But in Biafra,I see freedom—a future where my voice belongs,where my spirit can finally breathe.

But in Biafra,
I see freedom—
a future where my voice belongs,
where my spirit can finally breathe.

I hate that I am called a Nigerian.
I hate what this country has become.
I hate that my vote means nothing—
that power is carved from rigging,
not from the will of the people.

I hate that terrọ́rists are pampered
while freedom fighters rot in cells.
I hate that the government kị́lls
and the blame is pushed onto the innocent.

I hate that a fourth-place candidate
can become governor and life moves on.
I hate that bandits boast on TikTok,
yet I can be traced, tracked, and taken
for simply speaking the truth.

I hate that our judiciary
is a sanctuary of injustice.
I hate this helplessness—
this feeling of being caged
inside a nation collapsing on its own lies.

I hate that pastors, priests, and bishops
have traded conviction for comfort.
I hate that police stations
have become markets of corruption.

I hate that liars rise to power
while truth-tellers bleed for it.

Nigeria is a burdened land,
a place that should have been remade
long before now.
Here, I am a prisoner.

But in Biafra,
I see freedom—
a future where my voice belongs,
where my spirit can finally breathe.