In the land of
Capitalists and go-getters,
When night falls in the forest,
And the moon peers its solemn face,
We find ourselves deprived,
Of a place to lay our heads.

How can we be so much like men,
But live so differently?
Two unalike universes,
Cousins of different customs.
They can dance but
There’s a ghost of a chance,
That we will live until
Dusk comes.

They smell of our houses,
I know they do.
From our African oil palm trees,
They make oils.
For Reckitt Benckiser,
And Colgate and General Mills.
The scent of our households,
Permeates their households.

They can feel,
I know they can.
Why can’t they be
Like the heroes in their books?
Why can’t they see,
From the boroughs and the stooks,
Of their placated realities?

We throw sticks,
Like missiles through
Trees of our neighbors.
We watch reflections of sunlight,
From the muddy waters of cameroon.
We yammer on,
As mad cousins eradicate our homes.
We are a band of Cross River gorillas,
Scattered across fragmented forests.
Greed and gain are the cause of our decline.
Feeble rain comes to complement our crying.