I can smell change... from afar
A long-awaited change
A radical departure from the norm
A sharp deflection—from the old order
This change…
has claimed its price in blood
From ancient scrolls to modern screens
Men and women... old and young
Have paid... the ultimate price
Still, it remained elusive
Uncatchable
So the old order thrived—unchecked
Looting. Pillaging.
With reckless abandon
From the Mandara Mountains in Borno
Through the Ikyogen Hills in Benue
To the roaring waves of the Atlantic—
The old order bares its stamp
A stamp... of grief and anguish
Carnage. Mayhem. Plunder
Repression. Regression.
The clear markings... of a failed state
They say—change is the only constant
But in this Nigerian tale,
The old order... is the only constant
I met it as a child
And 35 years on—
The same names still rule the ruins
Doing the same old things
Inflicting fresh wounds
Our people now… flee to the sea
Risking death to escape decay
They run to lands where
Strong institutions—not strong men—reign
Where the law towers above all
Where freedom breathes
But here, the system resists change
Viciously. Systemically.
It abhors anything clean or progressive
Every four years—
It spews out filthy contenders
Sanctioned by corruption
Baptized in incompetence
Yet... I sense something
On the horizon
In the air
In the aching spirit of the people
They are tired
Fed up
Ready to dance to the drumbeats of progress
At great personal cost, they rise
They stir hearts
They inspire a slogan:
A new Nigeria is possible
Regression fights back, as expected
Plotting to extinguish this fragile flame
But this time...
The scent of change is different
More intense
More gripping
More… unstoppable
And maybe—
Just maybe—
Good will prevail over evil
This once.
Samuel Tarawou
The Wordsmith
Crafter of Magical Think-pieces
Teller of Intriguing Tales
Ghostwriter par Excellence
Speaker Extra-ordinaire
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