Words are like eggs. Once broken, they cannot be put back together.

Five fortnights ago,
The age-long dreams of the natives bloomed like a plant that is ready for harvest.

For the first time in a long while, they dared to hope.
They defied all odds to fix their gaze beyond their bleak horizon.

But one of the elders said they dreamt too soon.
He said his kinsmen needed more time to build broken bridges and tame their emotions.

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No one talks too much like a proud fool.
He told the dreamers to stop dreaming,
Said his kinsmen lacked the dexterity of political leaders.
For a moment, he forgot the ambition he had always nursed.

My grandma once told me life is a realm of complications,
But I never understood her wise words until I was old enough to see that betrayal often comes from one’s kin.

Fate plays its best sick game,
And now, the tables are turned.
Who will fate give the last laugh?

The elder that once tore apart the dream of his people now seeks to govern the same people.
He erred last night but wants the oppressed to pray for him today.
The oppressor may forget, but the oppressed will always remember.

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When a fool says his people’s dream is not yet ripe, if he wakes one day to declare his ambition, he should not expect an open arm from the same people he once spurned,

‘Cause twenty-year-old pounded yam can scald the palm.