The son of our mothers once liked his tales
He liked them tall, and he’d tell them to all
It made us laugh
We might not have much, but at least laughter filled our hearts
More importantly, he was sober
Now, the people chose him to represent them
They said, “he’s the son of our mothers! His success will be ours!”
All and sundry rallied behind him
Soon, however, his tall tales grew stale
Where once laughter was enough, empty stomachs grumbled
The joke wasn’t funny anymore
No son would make a joke of his mothers
No son would drag his mothers through the streets just to be heard
And no son, would think his mothers were hooligans for voicing their concerns
The teetotaler is no longer a son of our mothers
Perhaps we should have heeded the drunken words of the tippler who came before him
The people grew restless
They grew tired
Of empty promises and emptier stomachs
Of rivers of blood sullying their streets
Of threats of silence and harsher truths
And they’d chant,
“Our hunger demands to be fed
Our anger demands to be felt!”
The beginning of the Njaa revolution
