Profil von »AhmedShana«

AhmedShana

Anfänger
- Registrieren Sie sich jetzt!
Sie müssen sich registrieren, um eine Verbindung mit diesem Benutzer herzustellen.

Über mich

Someday, you may choke on your spittle.
You may die if you do. Death could come in your saliva.

Your face will bulge with varicose veins straining to go
‘splat!’ in your head. In that moment, neither medicine nor the finest surgeon will
be available to help you. Your money will be useless. Your power,
‘street credibility,’ thugs, charisma, will disappear in plain sight.

Your concubines, trophy wives and sycophants will be unable to charm death.
Many of them will be glad that you are dead.

Whatever your degree of affluence, you will discover that you are
worthless, like brittle toothpick in the paws of a mongrel.

In split seconds, death will maul you the way boondocks
crowd chew tinko (horse meat of the impoverished) they purchase with your
hand-outs.

You will remember the smile on your face and the sneer in your heart as
you lured starving citizenry to sell their
votes to you for a N500 hand-out, a quarter of
rice and stale bread.

Death will find you in common hours. And when it does, it wouldn’t recognize
you as the powerful governor, senator, council chairman, vice president, president.

Your title will be worthless and your name, insignificant, in the estimation of the one who would rid
your pockmarked hide of your gluttonous soul. At death’s door, nothing else would matter.
Your life will probably flash before you and you would relive for an instant, the
most crucial aspects of your finished life. You will remember the monies
you stole from public coffers at the expense of the electorate that voted you into power.

You will remember your guilty and diabolic pleasures: the aides
and concubines whose anuses you plowed for bewitched wealth;
the newborn and seven-day-old infants whose heads and intestines you pounded in a mortar to make black soap and anti-death talisman. You
will remember the sons
and daughters you sacrificed or ‘used’ if you
like, to ascend the ladder of man-made gods.

You will remember the poor primary school kids you left at the mercy of nature’s wild elements - harsh sunlight, torrential rains and windstorms - because you had better things to do with State money, like the acquisition of mansions abroad, the seduction of a trophy
bride or purchase of sinful pleasures.

When death comes, you will remember the infant children, parents
and youth whose lives never mattered to you even as they died in ghastly auto accidents
on the cratered roads you refused to repair.

Death will find you while you read commentary on your latest social and
political theatric. The grim reaper will claim you
while you exult in the praise of your fools and court
sycophants; in that moment, you will find that you are the greatest of fools.

The power drunk who dances to the hum of pain and symphony of grief of our devastated wastelands, did you think the music will never stop?

When death comes, you will remember how paranoid you were. Then you will understand that had you being
the statesman you promised and professed to be, you would
have no need to be so paranoid and suspicious of everyone, even your own wives and mother.

Even so, paranoia need not prevent a leader from holding down his job,
taking rational, pro-citizenry decisions and conducting himself effectively.

Mr./Mrs. Excellency, your crimes are so great that everybody casually assumes that you must in some sense have
gone mad. You who steal billions from public coffers only to bury it in sewages,
water tanks and crop farms excites the passing tribute of a sigh.

At death’s door, you will lose the courage and deviltry by which you battled and
conquered your most dreadful foes. You won’t have your
great war chest and grand armies of thugs and corrupt law enforcers to command.
At death’s stare, you will go blind in the face and your mind’s eye.

You will understand why it was so easy for
you to subdue political enemies and not the enemy within you.
You will understand why you could contend with recalcitrant underlings, cantankerous wives,
stubborn wards, treacherous aides and associates. You will understand why

you could look on earthly tempests and not flinch. But you will never understand why death will take neither gold or
silver to spare your life.

Mr./Mrs. Excellency, there is no gainsaying that your life
is the stuff dreams or the wildest fantasies are made of. You have grown from the
desperate politician with tall dreams and modest wealth to become filthy-rich,
power-drunk and self-possessed. You have become the titan who is quite successful at ‘cancelling out’ and overpowering
other titans.

Your virtues have turned to failings and you soar in a fetish
cloud of lust and arrogance. As you exult with lust that will kill you,
remember greater men and women who expired in the throes of fetishes like the ones that afflict you.

Remember Benito Mussolini, the Italian dictator who collapsed, coughing up blood in 1925.
The X-rays showed he had severe gastro-duodenal ulcer. Thereafter,
ulcer pain was ever present. Then he suffered increasing insecurity, paranoia and finally became detached from reality.
By late 1942, his mental health had caught up with him.
All the bombast and pomp had gone. He had no reserve of
courage or wile and he yielded to ulcer, deep-seated depression among others.

The Greek war became his unmitigated disaster, the
shame from which Italy had to be rescued by the Germans.
Power intrigues with Germany quickened his latter descent.
In July 1943, he was in effect, imprisoned by fellow Italians on the island of Ponza, then moved to a
naval base in Sardinia and later to a ski resort.
After Italy surrendered in September, Mussolini was rescued by a German SS glider team and flown to Munich.
The Germans then returned him to Italy and installed him as the puppet dictator
of the remnant Italian Social Republic.

He was eventually captured and shot by Italian partisans near Como; his body was flung in the
back of a truck and driven to Milan where, on April 29, 1945, it was strung upside down alongside that of his mistress in Piazzale Loreto, where 15 Italian partisans had
been shot in August 1944.

Mr./Mrs. Excellency, like Mussolini, the time for humouring yourself will soon be over.
Although your circumstances differ from Mussolini’s, your end will
come varied, like the whimpers and howls of poor, helpless Nigerians, whose miseries
never matters to you.

The indices of your brutal end emerge but you are too blinded by power
and ego to see them; there is widespread poverty and unemployment
in the land; Boko Haram afflicts the northeast, herdsmen invade southwest and Biafra’s
dead bones jut from the grave across the southeast.

Death travels with the restive wind but you think you will escape its scourge by simply hopping on the next plane
to join your families abroad. Hmmm…What if it comes in your spittle?

Here is
my web site; Nigeria