Poetry

He was a big man, says the size of his
perimeter
and watch-out towers around his
compound;
A scared man too, say his armoured
vehicles
in a strongroom nearby; and not
God-fearing,
say the Bibles rarely opened
in every bookcase of this citadel,
smelling of print;
but not a man of the people, says the
jewellery

cluttered with rocks and shiny metal.
 
Women lived with him, sometimes, say
the photos
in his safes and, some yellowing with
age
and some very young mistresses your
kid's age-
not surprising he had no children.
Money here was more than could be spent
While millions of his subjects
starved to death,
Wealth too was
amassed in large quantities.
But 'twasn't happy
here, says the gloomy surrounding.
 
Something went
wrong, says the empty house
and the bullet
riddled walls. Debris outside
say it was a coup;
done the African way,
and the gloomy
environs of this stately house.
He must have left
in a nervous haste,

says the fact that
he wasn't killed.
What do you expect when you rule for decades, and
your country's a mess?
Something went wrong, for sure.