To The Child That Never Lived

To The Child That Never Lived

I remember you holding out your hand as you were being led, but never considered.

I remember you sitting still while the ‘elders' spoke about your future, a future that they didn't have the power to decide or have the foreknowledge to ascertain as life had its own rules.

I remember you watching the rest of the #children play in the dark with the moon as the only source of light.

Watching you raise your head and wishing.

I remember you watching the harsh realities that life birthed.

With each teardrop, with each loss that you didn't know.

The fear with which you watched the heavy dictations of uncalled royalties been swept underground.

The last spoon of soup mixed with raw garri, as the night meal as everyone gathered round to have a taste without the knowledge of what tomorrow's meal was going to be.

The harsh core reality of hunger, deep sated hunger way beyond what food could fill in the moment.

Listening to the next-door neighbour bring out the whip and beat mercilessly the child that had played off forgetting the almost cooked meal in the kitchen.

Or was it the time, the landlord had called you up and had shown you a picture that you had no business seeing that was supposed to birth a sense of immorality in you but it never did?

The innocence with which you played was recorded and almost seen as insufficient and shallow.

To the #child that keeps looking through the tainted windows of life because of a harsh reality you were introduced to, a reality you had no business knowing

With each child, a dream, an expression never spoken out for fear of it being misinterpreted or misunderstood.

Oh, child, who stopped you from living?

Who told you the lies you believed?

Who told you, you were not to be heard?

Who told you what the truth was?

To the child that never lived…… Lookout? The windows are being cleaned, the view you thought was the ultimate isn't…

Take on new pairs, smile, laugh, open your mouth and speak…

For a whole generation awaits your awakening…

Wake up child and Live.


Kolawole Solomon

When my pen bleeds, expressions are kept close to my heart, and as it bleeds the words from deep within through my writings, I discover I have created art. I display a piece of my soul. This is my work, my blood, and it should be an object of pride, no matter how much it is criticized or praised.
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