Battlefield Cross

Somme was gentle, to us. Our fathers came back home from the Great war as part-troubadours, part-legends.

Enugu was generous, to us. Our Uncles came back home from the Civil war as part-humans, part-satyrs.

Sambissa was grudging, to us. Our brothers came back from the Long pacification as Hidarugami, as Sekhmet.

We come to mourn their victory, lay beside it the bones of the Bama Camp children, the empty breasts of the Dikwa camp mothers. Their vast aridness.

Battlefield crosses, markers of where we renounced our humanity.

This war was one that crept and lingered like a fond lover hesitant about farewells. This hateful contest.

This was one like disease, like a haemorrhagic fever. Shredding the innards and spewing blood at multiple places.

This war was the one of a thousand shallow graves with its occupants still breathing. Still walking. Okú àlayé.

This war was the desert sapling with roots tapped into the rich underground streams of governmental sleeze. A sapling with green, fat fronds.


We can help save lives in Northern Nigeria and Northern Cameroon. Just saying


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