THE FOREST COULD NOT SWALLOW THE SUN (A Companion to "The Forest of Stolen Dawns")

 

The Forest Could Not Swallow the Sun 

The forest unclenched its ancient hand today,

Releasing the dawn it could not keep away.

The path found again each forgotten name,

And morning returned wrapped in freedom's flame.

The ìrókò lifted its weather-beaten head,

No longer counting the tears the dark had shed.

Its roots drank hope from the generous earth,

Then sang of homecoming and radiant birth.

The òrò tree whispered to leaves overhead,

"The child is alive; let sorrow be dead."

The baobab answered with echoes that rolled,

"No night can imprison the sunrise in gold." 

For sixty long mornings the pathways grew cold,

While silence traded in stories untold.

Yet every footprint remembered its way,

Awaiting the laughter that blossoms today.

The wind tied the gángan across its broad chest,

And carried good tidings from east unto west.

The dùndún awakened the valleys once more,

Till joy overflowed from each doorway and door. 

The chalk found again the embrace of the board,

As learning returned with its plentiful hoard.

The school bell scattered bright birds through the air, 

Their songs sewing hope into every prayer.

Our teachers returned like the silk-cotton tree,

Still sheltering dreams with enduring decree 

Though tempests had wrestled their branches with pain,

Their wisdom flowed back like the life-giving rain.

Our children came home with the sunrise aglow,

Their smiles made the weary old river to flow.

The dust kissed their sandals with jubilant grace,

As every compound embraced every face.

Olódùmarè heard what the night could not hide, 

He walked with our hope as its steadfast guide.

The ancestors cleared every hidden trail,

So courage would blossom where terrors grew pale.

We honour the hunters who read every tree,

Whose eyes knew the language no coward could see.

The vigilant watchmen who challenged the night,

Till fear dropped its spear at the coming of light. 

We honour each mother whose tears became streams,

Whose prayers watered forests and nurtured our dreams.

Each father whose silence stood firmer than stone,

Refusing to leave any child alone. 

We honour all voices that would not be still, 

Whose courage stood taller than terror's will.

The hands that united when darkness drew near,

Transforming our trembling to triumph and cheer. 

Oriire, arise like the dawn after rain, 

Your harvest has conquered the season of pain.

Let every veranda and marketplace sing, 

For hope has returned with the wings of the spring. 

Let every bàtá awaken the plain, 

Let every agidigbo answer again.

Let talking drums carry one message afar,

"No forest can swallow the morning star." 

The earth keeps a memory deeper than fear,

It summons lost footsteps year after year.

The dawn may be stolen for one mournful span, 

But never forever, such power crowns no man.

So let every child lift tomorrow on high, 

Like eagles that challenge the breadth of the sky.

For the forest has learnt what all ages have sung,

No darkness can swallow the rising sun. 

@Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Saturday 11th July, 2026

Ejigbo Lagos, Nigeria. 

02:55:00am (WAT).

Reflection:

The Forest Could Not Swallow the Sun emerged from a place where relief embraced remembrance. It is a companion to my earlier poem, The Forest of Stolen Dawns, which was written while forty-five innocent schoolchildren and their teachers from Oriire, Oyo State, languished in captivity. That earlier work gave voice to a nation's anguish, to the silence that settled over classrooms, to the unanswered questions of parents, and to the fear that every sunrise might arrive without those children. This poem, however, is the song that follows the storm—the triumphant return of dawn after a long night of waiting.

The rescue of the abductees was more than a security success; it was the restoration of hope, the reaffirmation of our shared humanity, and a reminder that the collective conscience of a people can never be held hostage. It is a tribute to the resilience of the rescued children and their teachers, the unwavering faith of their families, the dedication of security personnel, local vigilantes, traditional rulers, community leaders, civil society organisations, and every Nigerian whose prayers, advocacy, vigilance and refusal to remain silent helped sustain hope throughout those painful weeks.

In crafting this poem, I deliberately turned away from borrowed imagery and sought inspiration from the living soul of Yorubaland. The forest, the dawn, the ìrókò, the baobab, the talking drums, the red earth, ancestral pathways, and the eternal presence of Olódùmarè are not merely decorative symbols; they are living witnesses in our cultural memory. Within Yoruba cosmology, nature is never silent. Trees remember. Rivers carry stories. The wind bears both lamentation and praise. The earth preserves footprints long after travellers have departed. Through these indigenous images, I sought to tell this story in a language that belongs to the land where it unfolded.

