The Broken Arm and the Burying Ground: A Cry Against Collapse
Written in vigorous Pidgin English and Cameroon street vernacular, this poem is a raw indictment of political failure, state violence, and the everyday sufferings of ordinary people. The speaker moves from personal grief to systemic brutality—extrajudicial killings, electoral theft, the silencing of dissent—painting a portrait of a state that has abandoned its citizens.
I shidon me for mboko with a broken arm Eye di white me for head like calabar yam I wear sackcloth for my brother man Wey they puttam inside van di go burying ground Since man boy dem don turn haunted species, We di nang now with ntor under bed sheet. Man no di know today fit be Na yi last day, Pays don nya'ah man di kwara, man di bow pray Hungry dey man beleh, man jo tok, dey di cut yi head Die place trowey every corner like na buffdae. Wililili!! Mami halla, don Perika don quench Poor people di suffer, while some old boy them dem di chop change
Inside carabot house bullet scatter man from long range. Katika buy new limo, but our lewa dem di lack bench. Soso katika di send ei mbere dem make dey go burn place. Election come, ei give dem bread and sardine make dem wipe face. Man need one bag bitter kola, because as I see am dis mboko di give posh aswear Man burn coco want chop, khaki boy enter shootam, na to fear yah Y? Mami and pikin di cook their koki, soso wuna enter go hold dem di rape am, chai! They kill people camera see am, they seize the phone, kill the man, and den delete am. Pikin for corner di sell yi banana, helicopter bullet knack am ei killam. The same way wey they di kill we di hide am, na the same way wey election be pass them dey tiff am. All the sufferings, and violence and bloodshed we see am.
You enter Natamulung, you bundle the boys dem, carry dem go ngola go kill am. Our lawyers and teachers be stand for resistance, na soso you catch them you beatam. Our activists stand up, wuna carry yari enter for their middle den split am. Wuna government don fail for sap dis casala, the world di nyieh wuna deceivers. Mukete dey dey, na century old, Nyiat sep I sure say Na napkin di hold am. Don man you sep sep na changing blood hold you, we do how now wey you don tie grass for chair? Water don dirty, all njanga take cover, na ngunu di hear fine cuz mud Na yi heaven. Na so so wuna get upside, we dey kwata level di dry eye because wuna mandate power in years far like seven!
©Nsuh Yosembom.
* REMEMBER POEM WITH THE HIGHEST SHARES WINS SO IF YOU LIKE THIS, PRESS THAT SHARE BUTTON.
The piece emerges from a moment of deepening political and civic crisis in Cameroon, where armed conflict, security force abuses, and the erosion of public trust in institutions had become undeniable. It speaks to a generation witnessing violence normalized, elections stolen, and resistance met with state repression. The vernacular choice itself—not English, not French, but the living language of the street—signals both intimacy and defiance.
The poem's power lies in its refusal of distance. It names what official discourse obscures: killing, rape, theft, fear. At the time, such direct witnessing in a public forum was an act of civic courage. Now it reads as testimony—a record of how ordinary language and poetic form became instruments of resistance when formal channels failed. It also demonstrates how Poise amplified voices that the mainstream media ignored or suppressed.