I am the voice to the oppressed;
With thorn trousers and tattered shirts,
I am the street boys who’s sleeps under bridges
Where death is a cheapest commodity,
Where big black rats feed on our debris.
I am the voice of the accused serpent;
The voice of the accused ape,
‘Na rodents I dey chop, not money’
‘Na banana I steal, not bags of money’,
Why you dey accuse me unnecessarily?
I am the voice of the helpless mothers;
The voice of the kidnapped girls,
The voice of bomb blast casualties,
Voice of the jailed freedom fighters,
The voice of the political sharks’ victims.
I am the voice of the powerless farmers;
Victims of Fulani herdsmen,
Voice of the once shot dead in their farms
While they tend their yam heaps
Where the cattle eat our whole farm.
I am the voice of the gambled citizens,
Voice of the victims of political gluttons
Who gobble at the national cake,
Leaving behind crumbles for the many,
I am the voice—the voice of the people.
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