ENULABI
At the graveside where young mother sleeps,
Where both parents’ earth still freshly weeps,
They come with words like woven gold,
“Come to the city, leave this cold.
We’ll give you life, we’ll give you light,
We’ll pull you from this endless night.”
The village child, with trusting eyes,
Believes the promise, the painted lies.
One small bag holds all they own,
Leaving behind the only home
Where grandmother’s prayers were warm and deep
Now following wolves who’ve come as sheep.
But Ẹnulabí speaks with forked tongue,
The boastful mouth that sings unsung
Melodies of what will never be,
A bridge to nowhere, an empty sea.
For the young girls, bright as morning sun,
The game has only just begun.
“A better life,” the serpent sings,
“Education, city things.
Pretty clothes and shining cars,
You’ll dance beneath the city stars.”
The village trusts. The girl believes.
The promise breaker, she receives
With open arms—then closes doors
On innocence. The body wars
Against the soul that thought it found
A savior on enchanted ground.
Ẹnulabí, your tongue is flame,
Burning those who call your name.
The vulnerable, the young, the poor
You recognize them by their door
Left open wide to your deceit,
Then leave them bleeding in the street.
And on the platform, cameras bright,
Another grips the mic.
“I swear by all I hold most dear,
Your suffering ends right here.”
The crowds erupt, the votes are cast,
The promise breaker’s die is cast.
Four years pass. The roads remain
Rivers carved by mud and rain.
The hospitals still have no beds,
The same thoughts in the children’s heads:
“Tomorrow, maybe, things will change.”
But promises are always strange
They never land, they never stay,
They fly like words on wind away.
So listen, you who trade in hope,
Who sell tomorrows, who braid the rope
That binds the innocent to pain,
Then boast and brag and boast again:
The only crime the village child
Committed was to trust and smile.
The only sin the orphan bore
Was believing in an open door.
The only fault the young girl had
Thinking promise breakers aren’t all bad.
Ẹnulabí, your time will come.
The boasting mouth will soon be numb.
The ancestors see. The children weep.
The promises you could not keep
Will rise like dust from village ground
And in that dust, you will be found.
The innocent believe because
That’s what innocent hearts do.
The sin is yours, Ẹnulabí.
The promise belonged to you.
©TheVillageBoy.
( The figure man who loves alphabets )
