Rush at the crumbs,

as masters swipe them off table's edge,

unashamed, beg for more,

promise allegiance and loyalty;

anything to secure continued droppings

from the bowels of black crude

beneath your father's farm.

Woo them, saying:

‘Boss, how far, you know your boy is loyal!’

‘Chairman, make dem leave something for your boys na!’

Remain a faithful ‘boy’ while

contaminated air and polluted rivers

number your days.

Ever loyal,

do his messy cleanups,

erase unwanted elements for the master.

Do anything,

but don't engage the ‘Boss’ in serious

conversation about community entitlements,

oil spills, education, jobs for youth.

How long before you tire of

man-made crutches, while

your limbs remain dormant?

When will you awaken and ask

whence these handouts came?

Or query what these millions were set out for

before they turned crumb for boys?

How long before you stand,

demand a say, in the sharing

of this communal meal?

A meal for which your land’s

depths were plumbed, while you

continue to live in penury and filth!

When will you see that masters

only push crumbs your way to

keep boys on a perpetual leash?

Land of immeasurable wealth turned

poster child for despoliation.

Oh, Niger Delta,

when will you tire of this bondage?