Photo: President Tinubu
By: Sunbo Asungbalaja
The elders say when the head of the fish is rotten, the whole body suffers. In the politics of our land, the water that should nurture new fish has turned bitter, and many bright ones are gasping before they ever swim far.
A house where malice sleeps on the mat will never know peace at dawn. What began as a contest of ideas has become a contest of grudges. The young shoot that dares to grow is cut, not because it is crooked, but because it did not sprout in the owner’s corner. So it is that many with clean hands and strong hearts are pushed to the roadside before their journey starts.
When the king’s ear hears only one drum, the whole village dances out of step. High-handedness has closed the door on honest counsel. The palm tree that bends for the wind survives, but the one that refuses to bow for any reason breaks at the waist. Many stars have learned that to speak is to be marked, and to be marked is to be buried. So they fold their dreams and walk away, leaving the stage for those who only know how to nod.
A firewood that was carried together should not be left for one man to burn alone. Yet grievances are left to rot in the hearts of men who labored when the rain was heavy. Yesterday’s sweat is forgotten once the barn is full. The man who held the ladder is told not to climb. Bitterness then becomes the seed we plant, and we should not be surprised when we harvest enemies from our own farmland.
The insult melted on some gladiators, and they remain fresh. Their silence now is dangerous, because the wounded lion does not roar until it pounces. When men who once shook the ground choose to say nothing, wise people listen to the quiet. It means the drum has stopped, but the dance is not over.
The river that chooses which fish may drink will one day run dry. Selectivity has turned service into a private meal. The grassroots boy who swept the compound, the woman who sang at the rally, the youth who stood under the sun, all are told their hands are too dirty for the table. When only a few are called to eat, the many will lose their hunger for the house.
Yet we cry for unity, but genuine unity evades us like smoke in the harmattan. How do we hold hands when some fingers are still pointing? How do we march together when the drummer boy has lost his stick? The beat that once bound us is gone, and every dancer now moves to the rhythm of his own wound.
If the calabash keeps covering only a few heads, the rain will soon meet everyone. By 2027, we may look around and find the bench empty of voices that once promised hope. Malice will chase away the peacemakers. The heavy hand will silence the thinkers. Unhealed wounds will turn brothers to strangers. And a closed door will teach the best among us to stop knocking.
The saddest part is this: when a star falls in the village, the whole night grows darker. It is not just the man or woman that we lose. We lose choices. We lose the chance to be led by those who came with no stain on their garment.
A forest that kills its young trees will soon have no shade. Our politics must learn again that the strength of a kingdom is not in how many it can shut out, but in how many it can carry along. Because the fire that burns the barn does not ask who locked the door.
So let us return to the stream before it dries. Let the elders mend the drum and give the boy back his stick. Let us open the door while the sun still shines, because a people who bury their stars will one day beg for light.
Sunbo Asungbalaja, is a political analyst based in Holland.
