The Nobel Prizes
When I walk among the living with this spectral face,
I, Alfred Nobel, weep for what bears my name.
I dreamed of honor that would heal nations,
of a crown given only to those
who sowed fraternity, disarmed armies,
and raised peace above all banners.
But what do I see?
A prize of peace given to men
who had not yet earned it.
One who waged war was crowned before
his hands were tested by peace.
I whispered, this is not my will.
I think of Chinua Achebe—
a voice of Africa,
his pen cut truth into the lies of empire.
He deserved the laurel,
yet his words were a thorn in the flesh of pride,
and so they silenced him with neglect.
Racism! Even in the house
that should shelter merit,
the poison dripped.
And what of Jonas Salk?
He banished polio from the world,
saved children’s legs from crutches,
saved mothers’ hearts from grief.
He asked for no profit,
only healing—
yet no medal touched his hand.
Now I see the unthinkable:
those who cry for blood in Gaza,
those who build walls of hate,
those who trumpet war—
even they demand my prize!
Trumpeting peace while feeding war.
What mockery is this?
Jean-Paul Sartre, you were wise—
you refused the gilded chains
when you saw how they bound truth.
Perhaps you glimpsed
the corruption I now mourn.
I built a crown to honor
the greatest benefit to humankind.
Instead, it is tarnished by politics,
by vanity, by the hands of warmongers.
My name—once sworn to peace—
is dragged through the dust.
And so I weep,
for the prize I forged with hope
has become a mirror of the world’s deceit.
O humanity, restore it!
Give honor only where it is due,
and let my name no longer
be a mask for falsehood.
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
|