Though I carry no scar or sign
Of my deed so dreadful
Me you follow everywhere
Present like my own shadow
Even as I see you not
Inside me I feel you hot.
O, wicked conscience
Your knock on my hearts’ door
Announces grief and sorrow
That snatches away my appetite
As it deprives me of dear sleep.
My frightful yesterday
Before me, you lay today
At my fearful past
I recoil and cringe
As you remind me
Of my awful history.
O, wicked conscience
Why only me you prick
Why not let me feed
Why not let me sleep
Go, go away please
You wicked conscience!
Mohammed Garba Bawa
EDITOR’S NOTE
Originally published in Citizen on 08 Nov 1993, p. 37. This diplomatic transcription preserves the wording and lineation verified against the archived page.