Nigeria, what way?

Huhhhh! My motherland!

A land filled with unbridled milk and honey, 

With nutrients whose, 'Orísuñ'(sources) are like cascades of undiminishing waters. 

A land where kids' oblivion of insecurity is now like a saddening historical past. 

Oh! It reminds me of my grandmother's late-night tales; one about the child.

"The child who wandered off his mother's sight for his burning desires.

A child who was segregated for his mother's uniqueness;

She was blindfolded by her blindness;

He was his mother's sight.

On the 'tenth' of a dozen moons, 

With a streak of the first light of a new dawn, 

He got up angrily, in a search of 'Ìgalà' for himself.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of a gentle breezy whistling,

It muttered 'Ìparun'(Destruction)

But he ignored it, and continued.

Like the sway of the wind,

He wandered off his mother's radar,

Leaving marks at different junctures by withering 'Efirin'(sweet basil leaves) trees at each of them.

And he did! He got fulfilled, his desires,

And celebrated long before he realized his situation.

He had forgotten to prepare for the rainy days,

The sky, dusked, and the shadows, as long and hard as that of a teenage Ìrókò tree"

But then came the same voice, again, the breezy voice whistled into his ears,

It muttered 'Orísuñ'(source).

With lightning striking plantain trees, 

Striping them off their top sheets.

He strived hard but met crossroads at the last junction.

There were three horrifically looking pathways before him,

In which two lead to unadventurous jungles.

He then fell to his knees and burst into crocodile tears, 

In a sober state, he yearned for his mother, 

Ìyá mi! he called three times.

And the voice of his ignorant times responded in a more recognizable audibility;

That voice was his mother's.

The voice said 'Omo tó solé nù , ó so àpò ìyà kó' {The child that forgets his home is due for tribulations},

Startled, he stood up and began to plead for the advice he once ignored.

Mother, What way?! He yelled.

And she, in her native, replied and said 

'Ònà ò sí lórùn òpe, Ibi tábá gbà gun òkè la ma gbà sòkalè'.{There's no shortcut to climbing a palm tree, the way up must be the way down}.

Drenched, he dropped his kill and the rain stopped

And the voice raised a connotative awareness:

'Àtelé Owó kìí tani je' {One's palm doesn't deceive one}

He checked his palm, and a glowing line pointed him to the right route; home.

He ran to his mother's arms like one pursued by a ghoul,

She made him a 'snail stew' and said:

'Only a snail has no hasting competitor,

'cause slow and steady wins the race'."

Hmmm! My motherland!

A haggard living hell, where advice stomp on our arrogant turfs.

A place where deaf ears are the only listeners left.

Even rulers can't make a straight line anymore.

Just how much! have our feet wandered?

Just what! is the retreat route?

Only she has the answers:

Nigeria, what way?