Flames twisted and tongues tied.
The question is whether they are surprised.
Lappas folded, kotoku tied.
Mama Koju from over Congo Town side,
Made her own way, and walked all on her own accord.
Her voice, no louder than screams we’ve heard before.
It’s the echo that’s eerie!
Her back is weary.
She’s been carrying Salone for too long.
Santigie offered to help, standing at the corner of Port Loko.
So did Omolaja at the tip of Waterloo.
But she kept trekking, like a Soldier,
No bolder than what we’ve seen before.
It’s her attire that’s stunning!
There are no RPGs by her side.
Inside a calabash she has no grenades,
Just a couple of kola nuts,
And water.
She is no daughter of Kings, or Paramount Chiefs,
She is an old woman who has seen it all.
Who breathed smoke from the nostrils of AK-47s,
And exhaled courage into the life of the bush,
Where she ran then from Pademba to Mile 91.
She walks now, not because of pride, or obligation.
There are no fortifications, she hasn’t stormed through.
Pa Alimami inquired no justification,
He picked up his wooden carved cane, and walked too!
Fear in their eyes, swollen from the strain of wisdom.
What they know they must have seen in Makeni,
That they do not want to see again at Kingtom.
Sabina ran to their side, tugging for an answer.
But they walked and continued silently.
No more silent than six feet underneath the dust of past epidemics that are now settled.
It’s the focus of their eyes that’s heartbreaking!
Their protest is becoming more clearer.
Who in this world does not want alafia?
After you have been hit with stones, bullets, bones, bodies,
Stories of survival haven't been enough to empower you?
You still run to fire, smoke,
Away from water, hope?
What else are the elders to do?
Sit by you still?
While you still sight your kill?
Even when it pays to be a different kind of hunter,
Who pray instead of prey,
On the lives of all your kin.
Mama Koju and Pa Alimami desire to bring,
On their walk,
From Congo Cross to Koinadugu,
No words, eyes straight, back weary, cane slapping the ground!
No other companions.
This is a trip for the Elders.
All our lives they’ve been whispering parables into our ears,
No more wiser than what we’ve seen and felt ourselves.
It's our stubbornness that’s confusing.
So they have had enough.
If we refuse to learn from their mistakes,
What we inherit becomes what we create.
Hate that grew from the crack in the concrete,
That has been dividing Sierra Leone
from pre-colonial to partisan conflicts.
We seem to always seek to thrive,
Wherever hate and politics collide.
As if we only see the good in us divided,
Provided we benefit.
But this is it, the Elders say.
No more words,
Nothing we haven’t heard before.
If we cannot learn from the past, surely one day, the past will be lost to us forever.
And we will continue burning, killing, fighting, shooting, running, politicizing.
Just to be King over Kin.
As if we only know the good in us divided,
In the end, no one left to confide in.
Back again to square one,
King or Kin.
King or Kin.
King or Kill.
Akindele TM Decker is a Poet and Writer based in Washington D.C
