The Infantile Death by Phillips Olayanju #WarOfWords4

The Infantile Death by Phillips Olayanju

A loud infantile cry of pain

Echoes into the silence of a starry cold night

The painful gorge of a voice croak by tears

Stops even the rancorous rapist racing with ferocious rhythm

As he is once again reminded of his guest unannounced;

Not of death,

But of life after death.


Could it be the wail of an animal?

Nay, ‘Tis the cry of a child.

The cry is one of a young child;

A child abused by his father.

Can you hear?

As the thin rod slices through the air with a wicked curve

And lands firmly on the back of the young lad

Tearing apart his soft skin,

Opening up healed wounds of nights forgotten,

Forming a gory graffiti of blood

Painting a map of painful strokes.

It continues repeatedly

The soft swish of the rod followed by a loud wail

Then, it becomes physical…

A deafening slap

A vengeful kick

Following in successive rhythm.

The child wails on the floor

He cries out for help to the darkness beyond

Hoping for a divine encounter with death.

He rolls the length and breadth of the room in a diagonal frenzy.

Youthful blood seeps through his open wounds.

As he gradually loses his life,

He curls himself with his knee to his chin

And embraces the heavy hand of fate.

Who took my money?

The man’s voice angrily thunders.

The wind responds with a chill on his cheek.

His anger dissipates with a speed beyond scientific understanding.

As he lifts a lifeless hand

Turned cold by death’s handshake.

I watch in dangerous silence

The death of a promising leader

My heart sinks with guilt

Causing ceaseless tears to stroll down my burning cheeks.

What is wrong with me?

What has gone wrong with our society?

What is left of what is right?

Nay, what is right of what is left?

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