

I am the jailed
The innocent soul,
Sentenced to life imprisonment

I am the prey of angry and hungry policemen,
Accused and threatened to leave my only beast of burden,
While I watch it being sold

I am the civil servant
Who works and strives everyday
But whenever the month ends;
I’m given a shameful share of dried bread

I am the hopeless child
Who sleeps in drainages
And lives under bridges—
I survive only by stealing and snatching bags
On the railways

I am the cries of a young widow
With so much mouths to feed
My husband was a prey of bomb blasts
And slain by Fulani herdsmen

I am the burning talent
I am the victims—the voices,
I am the bridge
The prey under death’s feet
I am Festus…

What are you?

Why not share?
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