Smoke, like dark clouds fill the air

So thick it burns

So dark it blocks the sun

Smoke that fills us with despair


They come from oil in the drums

Made without fear

Made without care

Don’t become like them my son


Elsewhere a little child dies

His longs covered in soot

Now he’s in a suit

A funeral of his mom’s cries



The Icognito Writer: Recently my dad went to Port Harcourt where there was smog over the entire city due to people illegally refining oil in drums.

I am not who I say I am but who my writing says I am; my characters define me. Like puppets in a play, they tell you who pulls the strings. I'm not who I say I am; I'm who you think I am.

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