It was Monday, saddled with hurried sun set;
across the rustic roof of mudded plain
scrubbed with the musky voices of malnourished children,
crawling on their bellies with a poverty perked cheek.
Tuesday came with a laughter ridden mouth;
raining curses of promises,
crying roughly of our anguishes
Pointing disparagingly at our brick falling homes, .
Wednesday was hopeful to have bought our conscience,
raking dust of truck loaded grains;
en-routing the rain-mined grave to mumbi.
Grains flying, legs racing, rainbow flashes on bowls,
a cut of the looted cowries was our birth right.
Torn cloth was the identification of charity;
they were scrooge on Monday.
The local authorities rode on the ungirdled horses of corruption
with their legs cross like sickle bending.
Thursday came in their big tyred anti-potholes monster truck
songs chanted, drums rolled,
women pounding their waist to the throb of the drums.
Their cloth billows in the breeze for a tear,
Friday was a balm of devil’s bean,
strangers came knocking at our doors.
We have sold our future under the surveillance of ignorance:
with the hurried sun set across the rustic muddled plain,
with the bones of dead trees used as bridges,
with the rain-mined graves,
with our local authorities as the citadel of corruption,
what are we?
Self-slaves of consciences by Saturday.