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Where Are Thy Prophets?


Henry Igbinedion

Here they come again
Those our marabouts warned us against.
They are the false prophets

Itís that season again,
When barbed prophecies, base predictions
And truthful lies rule the waves.

That time of elongated hats and garrulous attires, a
Time of prodigious merriment
For the rented horners and drummers,

A season when thugs strum their cymbals
And hooligan beat their gongs
Itís that time again
Of mass purchase of
Staples and liquor.

They have come again
Those that turn virtue on its head
And promote insincerity into a religion.

Those mendacious statesmen of yore are back
From the soap box to the juke box
They mouth oaths of solemn prostrations to our humanity
Itís that season of subterfuge and chicanery again,

When they inebriate our youth, and
In a bout of selective amnesia;
Giddy with the wine of mendacity. We will
Throng the spring month of April

And like a lamb to the slaughter
Select the mandarins of demagoguery,
To continue the jaded cycle
Of us versus them.

But where are the prophets?

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