*Let Nigeria Breathe Again*
We are tired, Mr. President,
Not with anger, but with wounds too deep for rage.
We are shadows in the sun,
Ghosts of dreams once sung in crowded streets.
We are tired,
Of empty pots and hollow promises,
Of markets where salaries are swallowed whole,
Of prayers that echo unanswered, lost in thickened air.
We are not your enemies,
We are the beating heart you swore to guard,
The farmers with cracked palms,
The teachers stitching hope into broken classrooms,
The mothers bargaining with hunger.
We carry the weight of silent screams,
We wear the heavy cloak of survival,
Not because we are strong—
But because we have no choice.
Mr. President,
Hope is not a billboard.
Hope is a loaf of bread that doesn’t cost a fortune,
Hope is a hospital bed with light and life,
Hope is a road that leads somewhere,
Not to despair.
You asked us for patience,
But patience without a promise fulfilled
Is a knife twisting slowly.
We do not ask for miracles,
We ask for sense, for sight,
For policies that see beyond the marble halls,
For leadership that hears the widow's sigh,
The artisan's lament, the youth’s silent migration.
Can you hear it?
The shuffling feet of a generation losing faith,
The creaking bones of a nation on its knees,
The tiredness that no sleep can fix?
We are tired, Mr. President,
Not just in our wallets, but in our souls.
Tired of slogans that taste like ash,
Tired of “e go better” whispered without belief.
Let Nigeria breathe again.
Let dignity walk our streets again.
Let dreams find a home again.
Not tomorrow.
Now.
Because every second you delay,
A child goes hungry,
A dream dims,
A heart breaks—and history writes its verdict.
Hear us, sir.
Not with protocol.
Not with fanfare.
But with the ears of a father.
The hands of a healer.
The heart of a servant.
Nigeria is gasping.
Let her breathe.
*©Dr. Abdullahi Abdulwahab Yakubu*
We are tired, Mr. President,
Not with anger, but with wounds too deep for rage.
We are shadows in the sun,
Ghosts of dreams once sung in crowded streets.
We are tired,
Of empty pots and hollow promises,
Of markets where salaries are swallowed whole,
Of prayers that echo unanswered, lost in thickened air.
We are not your enemies,
We are the beating heart you swore to guard,
The farmers with cracked palms,
The teachers stitching hope into broken classrooms,
The mothers bargaining with hunger.
We carry the weight of silent screams,
We wear the heavy cloak of survival,
Not because we are strong—
But because we have no choice.
Mr. President,
Hope is not a billboard.
Hope is a loaf of bread that doesn’t cost a fortune,
Hope is a hospital bed with light and life,
Hope is a road that leads somewhere,
Not to despair.
You asked us for patience,
But patience without a promise fulfilled
Is a knife twisting slowly.
We do not ask for miracles,
We ask for sense, for sight,
For policies that see beyond the marble halls,
For leadership that hears the widow's sigh,
The artisan's lament, the youth’s silent migration.
Can you hear it?
The shuffling feet of a generation losing faith,
The creaking bones of a nation on its knees,
The tiredness that no sleep can fix?
We are tired, Mr. President,
Not just in our wallets, but in our souls.
Tired of slogans that taste like ash,
Tired of “e go better” whispered without belief.
Let Nigeria breathe again.
Let dignity walk our streets again.
Let dreams find a home again.
Not tomorrow.
Now.
Because every second you delay,
A child goes hungry,
A dream dims,
A heart breaks—and history writes its verdict.
Hear us, sir.
Not with protocol.
Not with fanfare.
But with the ears of a father.
The hands of a healer.
The heart of a servant.
Nigeria is gasping.
Let her breathe.
*©Dr. Abdullahi Abdulwahab Yakubu*
*Let Nigeria Breathe Again*
We are tired, Mr. President,
Not with anger, but with wounds too deep for rage.
We are shadows in the sun,
Ghosts of dreams once sung in crowded streets.
We are tired,
Of empty pots and hollow promises,
Of markets where salaries are swallowed whole,
Of prayers that echo unanswered, lost in thickened air.
We are not your enemies,
We are the beating heart you swore to guard,
The farmers with cracked palms,
The teachers stitching hope into broken classrooms,
The mothers bargaining with hunger.
We carry the weight of silent screams,
We wear the heavy cloak of survival,
Not because we are strong—
But because we have no choice.
Mr. President,
Hope is not a billboard.
Hope is a loaf of bread that doesn’t cost a fortune,
Hope is a hospital bed with light and life,
Hope is a road that leads somewhere,
Not to despair.
You asked us for patience,
But patience without a promise fulfilled
Is a knife twisting slowly.
We do not ask for miracles,
We ask for sense, for sight,
For policies that see beyond the marble halls,
For leadership that hears the widow's sigh,
The artisan's lament, the youth’s silent migration.
Can you hear it?
The shuffling feet of a generation losing faith,
The creaking bones of a nation on its knees,
The tiredness that no sleep can fix?
We are tired, Mr. President,
Not just in our wallets, but in our souls.
Tired of slogans that taste like ash,
Tired of “e go better” whispered without belief.
Let Nigeria breathe again.
Let dignity walk our streets again.
Let dreams find a home again.
Not tomorrow.
Now.
Because every second you delay,
A child goes hungry,
A dream dims,
A heart breaks—and history writes its verdict.
Hear us, sir.
Not with protocol.
Not with fanfare.
But with the ears of a father.
The hands of a healer.
The heart of a servant.
Nigeria is gasping.
Let her breathe.
*©Dr. Abdullahi Abdulwahab Yakubu*
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