Murderous Hand of Promising Haven
Before we were finally killed,
We completed a race for life.
We saw a shadow, a shadow of death
Whose claws terrifying and uninviting
We saw a road, safe it appeared and to refuge lead
After a long exhausting and laborious walk
Soon, it was haven at last, we thought
Resounding sighs of relief, safe at last!
So thought the escapees.
The outer surface whitewashed and inviting
We once saw a shadow, a death’s shadow
We now see our death, caressing with claws
Claws once fared awaited us in haven so-called.
Are we dead?
Yes like a walking dead!
For what’s is life,
When liberty is tenuous?
Or what’s living,
Where destinies are killed?
What is food,
When like fowl we’re fed in the pen of dependence and hopelessness?
Being groomed until our days of usefulness are gone.
When families are set apart
And able fellows are disabled
When educated and skillfuls are silenced
And innocent’s are housed in detention
And liberty of guiltless confiscated
What’s life if breath’s without hope?
I behold the wailings
At the cemetery of destinies,
Where bright futures abruptly turn dismal
Where refuge seekers are turned to their deaths
And I ask,
Does anyone care?
As the clock’s hands ticks to our twilight
Then to our night,
And to our expiry;
When our days of usefulness are over?
The yearning ceaselessly immutable
Like thirsty throat cherishes nothing but water
The treasures, the virtues, the skills
In our bellies swells and overt
Yet like protruding but painful kwashiorkor
Our bellies full but with malnourished talents
We look full? Nay, we’re fooled
Into thinking our days of usefulness are intact
That the hands of the clock are halted
Even as the span of our usefulness expires.
The bones of our destinies
Dead, buried, stunk and dried
Yes, like hopeful saints await resurrection
The day our liberty restores
When the owners of our dangerous refuge remembers, we too like all aspire to grow
Until then, we’re all dead!
Until there emerges our saviour
Who feels the depth of our wound, our deadness
Who empathises the pains of our born and unborn,
Before the days of our usefulness are all gone.
Until then, we are dead
Until then, yes buried
With our destinies in the palm of our refuge.
Godwin Akinyele, VOICES Ambassador in Wrexham