It is a story of captivity
Over and over again.
White skins, then themselves.
Always has been the same activity.
Been so long but they people see brevity.
Who is the master? Who is the slave?
We all are in the command of gravity.
Ruled by tyranny, by men who old guns and a lot of armors.
Their love for power, so Amour.
After so much suffering and pain.
Comes the wind of change.
Should we be happy or cry?
Because no man knows the future.
A country now ruled by men of regular attire.
Shortly my people sang “we don tire”.
These men made themselves gods.
A figure in the center of the painting,
They people enslaved were amoretto in this pain thing.
In this picture, small and insignificant.
Some Masters under the umbrella, leaving the slaves in rain and sun.
Some masters holding brooms, leaving the slaves to sweep dirt.
As if, they had no right to be called this country’s Sons.
Migration from the umbrella to holding brooms.
Better to be looked as a hard worker than a heartless leader.
Rotten eggs in new basket.
Old wine in new bottle.
They are all in struggle to climb up the ladder.
Very soon they will smell and taste bitter.
Comes another Wind of change.
All men want the same thing,
But some wish for it, others stand up to go get it.
A beautiful thing you want to yourself.
Watching others go thin.
If we only can sit in silence not reason in comess.
A day will come, when you are no longer a part of this world’s commerce.
And your body is one with its origin.
And your soul yearns for heighten.
Only to be down again facing the hardship you started.
Over and over again, your friendship is tested.
Until you forget you in yourself and see you in others.
Home’s door will finally open.
We are all born in a circle by God’s order.
It is the circle of change.
Welcome the wind of change.
Oladapo Idris (Enipheni)