ÒGÚNDÁBÈDÉ

ÒGÚNDÁBÈDÉ

Ògúndábèdé
You no longer come at the dead of the night
(when Jinns walk upon the earth)
To prove your horror and terror
And plunder treasure
Away, on the cart of violence, dread and bloodshed.

Gun in hand, boys behind
You defiled the holiness of peaceful rest
In minutes few
Your gun blew many into shreds
How they rested in piece!

Ògúndábèdé
How you have not greyed with time
As days overpower days
And months mount months
You’ve only transformed to suit moments
You now use pens — not guns
Suits — not wears of war.

Violence can no longer be read
From the redness of your eyes
Smiling all round the clock
As you operate from the coolness of your office
at broad day.
With figures and letters
birthed by the mischief of your pen
You plunder treasure.

Ògúndábèdé
How you have become sophisticated!
We no longer despise you,
We celebrate you
You are now a man of the people.

1. Ògúndábèdé: The greatest thief of all time in Yoruba mythology

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