It is dawn and still we snore on,still we dream of tomorrows, even though today is staring us in the face.
We ignore the cockrel’s wake up crow, ignore the sun slating through leaking roofs onto our faces. We dream on. Of monstrously huge mansions, armed convoys and better tomorrows.
The Nigerian Dream.
The world passes on, and with our eyes shut we have no clue. We are lost in time. We see our lives whirl past and too tired to wave, we blink.
Our dreams are filled with nightmares we don’t see. We conveniently unsee them. We play deaf and dumb to the dead dove’s howling cry,
and wake with jinx-curses on our door.
For night comes and we wake. We wake to the horrors of the day cloaked in the shadows of the dusk. We wake to bruised dreams clinging like milk jars on the edge of a creaky-legged table,we wake to the sound of digging, mass graves for hollowed out smiles , for stiffled hopes and deflated dreams…
Sometimes we wake to moonshine and birdsong, to calm breeze and ecstatic village voices, we wake to thunderstorms and heaven’s healing drops.
Dawn comes and we sleep. And dream. The dream of tomorrows.