A Forest Of breakfast with Mr Santana:

When tomorrow raises the roof, perilious fears would be named. the obituary state of a wreckage hope one day would be on Wall street journals, headlined, 'Nigeria is a fugitive'. I read the bitter message on those smoking signatories, pens and guns, their brains, safe and banks are choked on dollar saga, bank notes, Euro and pounds; Buhari kills a fly. Abacha steals the show in the banquet, Babangida was a coy leopard. He plays cards in the cage. Another camouflaged trilby, Goodluck Jonathan stays in the queue. yet,she is bale, entering the veins ofschism in discontented heads.

Nigeria at fifty Seven (57) a forest of uniformed misery. The roses had not fallen from heaven. They wont wait for the scent to whiff. Those thousand promises has kept a shame face but in wait the rain hath come. They are waiting for the chorus in the tidal wave to reach a thousand feet in the ugly economy so as to put a pint of water in our lips .They can be control, outwit by taking the bull by the horn. But you must realize this is an economic war time, a seemingly business to the ostrich, a deathtrap to the babes and gullible Sucklings. In hope of redemption, a thousand gathers in stadia around the globe awaiting the Daniel rising Sun in a bespoked pious and Babylonian creed and hour of prayers from minarets calls from muezzins. Daniel still has a case at the council of lions. At the Lions den, the pots, plates and guest are not smiling. A clatter of woods, sickles, clurbs and knives won't break the silence. Dial back in history for your plate of order and the replay would be a milk shake in a silvery sky. On waking you would realize the truth has taken you as far as the boarders of Colombia, Brazil, Peru, Costa Rica and Mexico, Yet the Gallon is far from the promise land from hitting the dollar mark of hope. Everything is gobsmucked in a dignified monkey shying coconut at a bewildered audience. From the start, everything were made to be beautiful. To include our parents, we were the ones who really went too far to been out of place as time bequeathed us a golden opportunity.

Shall we go back to enjoined in the feast Mr Santana as its getting too late for a breakfast at noon
And before someone else steels the show. I totally agree with you that the secret is in the soil beneath our feet on which we stand and tread.

Written By Oladipupo Adewale

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