The Beetle

It's strange how life reminds me of papa's old beetle. Well taken care of, beautifully washed, And treated with respect, Only to reward him with a box and silence. We run about, dodging the men in shorts, For the looks in their eyes know not remorse, For the powder give them power, And they extends their lovely hand of death, So we can dance in peace. I wonder why mama cried when papa was brought back. He had gone home to rest, But I felt sad for her hair which she pulled, Her wrapper which she gave a continental design, And the ground which she toyed with, Like a two year old. It was a sight to behold, a woman mourning her husband, Sent home by the predators. One was manageable, but two was disaster. A home filled with laughter, reeked of sadness, A confusing feeling in my mind, filled with images. I run to the backyard to see mama pounding yam as always, But I see nothing, and hear nothing. She lay in front of me, Smothered and dressed in blood, like her husband. She finally got her wish, she ended up with him. The troops are closing in, We lost our allies and fight like bulldogs, But with teeth as sharp as uncle's lost wooden ruler. Defeat is near, and I have long chopped my thoughts, Better than the chef I saw on television at Ene's house. The beetle smashed an armour tank. The flag was cast down, Dreams were shredded, The promise of a nation was destroyed, Where do we start from?