ProseSatire

The vulcaniser saw them.

He saw them on a side street sliding out from their gleaming cars into the dirty carriage of a truck with a bold inscription:

“Na so life be, only God know tomorrow”

He saw their grime faces at the gate of the Ballot Boxes Commission (BBC) wailing and claiming that they have been robbed of what rightfully belongs to them.

Yesterday, just yesterday, they were sitting on the throne made of hay, fiddling with their mustache and drinking red wine when the current lords and masters were on the other side of the great divide being tear-gassed for protesting similar injustice.

Ah, hear them calling on the spectators, once considered dirt with no rights, and no voice, to rise up against this grave injustice.

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Injustice to one is injustice to all, the celebrity protesters cried.

“Omashe o! Rise up kò, Rise up nì. You people are on your own” chorused the spectators as they fled to their various stations of life to scavenge for the day’s daily bread.

(C) p_d_a November 1, 2018

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