I am a gatherer of scattered potentials and the seeker of hidden credentials, I am here shouting in the agora calling the attention of the elders of the land, I call on the spirits of our ancestors to join me in the field because the field is too large for just the 3 of us, "me, myself and I" I then saw a man, aggrieved and lost in his well lavished hatred for the authority he vouchsafed to keep

oh! his mind was filled with a pocket of persistence, his patience brims. He dislodged his rifle bits by bits, and in disguise wore the mechanic mask that could only masquerade him into the land without suspicion we now call clannish difference.

Day after day he smuggled his rifles into the land, he didn't come alone, he came with his friends we now call political party and this political party came with his children ; PDP, APC, DPP and so many others just make sure they divide the people of the land. Under the tenth tent of the Tarok nation's general market adjacent a square facing a flowery memorial drive in the pocket of my shop, a box of metallic musket lay naked in form of chieftaincy title everyone craves to own getting molded into deaths eating utensils in our mothers kitchens thereby denying us food in the land, division visited the land with his belt well tightened like a British shoe lace.

As political parties handle his tool to what has become a revered rifle

His friend 'clannish difference' flashed to his virgin days when he saw it eat up a life with just a silent perch, he ran his hands to its mouth. Then a cacophony of cheers knocked him into reality, he peeped through death's eye to wink his target on the innocent people of the land. When the savant years were compressed into a powerful paper, placing Tarok people's lives on the caring fingers of our great writers.

I am calling on all my fellow comrades who are in the schools of studying stars to avail themselves in the agora to listen to the smell of burnt candles hugging the eyes as it glow and sparkle so our eyes could shine better. Let's wear the gowns of vow and oat to bled our hearts

with the colours of unity, a call to service.

Far into the hilli of the land, came a call, so silent that it can deafen the heart. Women and children clothed in death and starvation in the land just to welcome the arrival of political parties and clannish difference. some were placing caring fingers onto the troubled ground, they swayed gently to the dusty breeze like they can outperform the dancers of death...

If only they knew.... Suddenly, a blast shook the sands followed by the talkative sound of a gun.

Confusion swam the air, struggling to bite the wings that carried death with it. A trade by barter, we gave our Brothers life in exchange for division, a shot for a shot.  gun for a syringe. Another shot for a shot.

The market was empty for those who called those 3 men we call political parties, clannish difference and chieftaincy titles who came to divide the people of the land. A video was made of one giving another a shot. I am the drug that made political party dizzy on the spot. she was taken outside with a gun on the head

She knew she was dead before being shot dead

If scenarios were to replay itself again, she would still die before she dies, because I have come with a silent gun that kills only the wicked hearts. I am not just a story teller, I am also a gatherer of scattered potentials and seeker of hidden credentials. clannish difference and political parties have been made numb that it can't even dare to divide the people of the land. Because we've had a lengthy discussion with the Ponzhi Nbin of the land regarding the issue.

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