The Exiles of the Broken Covenant

 In the scorched belly of their ancestral soil,

a once living region lies gutted and deserted
villages reduced to skeletal ruins,
farmlands strangled by thorns and silence,
where the last ember of communal honor flickered out
beneath the weight of their own insatiable hands.
They fled the hell they birthed,
scattering like cursed locusts before the whirlwind of their making,
seeking refuge in neighboring lands
from the very atrocities that now define their bloodline.

There, beyond the fragile borderlines,
they swell with arrogant venom,
strutting like false emperors through streets that are not theirs.
Voices thunder with unearned pride,
shoulders squared in borrowed swagger,
they mock the hospitality that shields them,
while the red dust of their self-made wasteland still stains their soles
and the ghosts of their abandoned kin whisper accusations in the wind.

They are not fleeing strangers or foreign blades
they run from the bitter harvest of their fathers’ neglect:
parents who sowed no roots of dignity,
who raised sons on the milk of cunning and greed alone.
now, in trembling old age, those same elders cower behind iron gates,
tormented by the very monsters they failed to civilize
children turned predators, demanding blood money from the breasts that once nursed them.
Money alone is their deity
a filthy, blood-stained idol they worship with fevered devotion.


For its sake they court any abyss,
swallow any risk, traffic in any abomination,
peddling slow death in glittering vials and counterfeit cures
that rot the innocent from within,
all while their souls blacken like charred shrines.
In this blighted culture, no elder walks with integrity.
The graybeards meant to be pillars of wisdom
have withered into complicit shadows,
lavishing praise upon their own criminals:
the alchemists of poison who brew drugs in hidden cauldrons,
the forgers who flood markets with fake goods and lethal medicines,
smiling as mothers bury children poisoned by their “progress.”


They compose odes to these destroyers,
crown the swindlers as heroes,
call the merchants of death “sharp” and “blessed with hustle,”
turning vice into virtue and shame into song.
They are the festering thorn driven deep into the seeds of Odua’s flesh
a wandering plague upon the ancient green hills and proud lineages,
dragging Nigeria’s once-noble name through every sewer of the globe.


One solitary tribe, yet they smear the entire nation
with the tar of their collective disgrace,
turning the green-white-green banner into a rag stained by their footprints.
From the markets of Ghana to the shores of Liberia they swarm,
through the valleys of Kenya and the volatile townships of South Africa,
across the neon veins of Malaysia and the disciplined spires of Singapore
peddling powders that masquerade as paradise but deliver only graves.


A single tribe, yet the world now utters “Nigeria”
with a grimace whenever their arrests make headlines
and their shame stained cargoes are seized.
Now they are hunted like vermin across the continent.
South Africa rises in righteous fury, spitting them out;
Africa itself awakens, chasing them from border to border
the very lands they once treated as hunting grounds
now bar their gates and sharpen spears against their approach.


Still they parade their barbarism as a glittering badge of honor,
pinning infamy to their chests like medals earned in battle,
convinced that exile is triumph
and that the stench of their legacy is merely the perfume of power.
They flee the desert they created,
yet the desert travels in their bones
a tribe that devoured its own home,
then exported its rot to the four corners of the earth,
leaving behind a name that echoes not with pride,