His Mother is silent as a painting.

I can smell the earth, the sticky clay, the animal prints on the ground.

It is a lucid morning and I am coughing blood.

The aching past hauls pain at my chest.

The ground is splitting in halves.

From the corner of my eye, the bald man jumps and stabs the boy at the lungs.

The cry swallows the sky, the horror fills the air.

I close my eyes.

It is only 4 am and what is our crime?

I am dragged along the ground polished by tears, by crimson.

The rough stones tear my skins, opens the veil for sins.

Our refuge Chapel is withering in our eyes.

Breathing darkly smokes, hissing regrets at the heavens.

Lord. Jesus. Mother of God.

The tears are quenching my thirst.

There are burning flames all over and the haunting wails of children.

Benue. My home.

Food basket of the Nation, the irony hits me like a zulu spear.

Bare me on your wings, Lord. I breath.

The bullets richochet like a nightmare while we eat the soil oiled with blood.

The priest who stood in the doorway for us had his head flown in tragedy.

His hands clutching the faithful chaplets.

He was young, fair and fervent.

The child beside me is a ghost crawling to the water.

His mother is silent as a painting.

The weight of sorrow is crushing me breathless.

I am a madman running widely for a second chance.

It is my turn…

This time, poetry won’t do.

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