we drop pure water sachets by the stream,
our market bags tear open at the seam,
the gutters choke, and fishes start to scream,
yet plastic still feels like a distant dream—
na so we dey spoil our land.


but plantain leaves still get their pride,
and bottles fit dey turn the tide,
if we recycle, walk with guide,
no need to burn or dump and hide—
na so we go save our land.


so make we teach both old and young,
from lagos voice to nsukka tongue,
to choose the right and right the wrong,
to clean the place where we belong—
na we go repair this land.