Hail to the rubble of past discretions that the mighty seas defined as a passage way for riches without the inhabitants.
Hail the joys of stony beaches and the paw paw trees bearing more fruit for sunny walks.
Hail the barely clothed children running after soccer balls and parked cars by the side of gutters that flow with the memories of activity.
Hail the cock crow at dawn as the prayers of the morning — clad in the burning ingredients of akara and commuters — dangle from the vehicles of canned properties.
Hail the advent of seated leaders who scour the surface of existence without the input of citizens who are still waiting to be fed the complete menu of a country they chose in dreams.
Hail to the suffering of sunken villages and the owners who won’t flourish under the oily trespassers that ignite greed over the huts — inches from the flames.
Hail to the girls of war with paper artillery and the instructions from men dressed to kill and graze as fiery limbs take to the sky without threat.
Hail to traditions big and small and the everlasting turmoil of tribal restraints that fail to broker a timeline of survival
Hail to moi moi and fish eyes and the glorious feet of cows immersed in red stew or egusi although I prefer edikaikong.
Hail the spirit of a people that is entrenched in love and the duty of obedience and pride as the dependence commences a yearly homage to the colors of a flag and the anthem that we carry as the badge of green that we only see on the pole.
Hail to Nigeria.