War, as we know is thick,
Destruction, reconstructions and an eternal grief, its shticks,
The wounds it brings are too bitter to lick,
Just as it renders the strong of the society sick,
And the depressed get more weak,
Losing their wick,
As their fires fail to burn,
And nobody sees the brightness of the sun!
Many die and their families start to mourn,
The king is at home and the dead soul is the pawn,
That’s war! Take a run!
Biafra, civil war and 1967,
The end in 1970 was pretty a heaven,
A people whose pains were foiled in gloom,
Looking towards an economic boom,
A boom that soon turned a doom,
When their towns went to ruins,
And her children wailing in hunger,
A hunger that may long for longer,
If their fathers don’t stay stronger,
To fight a people who hurt their presence,
Ready to neglect their existence,
Alas! It was a prescience,
That was coined by some youthful exuberance,
Mishandled by belligerence,
A belligerence that forestalls providence,
Biafra, the Niagara of bloodshed,
A battle of wits and guts in a red cloud,
A challenge of proclivities against propensities,
A war of varying intensities,
Where shall we put all our pains of old?
Our kids are sick and our mothers are cold,
Take the leper far away into the bush!
Let Biafra die in a clamour for a force that will push!
Let all pains go and be forgotten,
For recalcitrance is a failure begotten!
Let us end these Niagara of Biafra songs,
As we come home to right all our wrongs!