THE WRITER’S BOOK

I’m indecisive about what to become, there are so many options to choose from, maybe I should become a doctor, be kind and save lives, or a lawyer, rip off the blindfold from mother justice’s eyes so she can clearly slay evil with her machete or maybe I should become an engineer, or a nurse or an economist so I can be like Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala someday or maybe I’ll just become a writer make people feel things with my words, make them cry, laugh, angry draw empathy from them be all powerful and in control of other’s emotions, hmm very tempting but I think I’ll rather be a book

We want to LOVE

We want to love you Nigeria, we want to serve you, we really want to arise and obey your call, but they are not letting us do it, how do we answer your call when our lips are taped shut, how do we come and be patriotic when we are forced to sit down, our legs tied to the chair, our hands tied to our back. Aliens say we should open our eyes, we would see the good in our country. Our eyes are wide open but our vision is obscured. We see no green, we see no white all we see is red.  The blood of the innocent that was shared, red! The symbol of danger that lurks in the corner of where we’re supposed to feel safe in, our home, our fatherland, our presumed safe haven now a tower of fear and insecurity.