Each time I sit at the feet
of my table with hands crossed, eyes wide open, ears closed to the ground,
sniffing nose and open mind in readiness, waiting to listen, learn and hear
what it is The Pen would say. It whispers tales of a horrendous reign, shadows
of the past murdered in the dark. It sings the song-myth of martyrs, heroes and
legends, scapegoats whose bloods served as ink on that new epistle written to the
people and their government. The Pen speaks not only of the evil they brought
upon our land the players of our democracy but also of those innocent souls,
lifeless bodies, streaming blood, those sacrificial lambs used to quench their
thirst for terror. Not forgetting how we had helped ruin the land.
The Pen refrain once more,
the story of that man who upon his graduation left his hometown in a bid just
to serve his fatherland but never returned. It reminds me the story of that
village, that electrifying village the envy of her neighbourhood, the pride of its
state. Like a tree surrounded by rivers, its market grew and flourished. Its
farmlands were the talk of the town with cocoa trees in abundance and palm
trees raised to heaven. In its heart was a noble brewery where the best wine of
all were made. It was a home to be born, a town to live in, a touristy to
visit.
Its glory, fame and honour
were massacred by the arrival of terror, a gloom that darken her skies and
encrusted the land in red. The land of the living became a home for the dead,
skulls of friends, naked skeletons and fresh undiluted bloods steaming from a
village without river. Nobody to plant cocoa, none to nurture palm trees,
markets now a booming desert. The brewery that had once served best wines now supplies
meats made of human flesh and wines that were formally blood. That flourishing
home of pride now a barren land of shame.
Each time I read the lines of
The Pen, it speaks of the dead, the sick, the wounded, the homeless, the
internally displaced… by the noise of terrors and silence of government! Those
whose joy became the opposite not because they wanted to but for the ‘death’
pointed towards their forehead. Those helpless fathers, who could do nothing
but watch their dying children, die before their very eyes. Those widows who
were beaten and raped by the murderers of their own husband, those children who
became orphans merely because their parents refused to switch religion… it
speaks of those murdered by noise of terrors and silence of government!
I would not forgive The Pen,
if it overlooked you. You that is meant to serve public good but is rather
serving the interest of you own purse. Those wolves in sheep clothing that
parade our street only during each electioneering years after which they
dematerialize and we only see them on the pages of newspapers. Those that steal
our votes, our money and our pride; those who have traded this nation for
corruption whose actions and inactions are responsible for backward progress. Those
night guards from whose very eyes our billions disappeared. Those nation
builders whose developmental efforts are retrogressive and most importantly
that felon that called himself a ‘statesman.’
The Pen failed to forget you,
yes you! You that stay mute in comfort of your caves, denunciating those in
power, forgetting how you were cheaply bought over during each electioneering
period. You whose voice is heard saying nothing, silent than a graveyard hoping
that things will one day be better though you knew it always get worse.
Including you, who have given up so quickly. Born and buttered in Nigeria, you
have learnt to accept its retrogressive nature as part of the fundamental laws guiding
this land, you who have learnt to adapt, never complain and hoping for that
day. That day when it will be your turn, your turn to gobble the national
gateau and sip a gulp of that Nigerian honey called crude oil.
It would be sinful not to
mention you. You the supposed leaders of
tomorrow that cankerworm today. Supposed future engineers now masters of
cybercrimes. Supposed future lawyers, bankers, politicians, security personnel,
teachers, and doctors of our maladies now certified armed robbers, political
hooligans, oil bunkers, drug peddlers, kidnapers, members of insurgent groups
not to mention it all. Not excluding you that claim to be unemployed, pointing
fingers to the government as the cause of your joblessness rather than you who
could not defend your certificate. Unexpectedly, The Pen brought to my notice
those able-bodied men, fit for farms in villages, but are roaming the streets
of our cities, in search of white-collar jobs.
Each time I learn at the feet
of The Pen, it teaches love, robed in a stance of change, sitting on the throne
of endurance and crowned with hope. Love for a country that demands our tax,
our obedience to law, our allegiance, our patriotism, our loyalty… robed with a
stance to be part of the wheel of change rather than mourning our past, mailing
blames to one another or aggravating the ills of our society. Endurance of
death and dying caused by the ineptness of government and competence of
terrorist, endurance of humble roads, erratic power supply, poor health
services, inferior infrastructure, substandard educational sector, incessant
disappear of billions from government purse among many others as opposed to evacuating
our fatherland, seeking refuge in a strange land. Not hope in nothing but
rather, hope in a better Nigeria!
Hope
in a better tomorrow even though we know that yesterday was better than today,
hope in the future though we are aware that the ancient past was our best. It
is commonly said, “There is light at the end of every tunnel” but our own tunnel
seem to be the only exception, like a bottomless pit, it seem to have no end.
However, The Pen has taught love therefore, love for our country should not
cease; The Pen also taught change and did not fail to teach endurance. We should
continue to endure with a stance for change. Finally, The Pen did taught hope,
‘like the sun that rises every morning, our hopes should rise again even if it
sets.’
