Your suit suits you well,
Sooted by blood and souls that can never be soothed.
Mr. Pot Belly, what is cooking inside of you, more concoctions to appease the god of greediness?
Now that you’ve moved to the ville, you can afford to forget those in the village.
Are you too broke to pay attention to the carnage that goes on in your backyard?
I saw you at an event today, clad in your flowing agbada.
The mask has become your face and no one can see that you’re just an agbaya.
Well, you received an award for the best philanthropist, again.
While your family suffer in the backwaters, you’ve long ago swam in search of better seas. I hope you don’t drown. You’ve swam ahead without your family, your life jackets.
At your funeral, the list of good deeds that you’ve done would be as long as the streaks of tears you’ve caused, or maybe even longer.
The pastor will say, “He was a good man, may his perfect soul rest in peace.”
Your family knows better, you didn’t bring good scents, your family nose better.