09/06/2026
The chalkboard stares at an empty room,
Where laughter used to chase the gloom.
The morning dust is settled, still,
On shadows creeping past the hill.
A uniform left on the floor,
A broken hinge, an open door,
And footsteps fading in the night,
Beneath a cold, unblinking light.
Oh, Kaduna, do you hear the cries?
Oh, Zamfara, under bleeding skies?
They took the future in their hands,
And marched it through the silent lands.
A mother sits beside the hearth,
Her tears a map upon the earth.
She rocks an empty, woolen shawl,
And listens for a sudden call.
Every rustle of the neem tree leaves,
Is just another ghost that grieves.
She asks the wind, she asks the stone,
"Where is my child? Where have they gone?"
The pricing of a human breath,
A bartered life, a dice with death.
They stole the books, they stole the song,
The nights are cruel, the days are long.
The thorny bush, the hidden camp,
Where fear is cold and nights are damp,
And young eyes stare into the dark,
Praying for a saving spark.
How long shall sorrow plow this soil?
How long shall terror reap our toil?
The cradle of the North is weeping,
While justice is a giant sleeping.
But beneath the grief, a stubborn flame,
The whispered warmth of every name.
We will not leave them to the night,
We hold their memory in the light.
Return the laughter to the room.
Return the flowers to their bloom.