There’s a man.
A big man.
Seated in power is this man.
They call him the mad man.
He walks like a fool,
dances to his own tune,
turns nations into tools,
the world watching, unsure what to do.
This man is blue —
shades of white, bruised with hue.
He repaints the stripes on his skin
to suit his twisted moves.

This man is strong.
He redraws the world with a pen and a bomb.
Borders shift when he hums a song,
lands burn, waters choke — still, he’s never wrong.

He calls it defence.
Calls it order.
For lack of a better word, annexation —
but it walks, talks, and feeds like colonisation
with a cleaner suit and modern justification.

Before the world, he makes his case.
Inferior as it may, judges still give space.
Tariffs launch like missiles,
bans tear through the toughest suitcase.

Power.
The force to sway actions through coercion.
Flower.
A fragile bouquet, diverse or singular.

Vawulense.
The answer to every resistance.
He claims the world as his bouquet, crushing the frail beneath his raw power and vawulense.

He’s a clown, overpriced, the best in town.
The kind they crown.
Nobody knows his target or his pawn.
The only clown to get away with international crimes so foul.

Key actors watch and whisper his name.
Press conferences, statements — all painfully tame.
A few voices shake, dare to complain,
but the voice that commands a thousand ships
still runs the game.

Countries pass notes to allies in fear:
“My trusted friend, I remain alive after yet another week. The terrors do not cease.”

END

From the table of the "Friendly Poet", Chinonso Achugbu