There is a storm brewing in the horizon. Lightening and thunder have found their way into the children’s playground.
Looks like it may rain like never before, a moon from now, after the next fast.
Rivers may swell and explode in a feral rage, tumbling and crumbling all the way down to the riotous foaming mouth of the big blue ocean by the anus of the Niger Delta.
Sir, don’t say you are not hearing the whooshing sound of the westerly winds, harbingers of terror from the plains of the mighty Sahara, hurling towards the pale bushes around the bewitched Rock of Asoland.
Harken not to the marabouts who serve you cocktail of concoctions, beseeching you to go to bed and snore when something foreboding is snarling by your windows.
Sir, the new mob is up in the mountains, slashing themselves in a drunken stupor, calling on their many gods to come down to the arena and set fire on their ram offerings.
Sir, look across the green fields and see the throngs congregating, armed with poisoned arrows calling down evil on your empire.
Sir, look closely, in the mob are those who prophesied that you are the Special One.
Those who trekked hundreds of miles to celebrate your grand entry into the village in the villa were strange things happen and wise men take to their hills leaving cuckoos and men of uncertain parentage to preside and speak in tongues unknown to the people of the land.
Those who went up trees and bill boards to behold thy face and be blessed.
Those who drove bikes to their death to express their joy over your grand parade.
Those who dined and drank with you in thy palace and pledged eternal loyalty.
Sir, a burning coal is about to visit a colony of ants.
Who is with you?
Who is against you?
When all the chips are counted.
Thou shall know soon, hopefully not from your ranch of a hundred cows in Daura.
Don’t dismiss the ranting of the village clown with his beaded calabash.
Beware of the rage of swelling rivers, lest you may not get to the other side.
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