He was just a boy like every other boy,
But he wasn’t a boy like all the other boys,
Though he had his own array of toys,
But his mind was filled with thoughts way beyond any toy.

We found him by the roadside, dead,
Looking innocent as he had always been,
But for the blood we could have taken him for a sleeping being.
He had his last bath in his own blood.

Though young, we believe he has gone the way of the elders,
The community bids him farewell,
Never again shall we meet in this part of the world, sleep well,
But maybe we will still see in our dreams.

As he lies in this casket that is less than six feet,
We know he shouldn’t have gone,
He also tells us this by his grin,
But here lays his body prepared for the journey of six feet.

We do hope that in peace he will rest,
Though he went at dawn,
And his was a life cut in its morn,
But could he really rest?

We look on him through his eyes,
All that he could be,
If only they had let him be,
Seeing, as if through a crystal glass.

He had dreams of seeing the world,
For he was a ray of the hope we had,
A glimpse of the future we wanted,
He had a dream of really touching the world.

A dream of making a difference,
But he was gone,
With many things yet undone,
Leaving behind only a small trace.

We can only think of all his possibilities,
All he could be is left to our imagination,
But he would have helped build our nation,
But we never can really tell the details of his realities.

Inspired by Michael W. Smith’s ‘This was the time.’
Dedicated to all the slain sons (and daughters) of Nigeria lying across the streets of Jos and other parts of the country.
This is my first poem in a long time, so I hope you understand. It’s a kind of revival and revivals build up gradually, revivals gather momentum.
Thanks to my two poet friends who have helped with this revival- Pfr and KO.

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