Poor Zabarmari!
Poor Zabarmari!
Humble aboard obscured by the sahel.
Thy soil tuned fine by the lake water
draws men far and near to thy gates.
Thy cheerful hands, grains blindly give
to all those who sow and toil on thee.
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Oh Zabarmari!
Harvest’s field.
Just before last night’s fall, you were there
unknown to the world abroad.
If thou, to fame must rise, must throats lay slit
and blood flow in innocence’s stream?
Oh Zabarmari!
The city of sorrow, thy sons lay low betimes,
their glow and prime all with them beneath.
The field ripe with grains of thy daughter’s sweat
screams red in anguish and pain,
robbed in the sharpness of knives’ smooth slide,
all a work for just a day’s part.
Oh Zabarmari!
One following the other, to the slaughter
thy offspring answered the call.
Sobs and weeps and wails and dirges,
songs of grief for souls that never
would return.
Abba Adamu Musa is a video journalist who studied Mass Communication at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. He is from Borno State.
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