Dark Horse
by Marvellous Mmesomachi Igwe
Dear, you know the end is never defined by
the beginning. Inception is an animal with
many heads. What started as a country,
somewhere along the line, darkened into a
nightmare. We cannot remember when.
All we have is the proof, the sullying proof.
The heads opened by the bullet's touch— it
was almost beautiful. Almost like flowers in a
midday sun. You could see our ambitions
spilling onto the tarmac. It was red, and it
kept repeating— the moment the cranium
came unwhole. The moment silver turned
to stone. After the orchestra, the protesters
are mostly quiet. Because what have we
known about music if not through their
guns? If not through their raging and their
silence? You can still hear the wailing of our
mothers. It is funny, there exists no antonym
for nightmare. We are not the first. Before you
and I, there was language, born with enough
foreshadowing and flesh. But is that an excuse
to continue in our slumber? To pretend the
bodies on the ground are dead, not asleep?
Any moment from now, they might erect.
Resurrect. Resume the hoisting of placards
as bullet holes seal back into skin. Any
moment from now we might wake up. And
look at our hands unsullied with blood. And
tremble as we hold our heads.
And whisper it was all a dream. 