The dreams, life, destiny.

Therein lies our hope.

Today, I would share a story, about a woman who bore a tribe.
The tribe was rich, magnificent and grand. It flourished for a long while and then it begun to deteriorate. Slowly at first then drastically. Eventually, due to events that occurred, the mother of the tribe was forced to trade the freedom of the people for sustenance to a beast that fed on malice.

Some remembered a time before, a time where they had freedom, choice and will. A time before they were pompous and vain so confident in their glory that they began to forget.
The tribe forgot what it was that made them special; their essence, their pride, their roots.
Over time they became lost.
It was easy for the demons of plague, drought and misery to overpower and conquer them.

From the bondage of the beast, the tribe looked to their mother for salvation.
In response, she taught them a dance.
Outraged, they protested; had she lost her senses?

Why on earth should they be made to sing and dance when their futures remained uncertain?
How could she call herself their mother whilst her offspring perished at infancy?

The beast you see, was also her child.
They knew she had the power to stop it.
For they had decided: should she choose to free them, she could. She could end their tribulations; she only had to care.

In their history it was noted "We cried to her for help but for us, she did nothing".

In rebellion, they turned away from her.
To them she was heartless, to them she was a farce; they would have nothing to do with her.

In the midst of the tortured, there were a few who learned the dance in trust.
Through trials, starvation and death, they persisted, sang and danced.
Never ceasing, never failing.
This dance was taught to the little one’s, the children that survived.
One generation to the next.
When the time was right, the dance made sense.

Hidden in the lyrics, rhythm and beat was a means to kill the beast.


In my present location, when my conscience would allow, I count the number of beggars that line the streets.
If I were to give each of them 10 Naira going and coming, I would spend nothing less than about 2,040 Naira a day.
Amongst these caste the nursing mothers and gaily-dressed get to me.
Who is responsible for putting them in the family way? Is there a community of beggars or a union? Are they born to be beggars or is it something they grow up to be?
With one hand they hold their baby to their breast, with the other hand they reach for you.
Begging for some change, playing on your conscience, vying for your pity.
Once in another state, I decided to walk home and gave my supposed transport fare to a man who told me he had not eaten in days figuring a morsel would be better than nothing.
The man threw the money back at me, cursed me in his dialect asking if he begged to be insulted.
I did not walk home.

We pray for those we love, those we care about and for ourselves.
Some of us get involved in freak accidents, loose limbs, defy the odds and come out victorious, while some walk away unscratched but are convinced our lives would never be the same.

They say death is the summit of life, did they also say to appoint yourselves judge and executioner over the life of another man?

Each day is a battle, one of choice and will.

Today I would share a prayer for strength, to those who have lost beloved partners, relations and friends.

The dead are now free, from the bondage of hope.

May they rest in peace.