THE STRICKEN SICK

It starts with the sacrifice of my poor soul to the gods of the rich and earthly beings. On top blazing hot coal,my feet are punished for the rest of the day. That is my ordeal from straight year to leap year,morning to nightfall,as the heavy hammer of the rich smite my already broken back with the heat of a furnace ten times hot.
    Fifty yards of aso-oke piece sweep the billions off the ground,which like the burning bush is the holy land. Oak tables carry my sweat and on same table I beg for crumbs to fill my sore belly,listening to my verdict. My toil is but a pinch of salt amidst goblet of champagne and foamy beer. I watch longing,the ivory bed my hands create but on rafia mats I lay and rest my aching head,that was one read but now in tears.
    My nights turn feverish days,with thoughts of several suffering days. No  light seen at the tunnels end as criminals go to greener land while we wait for NEPA sound.
The measure tapes have lost its count on gap between the rich and poor,but day by day we wipe our brow and look up to the living one.



by Eruke Ojuederie