Yet this poem is not merely a celebration of a happy ending. It is also an invitation to national reflection. Every child deserves to walk to school without fear. Every teacher deserves to shape young minds without becoming a victim of violence. Every classroom should remain a sanctuary of learning rather than a place haunted by the possibility of abduction. Our rejoicing must therefore strengthen, rather than weaken, our collective resolve to protect education, defend human dignity, and ensure that no family is forced to endure such an ordeal again.

Ultimately, The Forest Could Not Swallow the Sun is a testament to an enduring truth: darkness may delay the morning, but it cannot abolish the dawn. Fear may stalk the forest, but it cannot devour the future. As long as courage walks beside compassion, justice follows perseverance, and hope refuses to surrender, the sun will always find its way back to the horizon.

@Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Poet | Researcher | Human Rights Advocate | Advocacy Coordinator, Unchained Vibes Africa (UVA)

THE FOREST OF STOLEN DAWNS (For Chibok, Dapchi, Kankara, Jangebe, Kuriga, Oriire, and every child whose name became a headline).

The Forest of Stolen Dawns

The forests have learned our children's names, 

And whisper them low to the moonlit sky, 

Each stolen dawn feeds their crimson flames,

While mothers teach wounded stars to cry.

 

The wind drags grief through the fields of Baga, 

Where ashes still bloom on a blood-soaked plain, 

The earth wears scars like a shattered calabash, 

And harvests sorrow instead of grain.

 

Chibok still waits by a rusted gate, 

Where silence kneels in a tattered gown, 

The years march past, but they hesitate, 

Afraid to tell who has not come down.

 

Dapchi still sings through a broken choir, 

Its echoes trapped in a cage of pain, 

While Leah remains like an altar fire, 

Refusing to bow to the storm and chain.

 

Kankara dreams of abandoned books, 

Whose pages flutter like wounded doves, 

The classrooms stare with hollow looks, 

Bereft of the laughter a nation loves.

 

Jangebe weeps through the harmattan dust, 

As footprints vanish where children ran, 

The sky hangs low with betrayed trust, 

Like a torn-out map in a trembling hand.

 

Kuriga counts every absent chair, 

As daylight drowns in a sea of fears, 

The blackboard gathers a coat of despair, 

And writes its lessons in parents' tears.

 

Oriire woke to a predator's song, 

When darkness feasted on tender light, 

The roads stood mute as the night grew long, 

And swallowed innocence whole from sight.

 

Some captives returned in coffins of pain, 

Though ransoms were paid with desperate hands, 

Their names became echoes lost in the rain, 

While grief built kingdoms across the lands.

 

Some daughters returned with shattered wings, 

Their laughter buried beneath the shame, 

The night had stolen too many things, 

And left deep wounds without a name.

 

Some fathers were slaughtered after release, 

Some mothers were silenced beside the way, 

The merchants of terror denied them peace, 

And traded in death as a daily pay.

 

Some soldiers fell where the ambush lay, 

Their uniforms stained by a crimson flood, 

Some vigilantes were swept away, 

Defending their homes with their final blood.

 

The highways wear funeral robes of dust, 

The farmlands blossom with graves instead, 

Even the rivers have learned distrust, 

For too many dreams have floated dead.

 

Fifty attacks in a single week, 

Fifty fresh wounds on the nation's face, 

Yet power grows eloquent when the weak 

Are left to perish without a trace.

 

The forests breed merchants of human pain, 

Who traffic in terror and ransom gold, 

They water their kingdoms with grief and gain, 

While villages shiver in fear and cold.

 

What began as bullets soon became trade, 

A marketplace fed by despair and dread, 

Where human lives are appraised and weighed, 

And hope is auctioned to ransom the dead.

 

The brokers gather where shadows meet, 

Some dressed in turbans, some draped in ties, 

They profit while victims retreat, 

And feast where a wounded nation cries.

 

The jackals wear robes of respectability, 

And speak of virtue by day and night, 

Yet somewhere beneath their civility, 

The scent of betrayal escapes their sight.

 

The vultures circling are dressed as kings, 

With polished smiles and immaculate speech, 

They campaign on hope with borrowed wings, 

Then govern beyond the people's reach.

 

They build their castles from public tears, 

And mortar the walls with neglected cries, 

While citizens stagger through haunted years, 

Beneath a republic of alibis.

 

A farmer now plants beneath armed skies, 

Unsure if his crop or life will fall, 

The soil drinks blood where the seedling lies, 

And death keeps watch at the harvest call.

