'The Whore from the North East' by Fu'ad Lawal

The insurgents are showing off, craving attention like the desperate whore that once roamed the streets of ancient Rome. Unlike the whore, with her smeared make up and false hair, the insurgents were different. They had a false agenda and a smeared hunanity.

The whore would roam the streets, targeting the men, a few women but never the  children.

The insurgents target every thing that smiles and walks on two feet.

But lately, they have targeted the ones even the whore would never target.

They came in, yes they did. Into the school, somewhere in Yobe.

They lined them up, yes they did. They didnt tell them to close their eyes and sing nursery rhymes, no they didn’t. They pulled it. They pulled their triggers, like they did in Mubi, Baga and everywhere else they could.

No they didn’t shoot into the air like they do in the Olympics. No, they shot into the…into the fleshes of the little kids. One fell, two…three…twenty five…thirty six…forty nine…fifty. Fifty. Fifty. Fifty dreams hit the ground, never to hit rise again, never to dream again.

But like the ones before them, they have no names. They have become numbers. This story will not bring back their dreams. It has no happy ending. No, it will leave a lump in your throat. It will leave you asking, where was I, what was I doing, when those fifty kids, like the ones before them, screamed for help?

Fuad Lawalis a poet and copy writer. He blogs at rebelliousflash300.wordpress.com

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