Doesn't it mean anything to you that our kinsmen who live by the riverside, die of thirst?
Isn't it unfair to let your son fall into the same ditch from which sheer benevolence has rescued you?
Don't you know that this pen in your hands as well as mine, is a bamboo stick- if you bring yours and I bring mine, we can weave a bridge across the river of obstacles that stands between us and the land of opportunities, just so that those who come behind us can be better than us?
There is a certain hunger that lives with our people, and balls of pounded yam escorted with nune soup cannot satisfy.
Saboteurs; those who drill a hole in the canoe we are paddling ashore, the shrieks of drowning men must mean a lot you.
But if you cannot donate a firewood to keep the flames aglow, why quench it with the waters of tribalism and ethnic sentiments?
Are you not tired of sharing a room with darkness?