 

The mothers have mastered the art of prayer, 

Their voices worn thin by the weight of grief, 

Each dawn they search for their children there, 

Like sailors pursuing a vanished reef.

 

Owo remembers the Sunday bell, 

That rang through worship and ended in flame, 

Kaduna still hears the iron yell, 

Of a train attack history cannot tame.

 

Plateau still gathers her shattered bones, 

While Benue buries another dream, 

The nation is stitched with mourning tones, 

And rivers of anguish that never redeem.

 

Yet louder than gunfire, louder than fear, 

The cry of the captives still rends the air, 

A chorus the powerful refuse to hear, 

Though its wounds stain every public square.

 

Bring back our children from forest and cave, 

From camps where nightmares patrol the night, 

For no nation deserves to be brave, 

While abandoning innocence to its plight.

 

Bring back our children from shadow and chain, 

From pathways where hope was brutally torn, 

For every child rescued from terror's reign 

Returns to the world as a new-born dawn.

 

And when history gathers these broken years, 

To judge what was lost and who looked away, 

It shall weigh not speeches, nor titles, nor cheers, 

But the children we failed to bring home one day.

 

Until then, the forests will carry their names, 

And scatter them wide through the smoke-filled air, 

Until then, the mountain remains in flames, 

And the world must know there is fire there.

 

Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Thursday 18th June 2026

2:52am

Ejigbo, Lagos Nigeria.

 

REFLECTION:

 

The Forest of Stolen Dawns is yet again a poetic response to the persistent insecurity, terrorism, banditry, mass abductions, and violence that have scarred Nigeria over the past decade. This poem draws inspiration from real events, including the Chibok, Dapchi, Kankara, Jangebe, Kuriga, and Oriire kidnappings, as well as countless attacks on communities, schools, places of worship, security personnel, and innocent citizens whose stories rarely make international headlines.

 

The title itself is symbolic. A forest traditionally evokes mystery, danger, and concealment, while dawn represents hope, innocence, renewal, and the promise of a new day. By describing these dawns as "stolen," the poem mourns the theft of childhoods, dreams, futures, and lives by forces of terror and indifference.

 

This poem employs extended metaphors, personification, symbolism, and recurring natural imagery, forests, rivers, mountains, flames, vultures, dust, and dawns to transform statistics and news headlines into a human story of grief, resilience, and collective responsibility. The forest becomes both a physical and psychological landscape where fear thrives, while the mountain on fire symbolizes a nation confronting a crisis too grave to ignore.

 

My goal is not merely an indictment of armed groups who perpetrate violence. But also a reflection on systemic failures, political indifference, corruption, profiteering, and the normalization of suffering. I employed this poem to interrogate the conditions that allow insecurity to flourish in our country, and asks difficult questions about leadership, accountability, and citizenship.

 

Above all, this poem is dedicated to all the victims, the children who never returned home, the families who continue to wait, the survivors carrying invisible wounds, the farmers displaced from their ancestral lands, the security personnel who paid the ultimate sacrifice, and every citizen whose life has been altered by violence.

 

I pray their stories never be forgotten 🙏

 

©Prince Adeola Goloba2026

There is Fire on the Mountain

THERE IS FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN

There is fire on the mountain, hear the warning drum's vibration,

A storm is brewing softly through the veins of every nation.

The vultures draw their circles in the twilight's crimson light,

While brothers turn on brothers in a tragic, senseless fight.

The map was drawn by strangers with a ruler cold and thin,

Yet now we guard the fences as though they grew beneath our skin.

Berlin's ghost still whispers through the corridors of pain,

Sowing seeds of separation in the fertile fields again.

The baobab stands weeping where the rivers used to sing,

Watching sons of one inheritance forget their common spring.

From Lagos to Johannesburg, from Cairo to Cape Town,

The crown of African brotherhood is slipping to the ground.

Who taught the lion's children they were strangers in the den?

Who taught the eagle's offspring not to trust their nest again?

The chains that once were iron have become a state of mind,

Invisible yet powerful enough to make us blind.

The fire is not accidental, it was kindled long ago,

By hands that understood the art of making hatred grow.

They planted walls where pathways stood and watched suspicion bloom,

Transforming fields of promise into gardens filled with gloom.

Now passports weigh much heavier than ancestry and blood,

As kinship drowns beneath the tide like villages in flood.

The Niger greets the Orange, and the Congo greets the Nile,

Yet politicians trade our peace for profit all the while.

