Season’s Craze

Countdown: Thirty days to D-day
Festivity smell thick and strong
Breath quickens and the heart beats faster
Santa Claus comes!
 
Everywhere:
Green leaves turn brown.
A misty blanket envelopes the world
And everyday,
Morning smiles from the
Choking grasp of a hot-cold night.
With the lazy worker held back in bed,
By the chilly winds of the harmattan.
 
The craze to make the celebration great,
Many times leads to extremes.
Twelve gauge shot guns are dusted,
Then highways turn to war ways
Running slugs finding homes in vulnerable chests,
Bags of money forcefully taken,
By robbers desirous of a grand season.
Yet many never live to see D-day
 
The kings of the road quadruple fares
And in a bid to make more money,
Drivers turn crazy to their death.
The accelerator is weighed down,
With huge stones
The soul killed with hemp and akpeteeshi,
Broken bones and mangled flesh
Become relics of this craze.
 
The Ogas withhold salaries
Of workers in desperate need.
Fraud turns second nature
And treasuries are rifled
With forged cheques wielded by smart brains
The body hawker is at her season,
Too late she realizes,
The ritual killer needs money for the season.
 
Craze! Craze!! Craze!!!
Everybody desires the meal ticket, focus though myopic:
Its all for a grand season,
Then souls are lost in unreason.
 
The earth spins round and round and round,
And D-day finally arrives.
Then attention changes
And all monies accumulated begin duties.
New weave-ons for new hairdos,
Laces and shoes for changed outlook
Cows, goats and fowls are scrambled for
By those who ordinarily could not afford them
 
New cars and refurbished houses decorate the landscape
Then, the craze of
Who outdoes the other in the donations
That constitute the numerous ceremonies.
The festivities are many times uncountable
And for each we must represent.
More money is not made this time
Spend, spend is all there is.
 
The year’s pregnancy finally due for delivery,
To the labour room she walked.
The world waited on bated breath
All churches filled to the brim
Hosanna shouted by hearts pious
As the pastors preach for a new life this new season,
The midwife of the year conscientiously tends
The intending mother.
 
As the warm air turns freezing,
The expectant mother pushes fiercely then,
The thundering shouts of ‘happy new year!’
Herald the birth of the new child.
Then, we pause in our crazy actions,
Our breathing slowed and our heartbeat more normal
Then, stocktaking:
What did we gain from this craze?
 
Epiphany. We realize that,
We lost all and gained nothing,
Except a year closer to our graves.
Then we commence the New Year - disconsolate.