ORPHAN OF WAR: Life at IDPs camp by Yahuza Rabiu Garba

ORPHAN OF WAR

Life at IDPs camp by Yahuza Rabiu Garba

Orphan The ghost smile on his face

Makes me sink in my turps tears, 

An infant;

Father of himself

On his eyes there was a natural contrast of fear and sorrow, 

Deeply rooted,

In his cry

A natural eco

Of an "orphan of war', 

His ribs were countered, from far 

Through the rusty scatted shirt across his shoulder

When he spoke, 

It's audible and clear that ;

He hitherto  haven't eaten nor drink

When you look at him, 

The orphan of war in the IDPs camp;

Two feelings conflicting would come ot heart;

"How lucky they are to be above the earth surface"

"And how pity you and I were"

A pair of biscuits I gave him,

Makes him dance with his rust-colored hair on his scull, 

Dancing to fracas of his itching stomach,

Wishing if his father wasn't kill by Bokoharam 

He could've eaten with him 

I gaze and gazed 

In his former life this was perhaps, 

What he ate a day

Is what he devour a week now, not up to.

Orphan,  Father of himself 

The dirty and putrid water of mixed cow dung, 

There he drank, 

Happily and happily, 

With cows he feed,  

Grass meal, 

Ceremony of war 

At the IDPs camp.