Neanderthals, By Osmund Agbo

But the young will not falter—they gather and fight,/Their hearts afire, their spirits alight.

But they knew all too well that the old guard — those who had grown fat on decades of exploitation — would not release their grip without a fight. The question lingered: Would the future belong to the young, or would these relics — the Neanderthals — drag the nation into oblivion?

It was a sweltering afternoon in Gbagada, the air thick with despair and frustration. Adamu sat by the roadside, wiping beads of sweat from his brow, his cracked hands trembling from hunger. Beside him, Aisha cradled their baby, who whimpered faintly — a sound more haunting than a full-throated cry. They had spent the morning chasing after clients who no longer existed. Theirs was a nation where hope had been hollowed out.

Around them, life in the city throbbed with quiet agony. Motorcycles weaved through chaotic streets, traders haggled for a few naira, and the hum of generators filled the air — mocking the perpetual darkness of the national grid. Yet the news bulletins on shop TVs told a different story: government officials smiling at press conferences, promising progress and stability. They dined in luxury, oblivious to the crushing weight under which millions staggered.

On the other side of the city, the youth gathered in small pockets, their faces alight with defiance and dreams. They spoke of change, coded apps to solve real problems, and organised protests that flickered like sparks, daring to ignite the rot that choked the land. 

But they knew all too well that the old guard — those who had grown fat on decades of exploitation — would not release their grip without a fight. The question lingered: Would the future belong to the young, or would these relics — the Neanderthals — drag the nation into oblivion?

        Neanderthals

Hunger gnaws at a million souls,
Fear stalks the land, swallowing whole.
From farms to cities, blood stains the ground,
While darkness reigns, no respite found.

The streets are restless, sleepless with dread,
As families bury their nameless dead.
Insecurity chokes both night and day,
While leaders feast and look away.

Power flickers, a cruel mirage,
Electricity, an elusive charge.
Factories crumble, jobs disappear—
Progress buried, year after year.

The commonwealth plundered, stripped to the bone,
By rulers who claim the nation their own.
Politicians and cronies, drunk on deceit,
Steal from Naija with shameless conceit.

They torch the archives, erase their track,
While stolen wealth lines mansions out back.
Public trust reduced to smoke and ash,
As they hoard spoils in their pillaging stash.

Cursed be the hour these Neanderthals spawned—
Vermin in agbada, by whom Naija is pawned.
How did a land kissed by gods, crowned with grace,
Fall prey to jackals with an insatiable embrace?

Nepotism thrives, corruption spreads,
Gerontocrats feast while hope lies dead.
Business elites prop up the game,
Turning justice into a rigged charade.

How long will we cower, heads bowed low,
As thieves rule unchecked, wretched and slow?
Shall we let their masquerade dance on and on,
While dreams are buried, forever gone?

They say black men can’t govern at all,
That we are doomed to stumble and fall.
Yet every leader who dared to inspire
Was met with coups or struck by gunfire.

Those who sipped from Naija’s golden cup
Now shackle the young, holding them up.
A generation betrayed, denied their way,
By elders who fear the light of day.

But storm clouds gather—a reckoning near—
The youth are rising, relentless, severe.
Gen-Z, Millennials—bold and unbound,
The fire in their hearts shakes the ground.
They build, they code, they innovate fast,
Refusing to be shackled by the past.

The caterpillars devouring the land will fall,
Their tyranny shattered by the youth’s call.
Armageddon looms—the hour grows late.

The old guard cannot escape their fate.
Into the abyss they built, they’ll be hurled.
Will this kingdom rise and break its chain,
Or let these Neanderthals reign again?

But the young will not falter—they gather and fight,
Their hearts afire, their spirits alight.
With courage unmatched, they’ll reclaim their fate
And cast the old guard to oblivion’s gate.

Osmund Agbo is a US-based medical doctor and author. His works include Black Grit, White Knuckles: The Philosophy of Black Renaissance and a fiction work titled The Velvet Court: Courtesan Chronicles. His latest works, Pray, Let the Shaman Die and Ma’am, I Do Not Come to You for Love, have just been released.