The spoken truth of The Pen

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.’