A hand me down rifle,
A young man’s hands,
Piercing agony dances on his fingers
Looking for a place to land.
Since he was a child he has spoken the language of war,
Fluent in gunshots, strumming rifles since age four,
In a village he was convinced was the entire world,
Each drunken dispute labelled as a global war.
He could stand toe to toe with a navy seal
But the tongue of violence could not earn him a meal,
So he struggled to feed,
While his godfathers filled his brains
With delusions and an urge to kill.
In the place of a wallet he had a rifle,
A rumbling stomach his alarm clock,
The illusion of victory, his sweet spot.
A losing game he played with all his might.
Soon, blood became the liquor in his palate
And the aroma of bloodshed quickened his heart beat.
The ones who had once called the shots were under his feet,
And he would no longer listen to their hollow speech.
Now with a blurred vision, he can no longer see the “bigger picture”
Still fluent only in bullet he understands not the cries of his victims.
He lights flames and tosses grenades without a sense of direction,
Clouded by rage, he no longer comprehends the weight of motive.
Your grammar and English itches his brain,
Your tweets of “no violence” will forever be left unread.
His battle cry will shatter your mind before his dagger reaches your back,
For he can no longer identify his kinsmen in the dark.
Odusote is a writer whose works have been published on the Literary Denizens blog and in Akpata Magazine. She was also the second runner-up in the first edition of the ED Explore Essay Contest.
Featured Image by Ashkan Forouzani on Unsplash