BY: Chidiebele Ojuanu
(Spectacular Pen ✍️)

BLOOD OF COUNTRY MEN

My Country laboured and fought for,
This freedom valiantly craved for.
The forefathers wailed till it came;
Although theirs was a foretaste,
In hope that we will enjoy a full taste.

My Country saw the deaths of fallen soldiers,
Who bore a quest on their shoulders,
A quest for a nation, more like family,
Where brothers gather at evenings happily.

The weak men feared not death,
"For my country!" they chanted till their last breath.
Cleaved to their warring hands, 
was their weapons.
On their memorials, was our long awaited freedom.

My Country, on whose soil their blood was spilled,
Has become a terror to their offsprings,
For whose sake they went nights without being filled.
The leaders have become hope eaters;
Promising liberty yet in chains.

"Where be the black brotherhood we fought for?" The ancestors wailed.
We have acquired education without segregation;
but the pen has become a precious stone,
that none could afford without economic validation.
The lands weeps but not with tears,
The droplets of blood from agonised eyes.

Our fathers' blood bore freedom
But each day we live as men meant for slaughter.
We believed the White-skin men did us evil,
Not knowing we were worse than the devil.
"See them running beyond the borders" The ancestors mocked.

My Country, Nigeria, the giant of Africa,
But she lives like a grasshopper,
With no greener pastures like a wandering dreamer.
Let us come home and build together,
Lest the labours of our heroes past be in vain.