A LETTER FROM A PRISONER

On Sunday noon
When the sun sprouted
Gleefully bold behind
The curtain maze
Four men-in-black
With a darkish pistol
Pressed forward
Towards my domicile
And on each head,
Sat a peaked cap that
Harmonized with their garb.
And their brogans beating
Bleak on the gritty ground

I,
Was at my domicile
In the frontispiece
Wearing a piece
Of grimace on my phiz
When they popped up
Like a twiggy panhandler
In Agbado-Market,
Pleading for dough
With a pseudo grin,
“Sir are you…?”

“Yes, that’s me, my name…”
With a doldrums phiz flared
“But, I am not Nelson Mandella.”
They retorted sharply
With a hoity-toity regards
Tucking their guns
“…we just want you
In our office now,
To spare no time,
No time to spare…”

My heart plunged with fear
And cold bled struck.
My mouth was heavy with silence
And eyes teasing the hands,
And eyeballed it clogged free
Like a despicable thief.
I was trailiing behind them
Like a flagging Dog.
I have no family.

Is this a Cinema?
Or nightmare, just
‘Pulsating’ the strings
Of my mind,
Playing my heart
Like a timbre bass-guitar

‘Oh, dream
Must be filming me!’
On the thoroughfare to hell
My mind flitted through time
I called to mind a well-off Man
In the neighbourhood

Whom I pleaded to nibble
From his dining table;
He scared the wit off me.
And muttered, “GO AWAY
YOU POVERTY-STRICKEN,
JOBLESS MAN…!”

In the nick of time
I heard his sharp screech
Accompanying the blubbering-wind
Which called to my ears.

He came, flapping his tongue
While striding to my doorstep
Scooting sand Into the thin air
With his longish, fatty feet.
With a confused voice,
He uttered words beyond his mouth
Could carry, “For not paying
Ears to your pleads,
You rather payed me by shivering
The mirrors of my SPORT-CAR;
That worth millions of naira…?
YOU CANNOT OWN THAT TILL
YOUR LAST STATE OF MIND”
‘I have not misheard’
I stood boldly still,
“I am a christian, dear brother
How can I do such evil deeds
In the sight of heaven’s window,
He sees me even when
I spy my inwards…”

He, twice, flicked his
Two right five fingers
And said, “YOU WILL
SEE PEPPER TODAY.”

In their calaboose
I was prison freed
And was tortured
To the state of death.

In the gasp of my breath,
I confessed still
“I DO NOT KNOW WHO DID IT
I ONLY SAW THE BROKEN GLASS
BROKEN INTO MY FEEBLE HEART.”

Please
Drink from my Palm-wine
Bleeding heart
Do not take his words:
His mouth filthy clean.
‘I gave a SILENT SCREECH’
“Can’t you ask the robber
That peeped through
Our street last night…?”

They heard it.
At the moment
Face flushed
Hands drooped
(Their madness flushed)
And picked up with rage again-
I was tortured the more

I must
But plead guilty
I am innocent free
Who just lost my Job.

I remembered vividly
‘THE RICH OWNS THE WORLD
AT THEIR HEFTY FEET…’
My heart jolted.

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4 Comments on "A LETTER FROM A PRISONER"

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E-Griff
Admin

Very effective piece indeed. Perhaps a little clarification (weeding) needed in the central part – but not too much. The story comes through thanks to the involvement of the reader, which is the mark of good writing, so different to the ‘tell all’ :a happened then b, then c … we see so often on these pages.
Enjoyed and appreciated it, thanks.
Oh, one glitch – near the beginning hats should be plural, or each with a hat or some such. At the moment sounds as if they are all wearing the same one actual hat, not style of hat

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