Darkness hungers


In the depth of Africa, somewhere in the west lies a country that is still hoping to behold the dawn. The darkness is so blinding that the moon is unnoticed and the stars weak. Hunger wonders the land boastfully with only the poor at its mercy.

The poor are seen with shaking arms, begging for tomatoes, begging to live another day. The rich mounts on horses, traveling far to hide their stolen treasures. Cries and wails have dominated the land, blood have covered the streams and guns left behind roads and paths. Struggle have been the cause of it all. Struggle for power, possession, right and money. The pressure mounted upon those that sit on high chairs is no doubt ear damaging and consuming. The treasures of the land are been looted away by thieves even when light shines. Even when the human eye looks. We are been stripped of our possession even before our very eyes. Where is the way?

Our land is growing weary. We no longer till the soil nor plant our grains. The oil which the outsiders discovered have doomed us. It has consumed us with greed and corruption. It has made our hands lazy, too lazy to work the land for food. The land near the oil wells have been damned. The earth strives to breath, the plant struggles for life, but the oil have killed them all. We now live to kill our brother and not to protect. An abnormal instinct that has risen in us. We are not ONE anymore. Tribes against tribes, kings against kings, lords against lords. A time where the old lies in bed with the young. A time where wife will kill husband in cold blood. Where is the way?

Youngs hearts have turned stony and dark. They are now tools of power. Used as puppets by lords of the land. They have burnt down churches, they have burnt down mosques, they have burnt down humans, they have burnt down themselves. Destinies that would have redirect the face of the earth lies deep within the ground. A lot of dreams lies unfulfilled. The young maidens in this era are nothing but gadgets of pleasure. Please, where is the way?

The old women cries for a saviour. Can a saviour come or are they building strong hopes on sinking sand? If a saviour is to come, then he’s yet to be born. Maybe by then, my bones will be resting somewhere beneath the caves, in peace. By then, the looters shall breath no more. By then, hunger shall no longer be seen nor blood shade. By then, new vibrant leaders and followers will emerge. Perhaps, when the saviour is born, the dawn will come.

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