THEIR BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS
The youth corps members that was killed in the quest of serving their fatherland during the election time in Northern areas of this junk called Nigeria, there blood on your hands.
Are you a president who could not preside on the truth, a leader who leads others on the ruinous path? Are you the governor who armed them, used them when it was right to do so? Did you dupe and dump them afterwards? Are you that who was friend to them yesterday and now betray them? Are you the fire-eating critic of today after you shamelessly urged them on the day before? The blood of these victims will hound you, I assure.
Are you a teacher who taught others to do what you would never have your children do, or instructors on that which is vain and unwholesome? Then you share a part of the guilt, their blood will haunt you for ever.
Are you the marabout who prescribed poison to the motherless; the herbalist who dished hemlock to the uninitiated? Are you the doctor who recommended untested potions to others; and raked in the gain from their makers? Your days are numbered; the dead are planning their revolt. Their blood, you should know, is on your hands.
Maybe you are the security agent, asked to get the facts to nip the bud, but you cook what is farce and present them as if that is the fad? You are paid to protect but you guide those who rape the souls in your care. You call the thief unto roguery and then sound the alarm to alert the householder. Then, your day of reckoning is nigh. Someone would have to pay for the innocent blood, that you shed everyday; the reggae man sang long ago. That someone is you.
Are you the journalist: the columnist, who compares the incomparable, befuddles others with lies; leaves the truth in search of falsehood; more fanatical than the fanatic and yet hides under intellectual sanctimony? Are you? Your day of judgement will soon come. The blood is flowing. And when it meets at the tributary of nemesis, it will down the voices of the mongers of falsehood. Yours will be chief, because their bloods is on your hands.
Are you the leader of that ethnic group? The one who stokes hatred in the unwary and reaps from gun-running to quell their rebellion? Are you that who made them poor and turned their poverty into your prosperity?
The blood of those turned into common felons; of those you made orphans, of the fathers mowed down long ago, of the mothers rendered childless in your bid to hold on to power, they are here to haunt you; you, you and you. Remember you sheared the lips of the suckling child from its firm grips on the crying mother’s breast. His wall was sweet music to your sick ears. Now, the blood is on a mission of vengeance. And your hands bear traces of the waste.
You were the pastor who divined midnight sacrifice to your blighted god, in the name of the true God; the Mallam who taught children to turn other’s laughter to sadness with no compulsion. You made butchers of the innocent and turned them on the sinless, then turn round to mow them down; the innocent and the sinless. There is blood dripping from your hands.
Neither the refutation of a million years, denials in hidden and open places, appeasement of unknown gods, nor the purchase of the conscience of many, will remove from your guilt. You are guilty without being charged, for the punishment you mete unto the blameless.
You could hide in exotic abodes, swathe yourself in pretentious grandeur or cover your emptiness in garbled logic, the truth is sure to find you out. Time will definitely unmask you. You will be rendered naked; your inheritance will be laid to waste, for you plotted evil against the guiltless.
The tongue you profess will not save you, your religion will not be a relief, the colour of your skin will not shield you; the geography of your origin will not secure you. When nemesis comes in rampaging angst, you and yours will not be spared. North, South, West, East, North by South or South by the Midwest; where you come from will count little. What you have will not matter, for it will soon be judgement day.
Some will say we have heard this before, it will never come in our time, even though I speak not if the second coming, yet I mean the final coming; when you can no longer change what you are, you can no longer decide what you will be. Then the full weight of the blood you have shed; by your actions or inactions, your silence or your rants and all that you did in between, will come crashing on you and your house of straws.
To the youth corps members that died in the Northern areas for serving their fatherland: may your rest in perfect peace. My heartfelt sympathy goes their families. R I P. E Sun re ooo…………..
Article culled from Thenationonlineng.net (2006).
Re-edited by: Oluwatomilola K. Boyinde
The youth corps members that was killed in the quest of serving their fatherland during the election time in Northern areas of this junk called Nigeria, there blood on your hands.
Are you a president who could not preside on the truth, a leader who leads others on the ruinous path? Are you the governor who armed them, used them when it was right to do so? Did you dupe and dump them afterwards? Are you that who was friend to them yesterday and now betray them? Are you the fire-eating critic of today after you shamelessly urged them on the day before? The blood of these victims will hound you, I assure.
Are you a teacher who taught others to do what you would never have your children do, or instructors on that which is vain and unwholesome? Then you share a part of the guilt, their blood will haunt you for ever.
Are you the marabout who prescribed poison to the motherless; the herbalist who dished hemlock to the uninitiated? Are you the doctor who recommended untested potions to others; and raked in the gain from their makers? Your days are numbered; the dead are planning their revolt. Their blood, you should know, is on your hands.
Maybe you are the security agent, asked to get the facts to nip the bud, but you cook what is farce and present them as if that is the fad? You are paid to protect but you guide those who rape the souls in your care. You call the thief unto roguery and then sound the alarm to alert the householder. Then, your day of reckoning is nigh. Someone would have to pay for the innocent blood, that you shed everyday; the reggae man sang long ago. That someone is you.
Are you the journalist: the columnist, who compares the incomparable, befuddles others with lies; leaves the truth in search of falsehood; more fanatical than the fanatic and yet hides under intellectual sanctimony? Are you? Your day of judgement will soon come. The blood is flowing. And when it meets at the tributary of nemesis, it will down the voices of the mongers of falsehood. Yours will be chief, because their bloods is on your hands.
Are you the leader of that ethnic group? The one who stokes hatred in the unwary and reaps from gun-running to quell their rebellion? Are you that who made them poor and turned their poverty into your prosperity?
The blood of those turned into common felons; of those you made orphans, of the fathers mowed down long ago, of the mothers rendered childless in your bid to hold on to power, they are here to haunt you; you, you and you. Remember you sheared the lips of the suckling child from its firm grips on the crying mother’s breast. His wall was sweet music to your sick ears. Now, the blood is on a mission of vengeance. And your hands bear traces of the waste.
You were the pastor who divined midnight sacrifice to your blighted god, in the name of the true God; the Mallam who taught children to turn other’s laughter to sadness with no compulsion. You made butchers of the innocent and turned them on the sinless, then turn round to mow them down; the innocent and the sinless. There is blood dripping from your hands.
Neither the refutation of a million years, denials in hidden and open places, appeasement of unknown gods, nor the purchase of the conscience of many, will remove from your guilt. You are guilty without being charged, for the punishment you mete unto the blameless.
You could hide in exotic abodes, swathe yourself in pretentious grandeur or cover your emptiness in garbled logic, the truth is sure to find you out. Time will definitely unmask you. You will be rendered naked; your inheritance will be laid to waste, for you plotted evil against the guiltless.
The tongue you profess will not save you, your religion will not be a relief, the colour of your skin will not shield you; the geography of your origin will not secure you. When nemesis comes in rampaging angst, you and yours will not be spared. North, South, West, East, North by South or South by the Midwest; where you come from will count little. What you have will not matter, for it will soon be judgement day.
Some will say we have heard this before, it will never come in our time, even though I speak not if the second coming, yet I mean the final coming; when you can no longer change what you are, you can no longer decide what you will be. Then the full weight of the blood you have shed; by your actions or inactions, your silence or your rants and all that you did in between, will come crashing on you and your house of straws.
To the youth corps members that died in the Northern areas for serving their fatherland: may your rest in perfect peace. My heartfelt sympathy goes their families. R I P. E Sun re ooo…………..
Article culled from Thenationonlineng.net (2006).
Re-edited by: Oluwatomilola K. Boyinde
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