It rains,
But not the kind of rain I like,
I'd have liked
If it had been organic rain of cats and dogs.

But it isn't, not that showery rain,
The kind that waters the sward,
That gives the heartbeat of a swamp a kick,
Neither the kind that stumps on rooftops,
Nor rattles the ground with its beatings.

Rather the kind that breaks the air like frail looking ice,
Dries the eyes of their sweet juices,
With vengeful pain swells the ears,
With its weight grinds to a pulp the mind of the mind.

When this rain rains, fertile lands become arid lands.
At its distant echo vegetations yell cries
And into smithereens of withered deserts break their spirits.

A rain of slimy water whose drops are as hellish flames;
It feeds the voice and the voiceless with bitter salt,
Stuffs the hungry stomach with watery stones;
Even those gladdened by its fall
Are wrapped in fear long as tendrils.

You rain of calamity -- Nigerian government!
Your future worse than your past ever was!
With your sharp sword of oppression
Your people sliced up in broken silence.

The rain now the flood people drown,
Nothing to clutch on, even the straws, hurrying away.
The roadways cluttered by trees hunking down
From the rain's harsh blow that breaks their heads.

Oh Nigerian government, you're rain worse than calamity!

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