Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if his gives too much.
I read these lines and I remember Naija and its fear-soaked atmosphere, clammy like a wet blanket and just as suffocating. How could a country with so much beauty potential have turned out so ugly? This land had the potential to be beautiful beyond the singing of it but lies prostrate in the mud and in the sand all because greed made us eat up our grains in a feverish rush of glutinous consumption, and having consumed all the grains, we set about consuming our brains.
The hills are now bent in sorrow and the valleys have become places of terror cluttered with rogues, bullies, terrorists and human vultures, dead souls without culture.
Who can sing in this fetid place? Who can breathe in this suffocating space? This.place kills dreams and renders sleep hollow, full of fear and empty of rest.
Cry, the beloved country, for our unborn children who may inherit emptiness and the whirlwinds that are being sown by actions and inactions.
Noel @ Amizi
Reflections 