Swept off their beds to a den of demons
Felled as they studied to be better Nigerians,
As they made their daily bread,
Thousands displaced, scared, hurt, wounded, broken,
Known by numbers
Not by name,
Not by their particular pain.
A scattering of dots on a statistician’s page,
No one listens,
No one fights their cause.
Yet the papers announce the numbers,
The thousands and
Weeping like pus from our festering national sore.