There is a place we called home
Where we sleep without midnight lullaby
A mountain upon huge of refuses
We house the dirt of others to clothe our borders.
Where we were brought up
The horn of the Dangote trailer wake us by 3am
Echoing into our ears that Wake! Wake!! Wake!!!
You are not meant to taste sweet Potatoes.
We are the son of the three thunder
Of famine, of darkness, of the sword.
We know how to eat from what does not exist
And to make ourselves comfortable without comfort.
Our trumpet blast to such a withering voices
Of darkness, of gloom, of the storm.
We have no bed to call our own
Talk less of bed of roses.
We are the refuse dump where others drop their shit
We are unwanted fetus that refuses to be terminated
Struggling is the momentum, which determines the moment
And there is no future better than our survival.
We are shortsighted from seeing our arms power, that’s greater than an arms race,
We did not hear of education and how it can help our determination
Yet we made planes with papers and build a house with a heap
Without knowing about an acute or obtuse angle.
In us dwells a word the world cannot withhold
And that’s why they tried to hold us back
But they forget that we are a breeze that can never be held
Dreams that were not meant for midnight alone.
We are the core option to stop corruption, terror to stop terrorism
With our strength and unkempt hair, with our uneducated brain
We can transform this nation like we turn waste dump to a city
But we can only help if we got the chance.
If you liked the essay Refuse Dump, please check out other entries for the theme Diaspora: Liberate Yourself only here at The Ugly Writers.