It was here-
In this land,
That my legs learned to stand.
It was here where I and my small naked
fellows played-
jumping with our little feets and claping
our hands.
It was here I was born,
It was here I first saw the sun!
Yes, in this old hut-
The memory is still clean
Like a new born.
It was here!
And she agreed to call me her own- Nne
Nigeria- my mother.
She clothed me with a skin edible to the
eyes
Like the August pear,
And gave me her green-white-green
wrapper
So I can look colourful among my peers.
In her bossom,
On her streets,
This courage to survive blossomed and
blossomed
Like the depths of a thousand wailing abyss.
Yes! It was her who taught me the war
songs to sing
When life turns itself into a ring.
I love her.
And I'll give my hands so she can touch
the sky,
And on the clouds, take her ride.
I'll uphold her.
Without shame,
I'll rumple my smooth hands
And mold blocks of patriotism
To build her name.
I'll hang out her beauty on a line,
And make the world behold her!
And I urge you my brothers
To do the same.
Let us keep her clean!
My brothers in sanitation.
With our rakes and brooms,
Let us make her streets like the loving stroll of a virgin bride
Awaiting her groom.
When her children- our brothers fall sick,
Please my medical siblings,
Let us first keep our brother from kicking
the bucket,
Before we demand what lies in his wallet.
Strong men I salute you!
Our brothers who stand at her gates
And protect her children-
Your brothers day-to-day.
May hatred see your hearts as hell;
And may it line up tenderly with love-
Crisp clear as the sun glowing in the summer sky.
Such love visible enough for mouths to tell;
For as a gardener does not pour acid on the
crops he should tame,
And a mother does not hide the crotches
From her crippled child;
So let the crime-free be free,
And don't kill the ones whom your power
was meant to free.
My brothers who play with the ink-
Who grow trees of creativity
And carve words into strong furnitures;
Write of her smiles,
Of the goodness in her heart,
Of her simple streams,
And her marveling mountains.
With your pens-
O brethren of the press,
Please tell her good.
So the world can see her real face-
Fine like the sight of the sun looking down on a sleeping sea.
Come brethren,
Let us rise for Nne-Nigeria- our mother.
Let us give her our voices so she can talk
with bliss.
And give her our legs,
So she can stand tall and remain the giant
that she is.
Come brethren,
Do her good, and good will surely be done us.
