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Each night I sit on my bed
Fighting back the rising panic
Seeping through my sterile room
My stomach a hard knot of fear
Asking questions inside my head
Who’d be the next cow to be slaughtered?

Each day I step outside
Wearing all the weight of fears like a flower
When I walk down our street
I see an eeriness hanging in the air
So, I hasten my steps
Trying to warm away the sick, cold lump of fear in my stomach

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My black lips bear the tale of a black son
whose black blood flows through the rivers of omambala;
With a black gun held in a black hand his soul was torn from his body
His only fault was being a Nigerian

under the sheets

To be a Nigerian is to be born without your voice being heard
You tie your voice with your fear and hide it in your belly
You die with your eyes open and with your life threatened.

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