A promising mirage,
Turned into a mild rage,
On loves’ tragic stage.
On the ruins of the soul,
In our dying breath,
In our waring souls,
From all length and breadth,
We run with our wounded soles.
From the safety of our homes,
From the troubles of our wives,
We run to the ruins of our tombs,
To the vanity of our lives.
Let lose to curse our days,
Set free as demons to the underworld,
On the scenes of this terror plays,
In tragic way we bow out of our world.”
At the periphery of ruins, they sit with hands clamp across their mouth. The drumbeats of sadness resound and echoes in their traumatic painful gory tales. Shadows of darkness descends in the middle of the day. Sunny as it was, yet pain was a darkness, mixed with undiluted fluid of sadness, flowing in the alphabets and words they utter. Sorrows flow through their being like water flowing through a stream unhindered.
The indigenes don't think about today, but previous nights and the next night fall… Night falls, where heroes fall victim to unsuspected terror that grace and settle on the terrain. Such is the continuous romance of sorrow; it has become a tradition sewn into the fabric of their skin. Terror, more or less, has turned into the sweat that emanates from their skin; death alone is the product of their thoughts. The rains fall but could not wash in its flooding the messy scenes of these spasmodic madness.
This wasn’t the first time they had struck, but never have they struck the holy places of worship, and never had holy blood been shed. Certainly, it doesn’t seem like the last time they would strike, neither will it be the last time they would hear about horror tales of unholy sins. Without a shadow of doubt, this tragic news will take its deserved seat in the history books; a national tragedy that has become a banner.
Days are dotted with historic tales, it was a historic day with historic calamity. It wasn’t September 11, nor anything of such magnitude; but considering where it is wrought, the fear that has been hideously expressed is now openly courted. This wasn’t a freedom fight, for they have long been freed from the shackles of colonialism.
There was nothing of bondage about the demands of the killer gang, and now the people are beginning to give true meaning to terrorism, even without attempting its definition. To attach meaning to pain, even without falling victims to sorrow, they have shed unwarranted tears, without the slightest acquaintance with the casualties. Blood flow gushingly from lifeless bodies; they have come to dread war, knowing what peace is, and to appreciate comfort even without feeling the luxury of wealth.
The church was in ruins; fire, smoke and scent of burning bodies ascending to heaven like the burnt offering of Abel ascending up to the cloudy rowdy and sad heavens. The church service had halted. From the sanctuary of worship, people found their loved ones quickly taken to the mortuary. Then suddenly, booooooom! In a split second, the sunny day was painted in pandemonium; an unholy sacrilege of terror visited on God’s faithful. There was a painful laughter on the faces of all. The priest had disappeared without his shoes, scampered for the safety of his flesh: A spirit filled man who left behind the spirit to rescue the flesh from mortal and earthly decay.
The wind stood still, sensing that evil was upon its tail and trail; man has visited terror upon man, watching slowly as their breath reached a point of vanquish. A Christmas mass became a mass burial, as people left for heaven and hell en mass, not needing clearance or pass.
Someone has driven straight to the heart of the church, and its members in the middle of service, and let loss the madness of a bomb to extort lives that had come to worship God. Some asked why God couldn’t neutralized such evil or hold it still till His children had made their exit. Or why had the prophets not been vigilant enough to see from the spirit realm and warn the church of the impending Armageddon? And of course, why have they been left to ask God questions He wasn’t going to grant them answers. Is He not God, and will this tragedy dethrone him from the position He so cherished?
Unholy curse, or is there a holy curse? Unworthy death or is there a worthy death? Unpleasant news, and for sure, they have all forgotten what is sounds like to hear a pleasant news, only if there was anything as pleasant as far as this life was concerned. For as long as they could remember, years have come and gone; their suffering is the only medal the carry on their neck, yet they have been happy to suffer and smile, not threatened by insecurity that has invaded their dwelling places.
To be continued...
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Nice poetic style of writing a story
Such a creative style of writing ✍🏿
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