Language of the Downtrodden By Okpo Chinomnso Sharon

Foul….. Foul….. Foul…..
The language of the downtrodden patriot;
This, we cry foul
When like a swarm of locust, they descended on us from the mountains;
Invading our privacy and tearing down our proclaimed fountains;
Ripping the clothes off our daughters’ breast,
exposing their cloak of innocence to much adulteration;
Crushing our husbands and sons by the thrusting of metal in flesh;
Making our mothers worse than barren women;
To this, we cry Foul

We screamed foul,
When they impede sacred grounds, desecrating our sacred altars;
Offering us the bitter fruits of our blood to eat, and our wastelands to live in.
When they handed us back our daughters, bruised and naked, with nothing to cover their shame.
We cry foul

We cry foul,
when we had to rebuild our ruins at the expense of our breath, murtering Joshua’s curse;
When in ugly understanding, we argued on the first block to lay towards building our Babel;
When in defiance to hardwork, the building blocks always come falling,
and upon us it did fall;
Crushing our present, and leaving us doubtful of a future to hope for.
And Like death, our ignorance and arrogance killed us.

But the cry must stop for the underlying Voice to be heard
And for our hands to be taught war, and our fingers battle.
Though still, our Being cry foul, cos our hands are yet feeble to man the sword,
And our mouths heavy to let free the voice given to us;
We rise to proclaim our resolve to live on and to make things right.
In the east and to the North, to the South and to the West.
Like the shepherd who gave himself for the safety of his flock, so we rise, determined never again to cry Foul: the language of the downtrodden patriot.


For the One I Love.

Gang kefas Chakura

For my wife.

I will try to say it plainly and honestly too, but warn I must, to wasteful marauders, who always reclaim arguments for ignorant exaggerations.

For my mark rest on her like the Ecclesiastical Seal of God upon his children, so I have no cause for despair to blow the trumpet and sound the bells in fast beating respire

Yet in joyful harmony and with the pride of a youthful White horse, I choose to praise this very sweetness that gives flavour to my appetite.

Thus, from my very innermost recess, I will say of the beauty that led my youthful vigour to a pathetic state of so much loveliness. This priceless rare ware that spins my every composure of the word fit and proper, is simply “the love of a damsel”, that onerous self sought passion for a woman that is sent to plague the world of man with no regard for pedigree.

Alas, It has infected me and thus to her, which makes my night dreams exciting and desirous than the lonesome reality of my afternoons, I must appease.

For how will i prefer reality when my dreams brings her so close and makes her mine without the fast heart beat of waiting for her seemingly shy reply?

The dimples that adorn her cheeks to reveal such gracious smiles fascinates and keeps me staring for hours. It leaves me expectant of her voice that echoes through my innermost recess setting aside all competing claims. This voice gives me a chill as in wonderful bewilderment at the sight of the stars and moon dancing through the storm that threatens the lifting of the cloud.

She moves with the sun and the air around her is sweeter than any honey money can buy. Like the full moon in open view at night, so her face radiates causing a great tranquil in my doubtful and love struck heart. For her very being is nurtured in and by beauty, just like the flowing stream that gets essence from the showers that fall and flow.

What an sweet agony, it was, yet like gangrene it spreads and as if given approval through my system regiment, I always think of her When I sit to think, for indeed even the song birds never stop singing delightfully her tunes through dawn. And if so, then, to you also must I sing
“The Sweetness that Gives Flavour to my Appetite”.



You love the Roses? so do I.

I wish the sky would rain down roses, as they rain from off the shaken bush. Why will it not?

Then all the valley would be pink and white and soft to tread on.

They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be like sleeping and like waking, all at once!


And when “she” the help was made, all nature waited for the presentation of this chief work,
in color black wrapped with beams so bright and radiant as the mid evening sun casting its light upon the Pison.

Glowing with these Gold she stood, an ever-radiant sight to behold, with the firmness and glow of a turquoise display.

But, would she in this beamy black, as greeny-gray
Progress in glorious lustre of a light fray?

Or will she at best devise sober hue to reflect, an object best only to knot and strain our sight, veiling those brave gleams of strength and training of fit and proper wrought in the masculinity of them going with her.?

Now, Upon the sun-burned bare land, her beauty, in prime we thus neglect; in the low swamp valleys her elegance thus negotiated we for betrayal. And in brutal celebration the glow of her beamy innocence vanquished with so vile indifference.

Yet, Upon the wrapped sun beams still lay her “Light”, hungry and ever so-desirous for an explosive unveiling to shine if only to lend her essence to the very rot and fountain of her plight.
that it be converted; the sun; and compassed with the dazzling aura of her inertness.

Oh, that it be revealed, her miraculous power, to drive far again a mystery that whereas black seems Beauty’s contrary,
She even if black doth make all beauties flow.

Both so and thus, in Love to honor all her grief and pain in making us living beings.

“Beloved-Stone-Faith”. GKC
Happy International Women’s day.

For GOSA  Set ‘010 on the feat of hosting an online FESTAC. Oct 28, 2017.

