One Nigeria; The 11th Voice -By J. Ezike

One Nigeria is the evil child on a crossing to a dry watercourse bordering the valley of Grief, Mortality and Death. While words can never fully express the heaviness our tragedies are bound to bear, the smirk of satisfaction from the wind that breathes life on our fatal journey, together, with the evil child shall command Hell upon its Guardians, that they in a twinkle of a sunken star, shall go down to the heathen World, deep into the dark abyss wherein the Songs of the Righteous are choked to a whimper!

What dreams can the Guardians gift that the evil child may be spotless as the Golden Sun and that Men of Flesh may bring it the love of the gods?

To sleep forever in the pain that crushes the soul like the fang of the Beast and to wait for the coming of the Nations whose arrows shoots calamity upon the heads of the Guardians that they may bleed Gold and Oil and Diamonds.

O! All that feeds the evil child must fetch their peace from the dry watercourse, with a basket of dreams and a sorrow that touches the feet of the clouds.

But then I looked, and there in the march to Jihad, a wind from the South West lifted its branch from the head of the Guardians. Its soul, shuffling off on the Famished Road, singing praises to the evil child. Its breasts full of blood, feeding Life to the evil child.

And out of the phantom blue, the 11th voice bellowed: “Let the evil child sleep to wake no more.”

The Caliphate heaves with pride, and its wand of control strutting on the mind of the wind from the South West. “The 11^th voice is a message told by a false prophet. Come, come, seat with me on this throne of Power. Together we nurse the Seed of Caesar.”

But when the Sun sets and grave darkness burns as death, the suckling evil child shall suck Life out of the South West. On its bosom, the evil child shall giggle a curse to its face. For in that love affair of the Mother and Seed, of the South West and the evil child, lives the story of Grief, of Mortality, of Death!

This fatal journey must return to Yesterday!

For Death lies on us like the timeless Desert Heat. So, let your heart beat for posterity, that in your sweet awakening they shall inherit the Garden of Honey. Peace is not Wisdom’s Paradise. For he that hearkens to the 11^th voice shall find compass to his redemption.

But when the Guardians die, on this dry watercourse the Rivers Of Blood shall flow and the suckling evil child shall saddle on their corpses. For the evil child with the fang of the Beast shall devour the flesh of the South West and all its Guardians shall be bones in the belly of the Caliphate!

Again, out of the phantom blue, the 11^th voice bellowed: “Let the evil child sleep to wake no more.”

When Jihad comes like the Full Moon, there are no tribes seen – only vassals will encounter regret as bride. But the Moon is crescent now. Its wrath is half way to our doorsteps.

Curse! Curse the evil child to death, that the South-West and the rest of the Guardians can master a fear which draws life from Heaven’s branch.

O! Son of the South West, a romance with the Caliphate is a vile thing to do, my gracious friend. Such love is as frosty as death.

The 11^th voice pours like raindrops in spring, it promises the birth of a New Seed – a New Child. But like the songs of autumn, the South-West and all its Guardians must let the evil child fade its green to brown. Let it fall from its branches and return to the soil of its Maker. Let it sleep to wake no more.

But above all, my gracious friend:

Tell Caesar and the Caliphate that our soul is not for sale and Freedom is not Beggar’s meal.