The crows of ignorance,
Have eaten the last seeds of logic.
The grave yard is the wisest
Because intellect has been buried.
As the wind of superstition,
Sweeps clean the halls of ivory
Clean the desks of politicians
The tone of the nubian sage echoes a foreign voice,
From the hill top, he postulates dark prophecies,
Unable to steer the ship from the wave of uncertainties,
Sacrificing research, for the juice in the maiden’s loins
Why are your pens, drunken with drought?
A century of years, your ideas have no clout
You are a doctor of science, but a patient to superstition,
you analyze the problems, without proferring solutions.
O ye intellectuals,
You have become fugitives to knowledge
Yours is a light, reinforced by darkness,
Thine laxity has put Africa in bondage
Over two centuries when slavery ended,
More than half a decade, we attained independence,
you can only boast of your titles,
Rather than making lives vital.
Ye are the vultures, that feed on the carcass of empericism,
Ye are the famine, the drought that dried the fountain,
Your pen spills the ink of ethnicity,
Rather than innovations and ideologies.
You use analog principles in a digital age,
Award degrees to thugs and urchins,
Yet deprive the kids, with exorbitant fees
You are an anathema to the minds of the sane.
No tasks for our brain to work,
No tools to conquer the environment around us,
No theories to redirect our faults,
Ye are the curse of our resource