CAESAR MUST BE STOPPED!!!

Before the war began, we had learned to live together in peace, tranquillity and harmony, helping one another build her cities. Bewitched by the magnetic glow of their daughters’ seductive facades, our sons soon became their suitors. Because of them, their alluring lies the lure in their land, our children deserted us, they wanted a greener pasture and so we became desolate. Before the war began, we shared a common goal, a common vision a common dream, our cities together flourished and would have created a formidable nation had the war been averted. Before the war began, our cities were the safest to abode; you could walk our street gazing upon the mysteries of nature’s artwork, even at witching ours. Our people ate bread, not flesh; they drank wine and never did they thirst for blood afore the war began.

Few weeks ago, our men, Justice, Truth and The Pen took to the street to denounce their horrendous reign, resist their forbidden policies, protest their open display of ineptitude, and to blow the whistle on their criminal acts. In their majority few, had they stormed the gates of the single-minded castles and self-centred chambers of deceit belonging to Caesar and his cabals chanting that sacred hymn of struggle, they had come to fight not only for theirs but for the people’s rights. And then right before my very eyes, Justice was brutally mutilated till the last breath escaped his strangled gullet, Truth was immediately incarcerated and The Pen had to borrow a leaf from Usain Bolt’s skill in other to survive. This was the parturition of the war.

Truth was a correspondent in one of the many broadcasting firms the city had, he is said to have aired sensitive reports of Caesar and his cabal’s illegal manipulation, bigotry, misappropriations, embezzlements, including others that cannot be said for safety reasons. Truth, who until his death was also a freelance writer, is said to have a sour aperture, little wonder they commonly admitted that Truth is bitter.

Justice once lodged in the hallowed chamber of Caesar, it was once the guiding principle at Caesar’s bench. When cheated by fellow villagers, or by Caesar himself, we could gallantly approach our magistrates demanding for nothing other than justice. The inability of Caesar’s government to neither withstand the veracity of truth nor behold the ferocious visage of Justice and on the other hand, the inability of both Truth and Justice to behold Caesar besiege our land with evil, laid the foundation that birth this war. But alas! Justice and Truth like forgotten tales have vaporized into memories, only The Pen survived to tell the acrimonious tail, and so it wrote…

The successful revolt of good against evil, the victory injustice had over justice, the coronation of lies and deceit as well as the incarceration of Truth, let them all be continually told afore the auricle of all that be and shall be, in this beautiful land of hope. Let these tales forever linger in the heart of all that abode the street of democracy, who still hope in Caesar’s government and his promise of a better tomorrow, let them not fail to forget how days of yore was by far better than today and how their leaders have openly refuted the truth and murdered justice.

Let them wail and mourn for tyranny is set to rule over them. However, instead of retiring to our caves, mourning the dawn of evil, we can trail the track of Justice and Truth; we can continue the struggle from where they stopped. We are not gods, but with an arsenal of unity and togetherness, we can put an end to the callous reign of Caesar.

While we continue to struggle against the forces of dismay, we should have at the back of our mind that Caesar must not be allowed victory in this war. Otherwise, the dead would have died for nothing and our children will dearly pay; never again shall they be judged by the letters of the law, but by the horrendous voice of Caesar, their homes, money and chattels shall at the decree of Caesar be confiscated. Their taxes shall upsurge at the highest possible rate, they shall eat, drink and be merry all at Caesar’s given directive, freedom and liberty shall soon fade away.

Then will they come to our graves hissing upon our carcasses, mocking our inability to defeat Caesar, “celebrating” our colossal failure, and tolerance for injustice. Unless we conquer Caesar, not in peace shall our bones rest. The labours of our gone heroes, their strive for freedom, their self-determination struggle, their exertion to open colonial cages and liberate from colonial nets shall not only be in vain but also prick the hearts of our gone ancestors. If they could overthrow colonialism, we can overthrow Caesar.

Although this war of truth against untruth, of evil against good, of justice against injustice seems to have no end and though it may appear as if the evil tyrant – Caesar – is on the verge of victory. However, we must continue as heralds of hope baring aloft that solemn torch of change, with which we shall pull down the fortress of Caesar, illuminate our darkened world and liberate our bewitched brothers and sisters who now stand with Caesar.

The assassination of Justice, we must avenge, Truth must again taste the aroma of freedom. Even when our bones are broken, and our spirit crushed, when the artilleries of Caesar pierce beyond our tender skin and bruise the innocence of our soul, we should not relent standing on angel’s side, even if we have to stand there alone. Democracy must once again be democratic, its core values restored and its undermined principles resuscitated, for this reason, Caesar must be brought to book.

