They call it non-kinetic
a soft whisper in a burning field,
a handshake offered to hands
still wet with yesterday’s blood.
In secret rooms they bargain away our lives,
counting ransom in bundles
as if naira could purchase conscience,
as if money could bribe a monster
into becoming a man.
Each payment buys silence, yes
a brittle, borrowed peace,
the peace of a graveyard at noon
when even the wind holds its breath.
A Pyrrhic victory wrapped in headlines,
a lullaby sung to a…
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