From the human abattoirs of Maiduguri in the North East,
Over Benue’s green fields of terror in the Middle belt,
To the wailing waters of the Bright of Biafra down in the deep South of the South-South;
Bewildered men, women and children converge at the foot of this bellowing mountain of horror;
Drenched in the soot of phobia. Waiting for the next news of blood curdling slaughter while debating the number of the dead;
Going to bed not knowing whether the riders of the pale horse will visit their community or a distant one.
Yet they cry to be saved;
Or be buried in marked graves, if not.
The tiny bush fire ignored yesterday has become a raging inferno knocking on the santuary of the powers that be after ravaging the habitats of the low.
Where is my country?