Africa, awaken from the slumber of deceit,

The enemy is not the one you happen to meet.

The stranger that you curse today may share your ancient song,

May carry fragments of your past that with your roots belong.

No African is foreign where African hearts reside,

The continent is not a cage where unity has died.

Let Ubuntu be the lantern when the clouds obscure the way,

Let solidarity become the dawn that births a brighter day.

For every tongue and tribe upon this sacred, ancient land,

Was fashioned by the same Creator's wise and loving hand.

The mountains may be burning and the skies may darkly cry,

But hope remains a phoenix that no hatred can deny.

So let the drums of unity resound from shore to shore,

And let the walls of Afrophobia divide our hearts no more.

For Africa is one house beneath the heavens wide and free,

One heartbeat, one inheritance, one shared destiny.

Wake up, Africa, wake up before the flames consume the plain,

For divided we are wounded, but united we shall reign.

Prince Adeola Goloba 2026

Wednesday 17th June 2026 - 3:24am

Ejigbo, Lagos Nigeria. 

#SayNoToXenophobia

#ICondemnAfrophobia

#OneAfricaOnePeople

#HomeBeyondBorders

#AfricanUnity

Statement and Reflection

THERE IS FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN

"There Is Fire on the Mountain" is a poetic response to the growing wave of xenophobia, Afrophobia, and social divisions affecting parts of the African continent. This work draws inspiration from contemporary events and the historical realities that continue to shape relationships among African peoples. Through vivid imagery, symbolism, and rhythmic language, the poem examines how colonial-era divisions have evolved into modern forms of exclusion and hostility among people who share a common ancestry, history, and destiny.

The recurring image of fire serves as both a warning and a metaphor. It symbolizes the spread of fear, hatred, misinformation, and intolerance that threaten the ideals of Pan-African unity. The poem references the lingering shadow of the 1884–1885 Berlin Conference, where colonial powers partitioned Africa without regard for indigenous identities, cultures, and communities. While those borders remain, the poem challenges Africans to reject the psychological and social barriers that continue to separate them.

Throughout this work, nature imagery including rivers, mountains, baobab trees, lions, and eagles is employed to represent Africa's interconnectedness and shared heritage. These symbols remind us that before artificial borders, African communities were linked through culture, trade, kinship, migration, and mutual coexistence. The poem questions the notion of "foreignness" among Africans and calls for a renewed commitment to Ubuntu, solidarity, and collective progress.

As a writer and advocate, my intention is not merely to criticize acts of xenophobia but to encourage reflection on their deeper causes and consequences. The poem seeks to provoke dialogue about identity, belonging, and the future of African unity. It asks readers to consider whether hostility toward fellow Africans serves the interests of the continent or perpetuates historical patterns of division.

Ultimately, "There Is Fire on the Mountain" is both a warning and a call to action. It urges Africans everywhere to recognize their shared humanity, reject narratives of exclusion, and work collectively toward a continent where dignity, freedom, and mutual respect transcend borders. In a time when division threatens to weaken our common aspirations, the poem stands as an appeal for unity, empathy, and the realization of a truly interconnected Africa.

"No African is an alien on African soil."

SHALL WE LET GO? - II (To Xeno, the Son of Phobia)

 (Reloaded Version)

"This business of burning human beings with napalm, of filling our nation's homes with orphans and widows, of injecting poisonous drugs of hate in to the veins of peoples normally humane, of sending men home from dark and bloody battlefields physically handicapped and psychologically deranged, cannot be reconciled with wisdom, justice and love. A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death...We will never have peace in the world until men everywhere recognize that ends are not cut off from means, because the means represent the ideal in the making, and the end in process. Ultimately, you can't reach good ends through evil means, because the means represent the seed and the end represents the tree...The old law of an eye for an eye leaves everybody blind. It is immoral because it seeks to humiliate the opponent rather than win his understanding. It seeks to annihilate rather than to convert. Violence is immoral because it thrives on hatred rather than love. It destroys community and makes brotherhood impossible. It leaves society in monologue rather than dialogue.Violence ends by defeating itself. It creates bitterness in the survivors and brutality in the destroyers...When evil men plot, good men must plan. When evil men burn and bomb, good men must build and bind. When evil men shout ugly words of hatred, good men must commit themselves to the glories of love.Where evil men would seek to perpetuate an unjust status quo, good men must seek to bring into being a real order of justice." ---Martin Luther King, Jr.

"Our limbs now fight to narrowly survive 

these morbid characters of XENO, the son of PHOBIA..."

