They say time is an innocent gift to all, so cherished that we hardly know its worth. And like a dream, it lingers for a moment and is never seen in its form. We sit, reckless, pretentious, gullible and dreary, the terrains littered with our agony and hate. Rubbles we make of the beauty that was given to us. But in all, time moves slowly, never changing its face.
     Right beneath the rubbles in this picture that we are making is the innocence that we so far have neglected, a dusty child in an enclave of doubt. Television screens show the guns and the misery, and we empathize for a while till the silence catches us too. And we forget in our pity that it was our wars that have made this child numb.
      War is as old as man, a revolving riddle with no real answer. It is a debt of ignorance, a vanity of pride, a vial of madness and a coat of deceit. We carry guns and grenades and swords and other weapons and head off to a strange reality where death is the friend of the enemy. We sleep in this misery and rise up to desolation. But who wins any war at the end?
     Victor or vanquished, all wars leaves its trail of regret, a nagging memory of why it was painful to begin with. It may be the countless graves of men whose legacy was to be more than just a cryptic tombstone, or it may be the cripples and the pestilences of starvation that linger long after the war is done.
      The truth is, as we may know it every day; we all are victims of war, proud as we may be at our hurdles of victory, it stays on our minds, that though we won, we were not in the war to begin with. The thought we give to this misgivings, ties us all to our conscience, we may fight for our land, but these lands will still be bold when all that is left of our dreams is dust that hardly remembers our likeness. We may fight for our country and be heroes, but soon other heroes will rise who had not been molded in the darkness of war. We fight for legacies and as time moves ever, the reality blurs into the absurd railings of a myth. Everything we fight for faces its own struggle to fit us, why then do we fight the apparent dearth.
      Is war all that man is made to be? We ask ourselves this question as we question our mortality, are we men or beast? Do we care enough to understand that it is no one but us as we trudge this lonely world of hate?
      The television shows the limb of the child in Maiduguri, Somalia, South Sudan, Syria and others and we wince in pain, wondering all the way what their ordeal is, we judge the crisis that they have and continuously blame a side, while that stricken child lays in a limbo. He gauges his breath between life and death, each spurt of breath that he carries makes him wish for the bullet in his gut. He may be young but he knows death too, and he cherishes it.
     Could the world have been safer for his fate? Would he have been the next inventor of the nicer objects of life? Would she have been great, the next best female entrepreneur on earth? We are only left with questions of what could have been.
       Yet we still carry our damnation, making ourselves victims with each crisis. We let the bullets fly and we sink into oblivion. We sink to depths so deep the way out becomes our death. We were never made to be these casualties of war. We are made as conquerors not those conquered in our own victory. The soldiers that we send to battle come home broken, never to be fixed, unhappy at their own volatility, they crave the craziness that  haunts them, the children that are left in the defeated lands embrace the hatred, the visualize their enemy in the soldier, hoping to one day grow and they will grow; they will find guns and make out for the soldiers haven, not as soldiers but for revenge, and calm as the day begins they will hug the highway, a billion pieces of their legacy becomes the news, “These terrorist again!” the true question is, are we not all terrorist when we embrace war.
     For all those caught up in wars that they do not understand, war can never be understood, there may be reasons and excuses but they are to mask the pride. Hang on and do not give up, let the bullets fly off into the sunset, tomorrow they will stop and you will have a land to build again.


It’s Elijah. Till next time!

leave a comment if you can please

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.