Echoes Of Ourselves

They bend their knees toward foreign skies,
Chanting creeds they do not own,
Wearing robes of borrowed gods
While their spirits sit alone.

In cathedrals built of sand and shame,
They scream in tongues not born here,
Trying to out-Christian the Hebrew,
Out-Muslim the desert seer.

But what of the drumbeat deep in our soil?
What of the rivers that fed our flame?
What of the wisdom of Bori's rain,
And the Ogoni tongue that knew no shame.

We trade our totems for crosses,
Our shrines for polished pews,
Drenched in holy water,
Yet lost in borrowed hues.

We kill the self to wear a mask,
Fight brothers for foreign cause,
Lift banners of prophets not born of us,
While our land groans under unjust laws.

Where is the science of our soil?
The technology of our trees?
The language that stirs invention,
The math beneath the breeze?

The world waits for the African brand—
Not imitation painted black—
But something forged from iron earth,
A spirit no empire can crack.

We are not echoes of old empires,
We are the seed and not the weed.
Not imitators of broken systems,
But answers to the world’s deep need.

Even if we speak their language,
Let our thoughts come from our clay.
Even if we learn their methods,
Let our roots define our way.

Let us be Nigerian, deeply so,
With minds of silicon and steel,
With hearts that drum from Ogoni soil,
And dreams our children feel.

Let us leave fanatic fires,
Ethnic pride that blinds our eyes.
Let us rise beyond religion
That makes us small to reach the skies.

We are not here to be copies—
We are originals in bloom.
Africa, let the world see your genius—
Let your own seed make room.