Written by Promise Micheal
Where I come from, insanity is a competition. One
minute, we’re clapping for a man of God who’d just
declared his political ambition, the next, we’re cheering at
the ashes of a ten-year-old boy and a burnt car tire making their way
to the clouds. It’s a race, our social media followers will be entertained.
This isn’t about skin pigments, it’s the blood rush
on my tongue, and I’ve walked the talk.
The reality of time is imprinted in our legs, when we
skedaddle from young to old, and we can no longer chase
butterflies and forgotten causes; when the finish line appears
closer from the starting line we left seconds ago; when our
glories and failures wrinkle on the back of our palms and foreheads.
Will it be worth it? Every hurdle I ran into, and the ones
I could skip, as I hand over the baton in this relay, or will I be too
late? I think of the ten-year-old boy, I wonder if he was lucky,
or he got tired of running; if he ever got a chance to quench his
thirst before the gods decided his fate.
In this race, there are more lapses than there are athletes.
It really isn’t about who finishes first, but how many make it to