Animal Farm
The farm is Nigeria,
its soil red and dark with promise,
its air thick with fame and slogans.
Once, the animals rose
hooves pounding like drums,
horns lifted like banners,
chanting freedom,
chanting open grazing,
chanting tomorrow.
But the pigs learnt the language of power,
they bent the rules like crooked yam stakes,
they fattened on the harvest,
while goats chewed emptiness,
while hens scratched dust.
“Equality!” they cried,
but the poster on the wall
changed with the night,
and dawn brought another decree:
some bellies are born to swell,
some backs are born to bend.
The dogs barked for silence,
the sheep bleated obedience,
and Boxer, the horse,
worked till his bones broke,
sold for scraps
when his strength was gone.
Nigeria, my farm of many seasons,
your rulers wear the mask of comrades,
but their snouts are deep in the trough.
Your people plough the field,
yet the harvest feeds another mouth.
The lagoon remembers,
the forest remembers,
the masquerade remembers:
power is a drum,
but its echo betrays the dancer.
Siji Atagbon (London)
