The Slave Mill Poem by Oladimeji Hakeem Olayinka

I move to and fro like oscillant tide,
Beside forsaken old Zuma rock.
bleeding shrieking, snare inside hallway,
Of Old monument streets. Writhing of despair.
Vale of tears, the Path is forlorn.
Mystery untold and Long night of lorns.

In that dozy hour, I wake, for the misery betide
In the broad daylight, owndom set ablaze.
I run to and fro timorously, Looking pale
And famished as ever, who will save me?

Thoughtless progeny,
Have wan me down to feeble.
The path is forlorn, I'm dancing on the shard
I keep taking a step backwards
These debase mild-griffin comes at me,
Like water through a ruptured dam.
And they sit on my power keg.
Glaring at the tunes of brutal dictatorship.

My neighbors stare at me.
Watching how my progeny slog into slave mill.
Walking all day nothing to bring homeward
I'm being despoil in my own soil
I have hoe, but I weed with my hand
I made cutlass, still I borrowed.
I made fabrics that make excellent
Attires, but I wear turbulent one's
I have mansions, but I sleep inside rancho.


The Economy following the ebb crumbling part
Recoil,
Disease is rife, food is scarce, and water is unsafe,
The western world just watches.
Oh! Poverty is spinning out of control
Ravaging the high mountain of Mount Dimlag.

Stagnant water tend to rot.
Fragment of hope toast in slum.
How do my meek-kid conquer this defeat?
Blood rain in my deserted lands heavily.
I'm trapped in this hollow cave of sorrow
Save me! Save me! Save me! .

I'm running out of time
How do I demote this Fetters
That restraint and entangled my progress
How long will this poverty wobbles my land
The fruits of my hard labour
We're been eaten as the termite eat the woods

Silently, pitch black engulfed
Children fainting in there mystery
Looking pale and famished as ever
Roaming around the pagan street.
Dirty ragged mild-kid, scattered on the dusty road,
Scrambling for oranges peeling.
I'm Nigerian, the old slave mill.