Letter From A Friend From The Country Of The Dead

By Bayo Oluwasanmi

The country is called Dead. We arrived here late last night. Our team is led by a tender man of steel. None of us has been in the country before. Though the rest of the world is gripped by the grieve of COVID-19 pandemic, life goes on undisturbed in Dead country.

As we landed, the gathering clouds of conquest are palpably visible on the horizon. The inhabitants here are broken with baldness. Their glory has been destroyed. They are stripped of outer clothing and shorn like sheep. They look like slaves being carried away in plunder. They worship worthless people only to become worthless themselves.

We toured the huge country. It’s a vast barren wilderness. A land of deserts and pits. A land of drought and death. The people go about in shrinking horror and dismay. They are like restless female camel desperately searching for a mate. Like wild donkey sniffing the wind at mating time. Unlike thieves who feel shame only when they get caught, people here are shameless even when they get caught with evil deeds. Their kings, pastors, priests, prophets, and officials are all alike in this. Indeed, it’s a country of the dead!

Here, in the country called Dead, young women prostitutes sit beside the road waiting for customers. Young men appear like nomads in the desert badly scotched by the brutal rays of the sun. They are confused, disoriented, dejected, weary, tired, exhausted, hopeless, and directionless. No one in charge here. Well, those who pretend to be in charge have polluted the land with their bestial immoralities and wickedness. They think their privileged position will ensure their immunity forever from people’s wrath. They continue in a pattern of worthless life.

In this country, the dead are not in the cemetery, they live in towns, cities, and villages. As we surveyed the land, we see waves of destruction roll over the land approaching complete desolation. Houses destroyed, homes crushed. The whole place looks empty and formless. People can’t go out to the fields. Can’t travel on the roads.

The enemy’s sword is everywhere and terrorizes them at every turn. The people dressed in burlap and sit among ashes. They mourn and weep bitterly for the loss of their beloved country. We see fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, neighbors and friends dying together. There was no light. It’s all darkness everywhere. Even goats, sheep, chickens, dogs, cats, tremble and shake. Birds of the sky had flown away.

As we round up our visit, we hear people crying like that of a woman in labor. The groans of a woman giving birth to her first child, gasping for breath and crying out “Help we’re being murdered!” As neglected garden tends towards weeds, so the Dead country tends towards destruction and desolation. As our plane climbs the friendly skies, with tears we bid the people so long for now!

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