When Palm Sunday Becomes Blood Sunday

In Angwan Rukuba, green fronds once raised in praise now wave as flags of grief. This poem mourns the cycle of violence that returns with each season and election, as herdsmen bring coffins instead of cattle and politicians count votes on fresh graves. It paints scenes of mothers clutching photos of lost children and a lone soldier speaking truth to power. Our leaders build fear like monuments, watering chaos with neglect while justice whispers instead of thunders. Until power fears consequence more than people, this pattern of scheduled mourning will continue. Only when mercy stops protecting killers and starts demanding accountability can Nigeria break free from its own bloodied soil.

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