Mide Benedict: THE SAINT!


Februarys, Ogres that transform every four turns
When prepared to be accepted as true sons
By the counts of times.
Rather than showing gratitude to those months
Who blessed them and accepted them as a second ladder,
They would torture them, make them weaker, Take their wings and cut their longer tracked plume.
February though the tiniest among the counts in time,
Yet mounts up wings of the deceiver’s fall
With all mind and might to grow tall.

A February I know and examined with great view;
His ways and acts I have decided to review
So that months and days will no longer bear his curse.
Gently he comes to them like a pauper, begging for roles of abacus,
Just to have few days as breeds:
To make the difference left undone for four years.
Two years before January breaks its last egg
Before the thirty-first day releases its peg
He spoke of goodness and stability
But he quaked month’s mentality.

February shines with colours of deceit
That blurs November to January’s eyes to share of winters tears;
And when February’s wish does come to pass,
He gets some days which he breastfeed with blades of sour
And some also follow him due to peanuts’ tour.
He did made the difference, that difference of a blood pour:
Massacres the first two that peeped and with no eyes of mercy to zoom,
Into the tiger’s cage, February sends them to their hour of doom.

March and April, how lovely your faces bloomed
How beautiful your spring boomed
Must May be throat-opened to make the other
Seven altar months in fear surrender
To your timeless heartless act of bloody massacre?
Not enough for your shameless space?
The months you struck, their home too small a place?
Or it the overflow of deadly power your case?

He pounces on May like a wild cat,
Tearing him into pieces and upon his closed eyes he spat
Now that May is gone, how will June to December reign?
A great harvest of sorrow and pain
Surely February has gone insane

He leaves the corpse and walks away
To take May’s place, for that his way
Other months gather to mourn for May,
April and March are buried in the place beneath;
Where they once gasped for breath
Before they were stringed together with May; all three died a gushing death.
May an hero of the red eyes days, the most handsome
And the freshest of all months of gallant plum
The saviour of the struggling bloods
And the master of the voicing swords,
Has been slain by the most trusted one.
A monument is made at their graves; a remembrance of lives that lives on

February again, the saint crowing his deed,
Walks towards the buried May to water is unsatisfied seed
Master of disaster! Your slaughter not enough a smile
Your evil feats are not okay to tile?
Or the black blood of April to the last
And those innocents you made the futures a pitied past
Are not enough for a vacuum pain?
Not enough a wine for you to wine
Enough food for you to dine.
The power from the darkest of earthly places not enough to reign?

February again digs the grave of the musketeers
And renders there monument a scene of tears
Their bodies he takes and lays in the toothed evil forest,
Where no soul finds peace or rest
‘Stop wicked soul from hell!’ the sun, the crop, and the oil yells
Their clays not meant for the poorest of place.
That field whose belly is filled with the evil kindred of February
That place so full of evil and so scary

February again prepares for a hunt,
Picks up is spear that kills with no count.
And even when it kills innocent days, justice is lost in the court
Just like yank, in a story’s line thought
In such places what you find is innocent’s fault
His heart and soul is controlled by some unseen god-fathers
That are Februaries too, both of similar feathers.
To rule them all
Without a call,
He makes them fall.

He goes into January’s palace
To make him pay for the good he does and to take his place.
January sees him approach but never moves nor fight back
He sees when February gives him a crack
Though he has the strength to give him a deadly knock
Still he waits to receive humility’s superiority
And so he bears February act of cruelty.
February takes January’s clothes and gradually puts it on his structure
After he gets to the throne and gives a signature
That ends a cure.
Something happens.
A thing which no mind thought
And no brain caught.
February swallows January but can’t take all in
He leaves the part Jan which lies in
January behind, since the God doesn’t watch
The innocent in pain without drawing a sketch.
Unto His wings He would make them clutch
For never will I see the righteous beg for bread
For In the Mosaic so He said.

January escapes though is body thorn
But his scrape sounds in heaven like a blast of horn.
When power drives; danger precedes
With January’s clout February proceeds.
Deeds are deeds, tick tocks not charms of it whether North or West
Whether South or East,
Deeds will surely gush out of its asylum.
Not long his eyes became so full of evil’s storm.
He began his sinful manner:
February too stuck with January’s power,
Commanded moments to bend and years to bow
This made days and weeks to kowtow
Before him, the man of terrors
Whose ways where so filled with errors

Then a day comes that deeds chuckle
His life is clucked by death’s sickle
Though he is still fresh, for is face bares no wrinkle
He clacks in pain gasps for breath and that is all
No one is left to bury him not even in the forest of evil
Nor keep is sinful body in the soil
For the lands reject him
And the maggots harbor him
All those friends of his who push him to death
And make him gather a bloody wealth
To his purse
All spit on his corpse
And give him a cause
As a parting gift
That was how life closes February’s growing rift:
So his end comes as quick as his start.
Evil is shown his rightful part.

He forgot the ruling key:
To rule well is to rule with a heart full of guarantee
To rule and die in blood is to rule with a heart that can’t see
And a hand that can’t work to give the people their rewards and their fee.
A real ruler possesses a heart that doesn’t kill.
And a purse that can’t steal.
Rulers who are February’ caste
And whose minds feel goodness and humanism as a pathetic last
Will surely kill their breath without a trumpet blast
Ending up like February’s future and pathetic past.

A poem about the nature of the Nigerian politics of blood….

Mide is a student at Obafemi Awolowo University Ile-Ife who writes whenever he is inspired by the Muse. Follow him on twitter @midebenedict

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