You wear the cap of power,
But you have forgotten the bare feet beneath it.
High in Abuja’s towers of glass,
You forget the throne you seek is moulded from dust.
Once, politics was the communal drum.
Now, it is a solo for father, son, wife and cronies,
A bank account pulsing where a heart should beat.
You preach Renewed Hope,
We chew Renewed Hunger.
Every four seasons, cap in hand, you migrate to the palace,
“Bless us, Royal Father.”
After the ballot, you vanish.
Tell me,
Is the palace a polling booth?
A latrine you visit only when pressed?
Listen to the silence in my Emirate:
Fifty-two school bells that no longer ring,
Twelve farms where the hoe now fears the soil.
Turji dines 100 kilometres from my gate,
While you feast on tickets for 2027.
Your house of broom quarrels within itself,
Home against Abuja,
Hounds fighting for bone while wolves eat the child.
The village bleeds, citizens weep, the town itself not safe.
For what is a ballot if the voter is buried?
What is a ticket if the road to it is a graveyard?
Hear this, and fold it into your agbada:
When rulers politic with selfishness,
The people will vote with selfishness.
You taught them transaction.
Do not weep when they transact against you.
They will take your rice, and keep their heart.
They will take your N5,000 with a smile,
And bury your ambition with the same smile.
Do not return with posters.
Return with peace.
Voiced from the ancient throne of Katsina by His Royal Highness Alhaji Dr Abdulmumini Kabir Usman, CFR, Emir of Katsina, to the pilgrims of power to the palace.
Versified and curated by Danjuma Amodu
