We won’t allow anyone to throw themselves to the floor for our sake anymore.
We won’t allow them to rent themselves to our grief, showing us the best way to cry & mourn our Benue sons who left for farms & returned home as a breaking news.
Our doorpost won’t become a safe box again where we save our tears, wailing, agony; counting names of those boys who went &never returned home through the door but, through the wind that came back from the window.
We made ourselves the curator of traditions,
We told you never to go through the windowsill, the house is yours even if you are a thief.
Don’t run your fingers through the celestial walls seeking for the portraits of the family violently.
We are fighting desperately for your justices,
If we keep pushing the skeletal ghost of this land
to the entire world like a violently bashed frame,
No one would call on the amalgamation of crisis into the invasion of privacy & thought.
Sons you are not thieves to be slaughtered,
I say that again to the breaking ears of the sun;
you are not a thief saving your selves in a:
Shell, dreams, nightmares & tunnels; tunnels where matchetes and dagger could penetrate.
For those Benue sons who went to farm & never returned home to their wives, mothers & children, we’ll not rest until our drum cover the footings of the telescopic world for your sake.
Goodbye sometimes, are messages to the deafening silence hanging on the innocent ears.

©John Chizoba Vincent

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