06/01/2026
J6 🥺🥺
By Michael Nichol Kamara (Blaq Poet)
Edited in pigeon English by Mary Gold (Golden Sparrow)
End di grief, end di pain,
End di tears, end di shame.
Na so we be di badge wey dem cross wi lane.
We suffer under rebel hand,
Yet we fight mek peace go stand.
Our future—chained, our steps—measured,
As if we waka for road of witches.
Di air be thick wit blood and fire,
Memories deep for burning ditches.
Ah retrace di steps, di bloodstain lane,
Hand in hand, yet lost in pain.
Walls wey strong before, now e don fall,
Di echoes of cry still dey call.
Faces red wit crimson sorrow,
Prayers rise for lost tomorrow.
Homes don turn to dust and smoke,
Milk and honey—crushed and broke.
Soldiers fight, dem give dem all,
Now we dey call dem fallen heroes.
Churches, hospital—dem burn am too,
Left us empty, left us zero.
Pregnant mama—dem slaughter cold,
Dem pikin story go remain untold.
Dem carry we sista dem, scatter dem life,
Bodies broken, spirits knife.
Boys wey never reach to hold gun,
Dem force am fight, e no get run.
My village wey peace dey reign,
Turn to warzone, lost e name.
Empty bullets still full di ground,
Whispers of di past dey sound.
We pray for peace, mek life go sweet,
Yet scars dey show say pain no fit quit.
Hand in hand, we rise again,
We fight, we bleed, we claim we reign.
Eleven years of dark midnight,
Etched in blood, in pain, in fight.
And as I turn di calendar page,
Ah vow—never again dis cage
