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Dear Solomon—ZenPens

Dear Solomon

Dear Solomon, my number one friend. I write this to you because I’m sad. Every night and morn, we mourn and yawn, yet somewhere they party and have fun.

They call you a moulder, maybe you can mould our future, maybe you can mould our country, maybe you can mix it up with sand and silicon. Add a little water. Try putting a pinch of starch, make it be moderate. Then add more clay, they said loamy doesn’t stick. The past and future ex-presidents, they love loamy. Unless you teach them how to stick and mould, they will remain with loamy, as our economy is roaming, deflated and raped.
Our years of dependence to importation are extending. I’ll give you a break and call this my page one.

Dear Solomon, my number one friend. How can we ever build this nation using our bare hands, wisdom and understanding, fight off gluttony, murder selfishness, exile tribalism and sentence favouritism to life imprisonment?

I may have been too crude, but if I ever use my crudeness for awareness of the ills and spills and stills in this nation, we may want to be dependent once more. I may want to call this a poem, a short story, pamphlet or an article, but I chose to call it a fact for inspite of our independence we are depending on what tomorrow brings as we are yet to go into the labour market. As fresh as graduates we are, we have been asked of three years experience before we would be employed. Let me give you a breath and hope you read this far, it’s my page two.

Dear Solomon, my number one friend. I may have written this in respect to our dependable independence which depends on the class we are born into and the level our parents attained, but in my tears I am writing this to tell you how much I care for Nigeria. For if I mention her ills not, then I hate her. I may wish to tell her that her school system is her crucial and hardcore problem which wouldn’t be a problem if changed today. We sang, “I remember when I was a soldier” when we were just eight years old. We were told to get the brooms and clear bushes, but never were we taught that we could do anything we want. Then we were taught the religion we knew nothing about, the very thing that set the nation on fire the first day it arrived. I may be writing this akin to what I feel, but I’ll never tell Akin our senator that he is the potbellied problem we are experiencing.

Dear Solomon, I’ll have to stop here, for I intended to write two pages, but today is our independence depending on what we feel it is. For me I have never been free from the shackles of hate and anger and depression just because I was born here, though I know we are just 59, we would probably get there when we reach 109, just in fifty years’ time. Maybe then we would start enjoying steady electricity and good roads and maybe flood would not be driving us away from homes, or just maybe the Boko Haram would have been done with, the farmers-herdsmen clash dismissed and the IDPs well taken care of, and the senators and governors and representatives and presidents and counsellors and chairpersons would serve and not be served.

Maybe, just maybe by then humanity would return from exile and present to us equity and equality which have gone missing in the last century.

I wish to stop here so you wouldn’t feel fatigued while reading, though I hope very much that you read this far

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