THE SMOKING CYLINDER FROM ALL SIDES GONE SILENT

Not every noise is a noise out of conviction and courage. Not a every shout of oppression is one that x-rays true suppression and oppression. Many of such shouts and noise are as a result of a stomach that is empty, looking for something to hold body and once a plate of porridge is offered, however small and bland the mouth stops both the shout and the noise and the rule of Magna Silentia observed in the seminary at the early hours of the day enforced.

We are all beings with our price tags except for the few with strong character personality who would eat your porridge yam, drink your fura, still look at your face and tell you that bitter truth without minding your favours and benevolence.

We all thought he was an activist. We felt we was speaking for the sake of correcting the ills of the government we all tagged and profiled as lacklustre. Little did we know that his stomach was empty, looking for small chops.
Roaring through all social media platforms like an engine refusing to die. A smoking cylinder, firing from all sides,
grinding gears against what he called injustice, rattling bolts loose from the machinery of power, spitting sparks at the government with a righteous fury that could ignite a nation’s resolve. But when a small banana was offered him, the monkey went silent, went to a small corner thinking and bothering about nothing else but the bannan. Gone quiet as an engine drained of fuel.
Quiet as a factory on a public holiday. Quiet as a conscience lulled to sleep.

His once-thundering condemnations became polite hums..His piercing analyses dissolved into diplomatic laughter..His fiery speeches thinned into lukewarm statements shaped like smoke rings—beautiful but empty, drifting but directionless.

The masses looked for him.
The streets listened for him.
But he had become a monument of silence ,the same silence he once fought against.

He wasn’t killed.
He wasn’t jailed.
He wasn’t threatened.He only ate. He only drank.And in the sweetness of the feast, his fire found a coffin.

The smoking cylinder from all sides, the champion of the oppressed, the dread of the corrupt, the trumpet of truth—
has gone silent.

And in the silence,
we hear the oldest lesson in the world:.Not every voice is lost to fear….Some are lost to comfort, buried in the wine and food from the table of those they once called oppressors and clueless.

Check around, such personalities abound. They are in old boys’ platforms, church environment, community based social media platforms etc. When the shout and smoke, everyone would think they are patriotic, but once their taste bud touches the oil, their mouth changes and their shout and noise cold as ashes.

In every politician one certainly would see such clowns whose stomach is their brain. Don’t be deceived by their shouts and noise. They are not shouting for the common good, they are shouting for visibility, once they are noticed and the crumbs from the royal table given to them, magana ya kare!!

Jarlathuche@gmail.com