Reporter: Ọgá Police, na my job I dey do.
I no kill person. I be journalist.
Why you hold gun and cuffs? Why you dey push me, dey treat me like a killer?
Wetin I…

Police: Shut up, you criminal!
You think say you wise?
I go embezzle your teeth with the butt of my gun if I hear pim!

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I thought I had no words for you, not until your hunting vans came close to home.
Do you even know that you are puppets in the hands of poli-thief-cians?
They wield so much control over you, their zombies.
Your masters say jump, you jump.
Your handlers say sit like a dog, you obey.
They are your paymasters, after all, and a silenced slave has no willpower; he’s a tool in the hands of those who call the shots.

The irony, you know, and I know, that your paymasters have sold their souls to corruption;
They steal from the coffers of the land, plunder the national cake in broad daylight.
You know, and we know, that they are the real criminals, but you dare not go after them.
You are their foot soldiers, their toys.
You only flex your muscles at men and women whose only weapons are pen and paper.

You come after our freedom with vans and AK-47s,
Strip us naked of liberty, the exact one democracy promised us.
Our offence? We dig out the skeletons in your masters’ cupboards;
We probe them with pen and paper, paint their sins with undiluted words and facts.
So, you choose us over the real robbers you worship.

First, you came for my boss.
Yesterday, ’twas my editor in a neighbouring nation.
Today, it’s my coworker’s turn.
Tomorrow, it may be me. Or my friends.

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Dearest armed abductors disguised as protectors in uniforms,
You may cuff our wrists today and hold our bodies behind bars,
But you or your masters cannot touch our soul and spirit,
Nor can you kill this passion that keeps us glued to a worthy cause.