What killed our fathers wasn’t actually death —
They were killed by the ill of tentative anxiety and
The evil that once was and still is.
I may have been born towards the limelight of the 21st Century,
But I can tell the handwriting of this death that killed our fathers
And has silenced the real men of the 19th Century.
This men were wiped off and replaced with inhumane humans—
In other words, perhaps animals—of no human heart.
I tell you, death has an essay again…
When I say, “Death,”
I mean, the drainers of the blood of our strength
And the sappers of our voices—of the masses.
This kind of death scares death itself—
It is detrimental to death itself.
Like the traditional hen offered for sacrifice,
Our neck has been placed on a brutal altar—
Altars that brew delicacies from sad moments
And jolly in inhumanity,
The sword has being raised into thin air
And our lives are at stake since they hold our lives like stakeholders.
This was the essay that killed our fathers.
This kind of death has an essay again!
Shall we open the letter and explode like Bro. Funso Williams ?
May we not pay for that which our ancestors had bought.