THE CHICKEN YARD

I do not know much about poultry,
but I do know people.
And the people who live in glass houses are like chickens.
They flap their wings,
make a lot of noise,
and promise us they’re about to fly.

But they never leave the ground.
Never flap hard enough to soar
like the eagles they promise they are better than.
Never stop scratching and pecking their old beaks
against the same tired patch of dirt,
raising dust and calling it progress.

Big chests, small minds,
Rounded and proud.
wings on both sides like overstretched agbadas,
strutting like landlords in a farmyard they did not build.
They crow at dawn, call everyone lazy, wake the yard,
then go right back to sleep
in the warmth of the coop we paid for.
They fight over the corn we provide – to each, its own.
They lay bad eggs, and sell it to us –
taxed, cracked, and wrapped in a silhouette of many false promises.
But somehow, we keep feeding them, hoping that
they would one day become something more than the overfed birds we know.

I do not know much about poultry,
But I do know people.
And the people who put people in glass houses are like turkeys.
These turkeys are a different breed.
Underfed and angry for no reason.
So they puff up,
spread their feathers like party flags,
and run at anything that moves.

They are campaign soldiers
Who do not fight for the love of country
They pour out a libation of their conscience on the ground
And rebrand it as loyalty.
Resigning themselves to grains of rice whenever it’s time for the farm to decide.
Fed fat on lies, greased with slogans and cheap praise —
they strut like they matter.
With a few minted notes well tucked into their feathers,
They chant their mantra.
Agitate. Disrupt. Overcome.

But these turkeys do not know they are never guests at the feast,
They are the feast itself.
So when the season changes,
and the sharp knives begin to glint
they are the first to fall.
Their blood soaks the yard,
and the chickens call it a noble sacrifice.

I do not know much about poultry,
but I do know people
And the people who watch people being put in glass houses are the feeders.
Us.

We pour the grain,
even when the pot is full
We smile through hunger and call it hope.
pray for miracle eggs from chickens
In a yard we call our own.
We guard their sheds
Make sure there’s enough for them to feed on
And we call it our duty to the yard.
But in this yard,
We bury our dead in promises,
wrap the coffins in campaign posters,
sing songs of unity
in languages divided by tribe.

“better eggs are coming.”
So we wait, and wait,
Until waiting becomes worship.
So we worship and worship
Until worship becomes death.
So we die,
quietly, so we do not disrupt their sleep.
And when the yard is silent,
they call it peace.

But one day, the tired hands of the feeders will no longer pour out grain
We who have poured our lives into the cracks of greed,
Will rise with a force that cannot be silenced.
And the yard, once a prison, will become a garden
Where every voice can bloom.
I promise I do not know much about poultry
So this poem was never about poultry.

Grant Cleopatra

Ode Grant Ufedojo, popularly known as Grant Cleopatra, is an award-winning Nigerian writer, spoken word artist, and public speaker. She is also an Anti-SGBV Ambassador with the Frontline Youth Initiative, a passionate global volunteer, and a content creator dedicated to social impact. Deeply committed to youth development, Grant champions self-discovery, mindset transformation, and personal growth among young people across the globe. Her poetry serves as both a mirror and a movement, confronting silence, challenging injustice, and amplifying hope. She is the author of The Beauty Within, and Dare to Dream; two powerful books that inspire readers to pursue purpose, live with excellence, and rise beyond limitations. Based in Kogi State, Nigeria, Grant Cleopatra continues to speak up, stand out, and spark change.