Ah, Chinua, are you grapevine wired? It sings: our nation is not dead, not clinically Yet. Now this may come as a surprise to you, It was to me. I thought the form I spied Beneath the frosted glass of a fifty-carat catafalque Was the face of our own dear land – 'own', 'dear', Voluntary patriotese, you'll note – we try to please.
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An anthem's sentiment upholds the myth. Late Prof Chinua Achebe Doctors IMF, World Bank and UNO refuse, it seems, To issue a certificate of death – if debtors die May creditors collect? We shall turn Parsees yet, Lay this hulk in state upon the Tower of Silence, Let vultures prove what we have seen, but fear to say - For if Leviathan is dead, we are the maggots Probing still her monstrous womb – one certainty That mimics life after death. Is the world fooled? Is this the price of hubris – to have dared Sound Renaissance bugles for a continentent?