I cry because I cringe when I see the sorry state of a nation that has abandoned her values. A country in pain painted with the blood of the innocent, our tears thicker than the blood in our veins.

The body of the able young soldier, gutted by the fire of a woman in a gutter, wounding the womb that begat him and hurting the heart that hailed him as a hero.

A young heart, broken but not crushed because it is stronger than the men who murdered her hero.

Insane politicians with insensitive political lunacy, will insinuate a political agenda but ignorant as they are, let’s ignore them to lick their wounds like dogs chained to the past with a dogmatic belief that this pain will give them political advantage.

In my days, there were no lynching squads lurking on the lanes to lick me up like fire that licks up the straw.

At midnight I meandered my way through stray dogs and my mother had no worries about mobsters; her only worry like a typical African woman, were the witches of the night.

Back then, even the witches were friendlier than the lynching squads on our streets today. From Tumu to Dixcove the bodies of wretched old women littered the dusty road of our villages lynched by the lynching squad, who accused them of witchcraft.

They wailed in their hamlets and cried for help but the city dwellers ignored them. From Samiabone to Aflao, the bodies of young men lie lifeless in the scorching sun accused of robbery they probably did not commit.

They fought back but we failed them. The conscience of an unconscious country is finally awoken.

A sacrificial lamb led to the slaughter but his blood is crying for justice for those we failed. Once a soldier always a soldier.

Even in death, the soldier keeps fighting for freedom and justice. Our tears must bring justice to him, less we cry like crocodiles.

“Righteousness exalteth a nation: but sin is a reproach to any people.” Proverbs 14:34 (KJV)