(A poem on nationhood, leadership, and the undying will of the people)
The ballot is not a whisper—
It is thunder beneath our feet.
A contract etched in calloused palms,
In the marketplace sweat and dusty streets.
Power is borrowed, never owned.
It flows not down from ivory halls,
But up, from the hands of the hungry,
Who still stands tall when justice falls?
A leader is not born from thrones,
Nor from robes stitched in scripture’s tone.
He is forged in service, not in sermons,
Measured not by wealth, but by how he listens.
Yet here they stand with full pockets,
Empty promises tossed in plastic bins.
Lavish projects—shining like stars—
Built for show, not for kin.
Look how they dismiss the jobless youth,
Their dreams are buried in export queues.
Talent flies across wide oceans,
While factories crumble on this side.
They say, “Fly out. Find your worth.”
But how can soil bloom without its seed?
The nation gasps—its roots dry—
While policy waters only greed.
Appointments inked in blood and names,
Not merit, nor the weight of the brain.
Sirnames open doors like spells,
While brilliance starves in crowded cells.
The old cry out, unheard, unheeded.
The youth fight battles they didn’t start.
Funded, fed, and blindly led
To war against their neighbor’s heart.
Subsidies vanish in smoke and spin,
Yet no one knows where they have been.
Health, grain, and oil left gasping—
Replaced with slogans and endless fasting.
Yet come election, out come the drums—
Coins tossed like breadcrumbs to the poor.
“Sing for me,” the master says,
“Dance like you’ve never known hunger before.”
And when the people rise—unarmed,
With banners, voices, truth in hand—
They meet the boots, the batons, threats,
As if to speak was to offend.
But how do you kill a million minds?
A people’s will that will not fold?
Strike one down—ten more rise,
Spines carved from truths too old to hold.
Threats are rain upon scorched earth.
They water rage, not fear or retreat.
A leader who deafens his ears to pain
Will one day kneel in that same street.
What is done in darkness spills,
No matter how long the curtains sway.
Even madness whispers justice
When God no longer walks your way.
This is not rebellion—it is remembering.
That nations don’t rot from the edges,
But from the center, where power festers—
Rotting agendas hidden in pledges.
Yet the people?
They do not forget.
Their hands are rough,
But their minds are lit.
A good leader is celebrated.
A bad one—buried by time and truth.
Not every rejection is rage—
Sometimes it’s heaven reclaiming the booth.
Because God, not guns, moves nations.
And when He shifts the earth beneath,
Crowns crack, empires tumble,
And thrones are swallowed whole in grief.
So let them serve—or step aside.
Let them build, not just reside.
Let them listen to the farmer’s cry,
And wipe the tears the elders hide.
Because when the people raise their voice,
It’s not noise—it’s prophecy.
It’s the nation speaking through one mouth,
Declaring its right to destiny.
