https://acrobat.adobe.com/id/urn:aaid:sc:EU:45b313ea-a7b2-49b5-a23c-964d532b7a41

INEC-TOMORROW 

These sands may not be here

though their whispers be of

our passage- mirrors of our

high heads

or shadows of us, tearfully

fading like haze

when our chatter coil into

memoirs and sepia chromes

coats our pictures.

Today yet grows into yesterday

and our cheeks may no longer

be dimpled.

These sands may be here

when tendrils twist into ropes

when we converse in sigh and

nods; our exuberance saddened

by storms and wind.

These sands may still be here,

but where will our feet be?

This foliage may not be green yet

when we dig up yam from mounds;

their size testaments of the

weight of our arms.

Will they wear us feathers?

Feed twelve thousand mouths?

or blighted by laxity; unplanned

plan for failure?

INEC, today that lures with play

and petals awaits tomorrow

to mock its victims.

Will our dreams have become

mere mantras, recounted mindlessly

for their worth in speech, but

worthless in deeds?

INEC, will our pity to Socratic

deities have been in vain?

Tomorrow strolls slowly though,

but with certitude of season,

it comes and the foliage may

not be green still.

The sands may have grown sad,

though not dead,

but where will our footprints be?

See our bookbed and the

nightly lamp climbing ceiling wards;

our hope oil it.

When our cornfields ripe rust

what curb shall we cut; full

beaded or scanty toothed?

Nna, tomorrow you cap in the

academia- robed.

UNN would not have cracked in vain.

The hills of great camp neither would

have stood for sports.

When you duff your wig in the bar

we stand with the roadside weeds;

bended but unbroken.

We rise with the sand dust- skyward

our sinews, passes through the anvil

and must be hammered while yet

malable- I die with the pen;

A minstrel minister!

We die not as onlookers, not

as victims, though uncertainty

is certain- with faith we conquer

fate!

This desk may have been subdued

by termites, will our souls too

be subdued?

Palms; bended but unbroken!

Pals- we soar to the apex of

our apprenticeship- readers today,

leaders tomorrow.

These sands will still here bearing marks of our passage

Will it be shadow fading like haze

or true reflections of who we are?

By Gabriel C. Eze (he/him/his)