“Efielema, Elemafie, Efiemale; whatever thou art called or thou answereth to, Pythagoras would be right, thou art a vengeful torment from Hell. But the thunder that wouldst strike thee soon, heaven itself has not made -YET!” A victim of naira Crisis records his pains in poetry
He is no bonafide ‘apex banker’, but a villainous mountebank,
A threadbare juggler, usurer and a speculative fortune-teller,
Efielema, Elemafie, Efiemale; whatever thou art called or thou answereth to,
Pythagoras would be right, thou art a vengeful torment from Hell.
Else what hath thy time in office ever deserved, What hath it done,
That it, in golden letters, should be set, on the high tide of the calendar?
Nought hath thy time wrought but multiplying villainy on the multitude.
Thus nought should thy oppressive time share in the reckoning of man.
Or, if thy time perforce must stand, then let expecting mothers pray,
The burdens of their wombs be not luckless to fall on so desolate a time,
Lest that their motherly hopes on delivery be prodigiously crossed;
With an odious epoch whereat all things begun come to cruel end.
The owl hath shrieked at thy birth, revealing an ominous sign;
The night-crow cried as thou breathed out, aboding luckless time;
Dogs howled, hideous tempest shook down trees, on hearing thy cry;
The raven rooked eerily on the chimney’s top, presaging thy presence
And chattering pies in dismal discords sung aloud: ‘here cometh Lucifer’.
Thy hapless mother at thy labor felt more than a mother’s pain,
Yet, she brought forth to life far less than a mother’s hope,
To wit, a lump of malformed, indigested, misbegotten incubus,
Not like the fruit of a goodly tree from whence thou hath come.
Because giant teeth hadst thou on thy head when thou wast born,
Proof that thou camest for no object but to bite the world’!
But the thunder that wouldst strike thee soon, heaven itself has not made -YET!
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