Captains

to arrive where we belong
we would collectively stake
opinions and argue
our voices will break, we will
sleep on separate beds at night
follow separate paths to farm
form different covens, and
eat foods from different plates
but for the kingdom to grow
we all need to be a broom

our ruler was one of us
we used to share the same plight
and cursed the same systems, but
power is made at the brewery
he took a sip, then a gulp
now, he’s intoxicated
all that it is we suffer
he says ‘we will work on it’
he forgets that nights and days
mean he will one day be gone

it seems the gods now only
see the bidders, so
before another ascends
before ifa lies again
different mother tongues, yes
but together as a broom
we can sweep clean to our taste
how we want the village square
to look at all times. Kinsmen,
this is no good time for war

Tomide Abdul