If leaders are chosen by heaven,
then I wonder—
what prayer did Africa miss,
what silence did we keep too long,
What wound did we inherit without healing?
Or maybe…
even God watches from a distance,
while ballots bleed ink into power,
and power forgets the hands that lifted it.
Politics
a stage where promises wear suits,
but truth walks barefoot.
Agendas whispered in boardrooms,
while hunger shouts in the streets.
And look
giants in titles,
reduced to children in microphones,
throwing words like stones,
breaking dignity in broad daylight.
Insults become headlines,
abuse becomes language,
and respect
a forgotten anthem no one stands for anymore.
They mock bodies,
as if shame is policy,
as if laughter can erase struggle.
But what of those
who never reaches the meadow of power?
Do their voices echo,
or die in the valleys of silence?
If a president knows of bloodshed
and speaks it like news
is it justice,
or confession dressed as concern?
If the opposition sees the fire
but only points at the smoke
are they watchers,
or just shadows of the same flame?
They say power belongs to the people
but tell me,
Do we feel it in our pockets?
in our plates?
in our peace?
Or is it a crown we were told we own,
but never allowed to wear?
Yesterday,
men of honor traded honor for noise,
spat fire instead of vision,
and somewhere in that chaos,
a nation listened
not to be led,
but to survive the echoes.
So I ask again
if leaders come from God,
does God also vote?
Or have we mistaken silence
for divine approval?
