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?