(Photo Credit: Jon Lynton David Hrusa)

This poem is dedicated to all the victims of xenophobic attacks in South Africa; the injured, the dead, and the fortunate survivors, young and old, including the physically challenged, whose pain must never be reduced to statistics or forgotten in passing headlines.

Mother AFRICA… there is FIRE on the mountain!

Not the sacred FIRE of renewal,

But a ravenous tongue of RAGE 

Licking the bones of her own children.

We are no longer at ease with one another.

The drumbeat of brotherhood has faltered,

Replaced by the hollow clang

Of suspicion and sharpened breath.

Shall we let go?

Fold our arms into silence

And watch the sky cave in on us,

While the centre BLEEDS into dust?

Must we rise at dawn,

Ride the famished wings of time,

To mend what we have broken...

Or remain locked in this suffocating chamber

Where humanity gasps for air?

We stagger...broken but breathing,

Gathering fragments of a destiny we ourselves shattered...

Like potters of ruin,

We cradle cracked vessels

And call them survival.

Our limbs, withered testimonies,

Tremble between memory and mourning.

We breathe, yes!

But not to poison the sacred air

That once carried songs of unity.

Yet we have forgotten how to heal.

From bones bent by greed and governance gone blind,

We have forged weapons of division,

Sharpened by decades of arrogance,

Fed by the rot of misrule.

Their indifference, cold and calculated,

Paved our streets with hunger,

Draped our nights in poverty,

And taught our children the language of HATRED.

And now,

From this wounded womb of neglect,

Is born XENO, the son of PHOBIA,

Baptized in FIRE,

Feasting on flesh that mirrors his own.

Were our hearts always this hardened?

Did we not rise together once,

When healing knocked at our battered doors?

We stood as one

When the shadow of EBOLA darkened our skies...

Our collective will, a shield of defiance.

We shattered the chains of APARTHEID,

Thread by thread,

With the stubborn courage of hope.

We dared to dream beyond the verdicts

Of foreign prophets of doom,

Who scripted our end before our beginning.

But joy,

Ah, joy is a fragile bird!

It sings… then shatters mid-flight.

And now we crawl,

Limbs trembling beneath the weight of BETRAYAL,

As we flee from the very hands

That should have held us.

Oh Mother AFRICA...there is FIRE on the mountain!

Not from strangers,

But from the FURY of her own BLOOD.

We are no longer at ease with one another,

The mirror has become our ENEMY.

Shall we remain still...

Silent witnesses to our own undoing?

Or will we rise,

Before the ashes forget our names?

Must we awaken at dawn,

Ride time like a storm,

To rewrite this broken story...?

Or forever dwell in this room called HELL,

Where brother HUNTS brother,

And home becomes EXILE?

--- Prince Adeola Goloba

First writen: Tuesday April 28, 2015 - 3:11am,

Reloaded: Tuesday May 12, 2026 - 8:53am,

Ejigbo, Lagos Nigeria. 

Author’s Reflection:

“Shall We Let Go?” is a searing reflection on xenophobia as a tragic manifestation of internalized division, where Africans, shaped by the lingering shadows of colonialism and neocolonial manipulation, turn inherited wounds against one another in cycles of fear, blame, and violence. It exposes the painful irony of a continent that once stood united against oppression now fracturing from within, weakened by systemic failures, economic hardship, and distorted identities. In the spirit of Africa Day, this piece stands as both a mirror and a mandate: a mirror reflecting how far we have drifted from the ideals of unity, dignity, and the shared pains, sufferings, sacrifices, perseverance, resilience, and collective destiny exemplified by the legacies of our forebears; and a mandate calling us back to that higher consciousness. It reminds us that while our borders were imposed, the blood shed within them is ours to answer for, and that true liberation must move beyond political independence toward a deliberate reclamation of solidarity, humanity, and common purpose.

I wrote this poem from a place of deep anguish and urgency, troubled not only by the recurring violence against African migrants, but by the deafening silence that enables it. And that is the quiet complicity of our leadership, the indifference of our institutions, and the normalization of division among a people bound by history and struggle. Yet, beneath this grief lies an unshaken belief in Africa’s enduring strength and capacity for renewal. This is my offering to our collective conscience: a plea for remembrance, a call to unity, and a firm reminder that Africa cannot rise if she continues to war against herself, but can still heal, rebuild, and thrive if she rediscovers the power of brotherhood and shared destiny that bounded us together from the very beginning.

@Prince Adeola Goloba2026