David Okigbo

Biography: David Okigbo is a varsity student of computer science from Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu University, Uli, Anambra state. He is from Awka South LGA in Anambra state. He has a passion for writing from a young age and now spends a huge part of his time in front of his computer screen, cooking up moving words as poetry and prose. His works mostly try to tackle matters of social injustices like sexism, racism, and homophobia.

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David Okigbo
Wednesday 9 June 2021

Prayer of a dying girl

Her screams echoed at the altar, his moans as loud as a horse.

Lord, will it ever get better, or did it just become worse?

She was going through the motions, laying helplessly on the cold tile.

No words to describe her emotions, her purity, no tears could not defile.

he got what they wanted, laughing merrily on his way.

By his sins, she was haunted. His guilt, her debt to pay.

Like snow in a summer’s morn, she was fading away fast.

Conscious of her untimely demise, choking on ceaseless cries,

She mumbled a brief prayer, one soon to be her last.

"Dear God in heaven, I guess I will meet you soon

Take care of my family, guide them under your moon

Provide for father, in this time of need

Console dear mother, her baby is safe indeed

Tell my poor siblings I’m with them to the end of time

I dwell in a better place now, free from suffering and of crime.

Lastly immortal one, I Forgive my oppressor

For he knows not what they do

But give me justice, not for my sake

But for victims coming soon.

The horror is very much alive; the land soaked with a curse.

Was it ever better, or was it always worse?


David Okigbo
Wednesday 9 June 2021

For what?

A woman careens on the run as thick tears and sweat ricochet to one.

Sister Gaea, her friend and foe, pricks her naked heels with fire and thorn.

She sees the dusty road but can’t find her way.

unsafe still in an unholy time of day.

Behind her, a baby quietly rests, for she is its mother.

It clings to life and her crooked back, dangling by a yard of frayed Ankara.

The baby knows better than to bawl,

it sleeps, through the bangs and bullets

Too famished to make a sound.

A child weaned by the wake of war,

And for what?

A father rides swiftly to safety

His boy tugging the bicycle seat.

He buries his eyes on the road,

burying still the screams of the lad

who struggled as rusty chains had

mangled his bony, tender feet.

The boy falls with a thud

Bleeding the hurt away.

His papa grips the brakes wipes his eyes,

sets him firmly on the metal boot.,

as tires, gears, and pedals roll again

leaving a crimson trail for the enemy to follow.

And for what?

If we set the land on fire, where do the villagers run?

They scamper like the Okey and Nchi,

When the forests burn.

But the flame thrower should also know,

That fire consumes all under the same sun.

In the ruins left by the birth chaos

As blood clots and iron rots

One question tallies in the minds of men,

And for what? For what? For what?







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