Artcile: The spoken truth of The Pen - OLANREWAJU OGUNUBI

The spoken truth of The Pen

Each time I seat at the feet of my table with hands crossed and open mind in readiness, waiting to listen, learn and hear the voice of My Pen. It speaks of tales of a horrendous reign, shadows of the past murdered by the dark. It sings the song-myth of martyrs, heroes and legends, scapegoats whose bloods served as ink on that new epistle written to our government. My Pen speaks not only of the evil they brought upon our land the players of our democracy but also of those innocent souls, lifeless bodies, streaming blood, those sacrificial lambs used to quench their thirst for terror.

My Pen tells again the story of that man who upon his graduation left his hometown in a bid just to serve his fatherland but never return! It reminds me the story of that village, that electrifying village the envy of her neighbourhood, the pride of its state. Like a tree by the riverside, its market grew and flourished. Its farmlands were the talk of the town with cocoa trees in abundance and palm trees raised to heaven. Close to the heart of the town was a brewery where the best wine of all was being made. It was a home to be born, a town to live in and a touristy to visit.

Its glory, fame and honour went with the arrival of terror, a gloom that darken her sky and painted the land in red. The land of the living became a home of the dead, skulls of friends, skeletons without bodies and bloods steaming from a village without river. Nobody to plant cocoa, none to nurture palm trees, market now desert, the heart of the town now house a brewery were flesh turn meat and blood becomes wine. That flourishing land of pride now a barren region of shame.

Each time I read the lines of My Pen, it speaks of the dead, the sick, the wounded, the homeless, the internally displaced… by the noise of terrors and silence of government. Those whose joy became the opposite not because they wanted to but for the ‘death’ pointed to their foreheads. Those helpless fathers, who could do nothing but watch their dying children, die before their own eyes. Those widows who were beaten and raped by the murderers of their own husband, those children who became orphans only because their parents refuse to switch religion… it speak of those murdered by the noise of terrors and silence of our own government!

            Each time I learn at the feet of My Pen, it teaches me LOVE and ENDURANCE crowned with HOPE. LOVE for a country that demands my tax, my vote, my obedience to law, my allegiance, my patriotism, my loyalty… ENDURANCE of death and dying caused by the ineptness of government and competence of terrorist, endurance of humble roads, erratic power supply, poor health services, inferior infrastructure, substandard educational sector, incessant disappear of billions from government purse among many others. HOPE in nothing

            HOPE in a better tomorrow even when we know that yesterday was better than today, hope in the future even when we are aware that the ancient past was our best. They say there is always light at the end of every tunnel, our own tunnel seem to be the only exception, like the bottomless pit, it seem to have no end. However, My Pen has taught my Love so ‘I love my country!’ My Pen taught me endurance, ‘I will continue to endure’ and finally, My Pen taught me hope, ‘like the sun rises every morning, my hope shall always rise again even if it sets!’

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