They called it home, But I was born into warzones wrapped in lullabies. My mother nursed me with stories of peace— But the sound outside her door Wasn’t peace. It was gunshots dressed as politics.

We light candles at vigils For those who were fire before flame devoured them. We memorize the names of the fallen, Like hymns— Too many syllables for one breath to carry.

And I still pray. I still kneel on broken ground, While the soil spits up bones too young to decay. I still whisper God's name in the dark— Even when the dark answers louder.

They preach hope with stained fingers, Counting bribes like blessings. They wear agbadas stitched with the screams of children— Bandits call it ransom, But I call it blood money.

I want to scream but silence holds my throat, Like the hands of a soldier who's seen too much, Like a mother burying her child With the same hands she used to carry him. Is this the Nigeria we prayed for?

I am tired. But not tired enough to stop writing. Not broken enough to stop believing. Not dead enough to stop dreaming Of a dawn that doesn’t smell like gunpowder.

So I speak, And I scream, And I sob in syllables.

Because if I don’t— Who will tell the story of a nation That bleeds while its people pray? That burns while the prophets stay silent? That dies... one breath at a time?