Tattooed on the skin of our motherland,
are stories of power,
tales of sweat and blood,
men and women who died for its deliverance.
Their backs, footstools used to fashion
the now so called politicians
who forget what history doesn’t deny
a land refined by fire
now blemished by jokers
as they grasp corners of a podium
their voice harboring pretense,
decade old promises sprouting from
sweetened tongues
dusted away by day’s end
and though I find myself young and naïve
to understand a politician’s gambling addiction
my eyes and ears are not immune
to its sting.
My skin shivers as it feels hunger
weave itself among rubbles of distrust.
A nation of people in hopes for a better future
cast down their ballots
yet even their own vote can’t be trusted;
their voice silenced before night’s end.
Read – Our Nest of Conflict – A Poem by Tatah Laika, Cameroon
