NAIJA BLOG

Pulcha Terra. Magnificent and beautiful you were cursed with your seeds who go in circles generations from generations entrenched in greed and destruction, we die like chicken decapitated we are burnt like decaying wood no one remembers no one fights for us we all are dispensable. sixty years of ruling and we have killed ourselves more than any one else has. Oh Nigeria, will it be a curse to raise my seeds amongst your twisted seeds?

 To the dreadful Mrs. D, thin-faced, bespectacled  calamity handing down an injustice to the despondent Wiwa where are you now, at sixty, hobbled and aging  do you sleep and dream of comfort or peace or is your mind tormented by a plethora of evil that bedeviled your career did Nemesis cut you short like the abomination you are, or did God in his knowledge grant you a life of luxury and peace you denied others; To the dreadful Mrs D,  a product of the Nigerian corruption that has festered and mutated into something unfeasible the deadened conscience of the heartless medics the injustice of the Justices the nonchalance of the police the brute force of the Lekki shooters The Nigerian has metamorphosed into something worse than evil and I dread to age in a society of the soulless where living is negotiated Oh Mrs D, who feathered her nest, and destroyed the tree you are part of the evil that has born fruit  and destroys everyone its shadow falls upon

 There is no man as great as the writer who speaks for generations  to generations whose voice is immortalized and whose thoughts are concretised oh writer, unaware of your greatness you are destined for immortality designed to shape the thoughts of men and nations prepped to stir the passions that lay dormant within souls and guide the lost and fallen woe is he that does not heed your clarion call he is blind and deaf,  guided by primal passions Oh Homer, Virgil, Faust, Shaw, Soyinka, Conrad, Emecheta, Nwapa you awakened a zest for the intricacies of the mind that nothing else could

 We who feel too much watch the eyes and read the signs   of the words we who feel too much know that words are mirrors and eyes ae windows to  the soul that is hidden we who feel too much know too much of the thoughts you think and the actions you take in a day, month, or year we who feel too much are cursed the knowledge of knowing of the pain of losing before finding 

 You who have no thoughts and wander like the lost but are  full of manufactured knowledge have no power \you chant the latest chants enraged by the latest cause robots of the system stupid and in mass Your arguments are hollow and the same like a rabid dog circling its tail you are used by the few and are discarded to be used  again you who have no thoughts have no life

 So we dillydally around these games we both have played as the winners and losers the thrill has ended now all is left is the clawing hands of despair the blank stare of  boredom of dread of sadness and the mourning of loss we know the words are empty and respoken we know when the chaser becomes the belle and the belle the stalker the dynamics change oh little sad one, no matter what you say or  how hard you try  you are like Sisyphus trudging up the hill pick up your broken heart and heal till you are ready for another game