As is the practice, we wheeled forth
assets: a barrage of brimstone and mortar and fire
and stomp and die. Our words are dispelled now;
they were packed with all the fury of cgi.
The cattle-prod the bulging belly
that dispatched you into the unknown –
cured you eternally of breath –
needed was the sight of you yearning. He now
reclines recumbent in a cell, ordure
in Stygian feculence, a toy
for the butter fingers of Nigerian law – perhaps
Justice might be served dinner
even if dog-nosed.
The overtures of revolution
with which we smoked you out from safety
never survived childbirth. Us midwives,
jubilant, still bask in the afterglow
of that fervent conception
a post-mortem: just what caused that stillbirth.
Instead donning our swastikas
stitched by even, undulant talents
of the grand society of groupthink
we offer superficial rationale: death
killed revolution dead that young;
A fatwa upon the grubworm.
The ravishers of the commonwealth
now stalk in broad daylight
brazen in the scope of new engagements.
The president announced concessions
we now ourselves concede:
“aces are a rare thing,
don’t you think?”
In response, we swelled
their ranks to bursting –
Homunculi therefore Men-Mountain;
cyclopean voltronic juggernauts on the prowl –
our revolutionary jingoisms mere bookmarks
in social media archives and astute foraging
to unite the channel with the stream.
General Demagogue reporting for duty sir!
In our usual glibness, we erected a bust
on Thomas Salako to mark your passing. This bust
we now have burst to pave way for a road.
You are twice dead, Ademola. And both times
you died useless, senseless deaths.
Had you known
would you have gettheebehindme
revolution instead embraced trepidation?
Hope may spring eternal
But Pope didn’t mean for the oblivious.
*Ademola was shot dead at Agege by a Divisional Police Officer in January 2012, during the #OccupyNigeria protests.