Any leader or follower that stands in opposition to Truth, that prevents Justice from taking its due course is nothing but Caesar and must be stopped!

I saw you… the realities of our society

I saw you when dead to the world at dusk, clad in matching attires of refuge worn for sedition stolen from those meant to protect from theft – in Whiteman’s khaki of gray colour, your legs buried in socks whiter than snow sheltered by a muddy black boot looking much heavier than your enfeebled legs. Your hands fenced by vicious gloves of deceit with less attractive façade but capable of reducing to dust an entire village. Taking a nap on your hand was a rifle born of modern technology, loaded with enough ‘deaths,’ as much as could win a battle. In my dreams, I did saw you; saw your face as it mails to me an epistle long enough to write a book.

Lack of food, shelter and clothing, which they say are the core necessities of life, were the first line of your epistle. Protesting on the same page with poverty was unemployment shadowed by illiteracy, fuelled by lack of infrastructures and capped by the ineptitude of government. Lack of employment had paved the way for poverty, which came like driving rain, washing away your nobility and prestige as a man. Both unwelcomed guest paced you to your new employers. Those affluent men of our society, who gave you possessions including that rifle. Indoctrinating that you fight for yours – fight for your right; or be consumed of indigence – but whether in reality you fight for your right or theirs is a tale for another day.

You were also seen, though you had your face covered, that your identity might be unknown. You and your cohorts, with whom you forcefully deprive people of their hard earned chattels. Pointing to their foreheads the death in your hands while demanding that they choose between material goods and living. During the day, you were like other members of the society going about your daily business though you have no business. However, immediately darkness succeeds in putting the day’s light into hostage, particularly during witching hours, you appear clad in attires that makes your identity obscure sailing from one house to the other, leaving them desolate. Though your face was securely wrapped, however, the mystery behind your unlawful behaviour continues to echo on the street like a cacophonic carol song. The thunderous whispers of the poor, hungry and desperate youth.

I thought I was awake when suddenly I saw you. Beautiful as Aphrodite the goddess of beauty, having all you needed to be well-endowed. Dressed to kill, to kill credulous men whose eyes could not resist the sight of a busty brunette. Clad in garments that makes what should be secret an open secret, you parade the red zone where you and other workers of the oldest profession await the sneaky arrival of costumers – your style of using what you have to get what you want. Appearing at three sites were your daily ritual. First the red-zone where clients come to seek your service. Followed by the brothel room where your clients give you the peanut with which you survive the following day but not before impregnating you repeatedly. Lastly, the hospital bed where you murder your unborn children.

I then woke up but to the realities of a gloomy society beset with despair, anguish, hardship a place where survival of the fittest have become the order of the day. A society in which people are surviving today so they can be able to survive tomorrow, a society plagued with unemployment, illiteracy and poverty. A society were you have to work your fingers to the bone just to have enough to be broke, a society that seems to be heading towards obliteration. Like a train with a drunken driver, a society that is fast heading towards a rock. While our leaders continue to scramble for power, wealth, influence among others, we are left in the gorge of survival doing all we can to keep death few steps away.

Each navigation through the pages of our history books lives one wondering if we were specially created to enjoy misery, our grandfathers divulged to our fathers how our streets were better during their days, and now our own fathers recount this same sob story before us. Hopelessly, we shall live to continue the chant of similar tales of woe. Although neither our problem nor its solution seems to be obscure, as even the newest member of our society can vividly identify our challenges and even go as far as recommend possible solution, however, our state continues to go downhill as though there is no solution to our hitches.

After a careful consideration of all that beset us as a nation, am left at the verge of concluding that our condition is merely the hand of god at work, perhaps we are accused with a veiled limit. However, toeing the line with the words of William Ernest, we are the master of our fate, we are the captain of our soul, we are the architect of our own misfortunes, we are the artist sketching the lines of our own existence, we are the playwright penning the script of our tragedies. Both young and old, educated or not, male and female, we collectively shape the realities of our society and our society will never be what we so much desire of it without our wilful permission.

...a dream of employment

Am now a labourer at aduke market

Where I carry and arrange used carpet

Always wearing my old jacket

And showing of my wretched gadget

At times, I sell goods in sachet

And planks used for casket

My income not more than peanut

Even when I sell in packet

I go home at sunset

To have a nice bed-rest

Alas! It was just a dream of employment