By Sunday Afolayan
A day of sorrow it was in deed
A day of horror and tears and blood
A day of grief, of cords and scourges
The day BumBam was hacked down
At “the Smoking Hills” by the robbers’ bullet
In peace, of course, the day began
The sky was bright and full of life
Unknown to none among the sears
The claws of death were drawing anear
With killers that lurked behind the scene
Like the sounds of knockout the fire began
Some bangs were heard and pellets erupted
And pods and missiles were renting the sky
The land in sorrow, her plexus in trouble
Confusion, illusion and the likes of them
Enwrapped the land with ponds of blood
From hell, in a furry, the devil appeared unawares
To raze, to topple, to sweep the land
With tales of woes and gnashing of teeth
The earth, for him, was callous in deed
He came, he saw, he fought but lost
Like a game in the forest, he bowed to the fowlers
A hapless and harmless, innocent, ill-fated
A leader of future has been lost in a jiffy
He lived but never to see the morrow
His life, in a twilight, has melted like wax
My tears, I shed with grief and gall
And bleeding is my heart in violent eruption
Remembering the saga, a tale of woe
The day our BumBam was killed for nothing
By the agents of Satan – the sons of the devil.
Smoking Hills Figurative for Ilara Mokin
19.07.2021, 11:34pm, RUGIPO, Owo.
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