It is indeed a converging of giants,
Not in swatting pants like WWE stars,
Nor in a weight lifting event at the Olympics,
Neither is it, a ballistic weapon test from the high and mighty to the most lowly of beings,

It is simply a meeting of impossibility with ideology and inventiveness,
A gathering of the Eagles in the high skies,
A meeting point for realism and surrealism,
An exposure of the very true essence of togetherness,

It is a feat like no other,
With its sensation surging the heart in joyful pain on the absence of a civilian in military regalia, (Morn sir)
Indeed, the battle cry for creativity amidst this floating recompense fits better his sword of encouragement and determination to excel without bound,
Than it does the implicative munching of the “lai”s and “ab- ati”s of the incumbent general.

It was an attempt that proved non-contempt,
Being acceptable to the non-susceptible,
A finesse that begs to be harness,
And used in contemporary international dialogue,

Alas, I say “Sannu” “daradara-se” “i mere inke oma”.
And may your star, star the universe ever so “starringly”.- GANG KEFAS CHAKURA.

It is about NANTOK, in whom the heyday of GOSA ’10 Love came to its precious and most perfect flower.

Whether you tourneyed with victorious lance
Or brought sweet roundelay to Debby’s bower, only you can say

Though, Sometimes I give myself some credit for the way
I have kept clean of what enslaves and brightens, and have shunned the ideals of our present day, limiting emotion only to study those that were esteemed in exalted lowliness as yours;

But I see you, turning from the mob that buys Success by sacrificing all life’s better part of human happiness on the free road of ambition,

You frolicked, ambition, Love and family together, merged in strict devotion all along to holistic human happiness.

I admire and respect you like the Star you are.

Happy birthday bro, I pray you Gods Grace to shine ever so brightly and to enjoy the best fruits of Love.


The drum beats suddenly silenced in broad day light;

With the drum set shattered and thrown

Down Ancestral groove

The organist in harmony lost tune before night

With the organ scratched to brown

Down Ancestral groove


The hunting dog suddenly runs pale

With its tail between hind limbs as gale

Forgetting the days of wagging tail

At cease of the words “bamu na wasa bane”

Oh! how the catapult now prepares cocktail

And Arranges history tutorials for the once targeting game

In savage tutelage;

With the horse whip existing only in Uthman Danfodio’s tale


I thought this to be a good omen

Until I sat to sought what makes the Gongbells acquiesce

Then as if in reminisce

I discovered that freedom at infancy is a destroyer of men


And Then I saw it, clear as day unfolding itself

The nauseating feeling of the drum beats stopping at mid-throb

The memory of joyful pain from horse whip absorb

The guilty celebration of “Is that the end of your height?”

The many enthusiastic rediscovery of delight

All being washed and replaced by the

mournful eulogy of the great heartthrob


Oh! how the mighty have fallen

From the planes of the compound called mission

Your sword conquered and created vision

For the countless under your regimen

Those who at a time, with pulsating mockery

Declared your pride land a mere bindery


How in Remembrance I say the common slogan,

The old rugged deep-rooted ecclesial line

“A man reaps what he sows, for God cannot be mocked”

Again, I say how the mighty has fallen

Proclaim it not in the bare lands of Furmangs’ farm,

Or in the rich planes and valleys of Jalo that stagger,

nor in the high lands of Crespo  the Bridger


but shout it out to the perfunctory flames of Mannock

to the illuminating light of the GOSA regimen

to the non-ending calvary , matching tireless with raised gunstock

having renewed strength of an eagle and the lifted horn of the unicorn


let this fairwell build a bridge across the Great divide

removing everyone from the scab-clotted corner of Ancestral groove

for I certainly know that now is the time to continue your legacy.



By Fiki Tayo.

He came for the lost
He came for the weary
He came for the rejected, for the sick, confused and the troubled
He came for deliverance and with a mission to rescue and to restore he came

Though we are unworthy
He suffered as bait
Though we showed no love but apathy
He suffered for the gate
He gave His all regardless of our uncommittedness

He is King, A God He is
Yet like a lamb to us He came
A mere carpenter’s son He became
He lifted not his hand as if lame
but in humility lay Him his life
Like a goat led to the slaughter lane

We know not of its worth
The price and the cost in coming forth
The pain, suffering, and sacrifice
The rejection, disdain that suffice
Do you know the price of the cross?
Can you measure the distance across?

The value of the blood He shed
The feeling of the lash as he bled
The nails that dug into his flesh
The thorns adorned that pierced like mesh
The shame and disgrace of the cross
The curse He became for you and I to cross
Don’t let that be in vain
Don’t let it all go without gain
Time is ticking and fast dropping like rains
Stand tall and walk the walk never to get stain.


First blog post


I never thought the Sea to be this deep;
Nor considered the Earth so dark;
I never thought the sun this far;
Nor considered the heavens beyond the reach of men;
I never thought my sleep this long;
Nor considered the sweet tap of LOVE.

And now, it speaks that comes from within
Through the moon, it rises a glimpse of Faith and Life
Although blind, it moves in perfect harmony
Towards its expected end…