My Society.

One morning I rose up to see the sun.
The dews were fading and soon to be gone.
The day was young for it had just been born.
I stood on the hill to watch life unfold,
With an ear for stories that might be told,
Of or by people going up and down the road.
I saw gold reduce in worth as to clay.
Silver losing value to that of hay
What was once priceless in that good old day.

Fame, I saw men preferred to Dignity.
And wealth, a lot more to Integrity.
But cared not for the priceless Purity.
I heard of one craving for a good end.
But to the right path, he just would not tend.
So even for self, he just could not fend.
To see virtues, I looked from North to South.
I saw people living, but morals without.
They said they’re trash and they feed not the mouth.

The truth which only few could understand,
Was that it’s with these virtues in our hand,
Only can we hope for a better Land.
My consolation came from gems so rare.
By whose conduct my joy really did stir.
For they lived there lives so just and so fair.
Of these were told tales of sincerity.
By their acts came about serenity.
On these I hope for my Society.

(c) Peter Akhere

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My Brother’s Name

As I sat across the counter in my brother’s prison cell, I held his hands tightly within mine. And he spoke to me in a teary voice – shaking and broken.
“Promise me you’d be good and you’d keep our secret.”
I looked into his eyes, his face just like mine, except for the bruises and injuries he had sustained in the course of his time there.
“It was a death-sentence and there’s nothing we can do now” My brother said. “Promise me brother! Just promise me” He added.
My mouth felt heavy, my chest ached in pain and tears streamed down my cheeks. I managed to utter two words…“I promise” And I broke down and cried.
Peter and Paul, that’s what we were called. He was Peter and I was Paul. But in my unbridled exuberance, I had rapped a colonel’s daughter. She was asthmatic and she had an attack while struggling to free herself. She died in the cause of my callousness. And evidence from the investigation led the trail to me or my brother as the culprit.
Peter took the fall for me and insisted that he did it. He could never do such a thing – He was the epitome virtue, and I vices. But he took my place, he took my name. On the day of his execution, mother and father went in tears to watch their son die. I did not go – I could not, for it was me who was to be killed.
It’s been many years now, and no one, not even mother or father knows that I have been living my brother’s life and bearing my brother’s name.

(c) Peter Akhere.