Wrist shackled in pairs,
they sat shoulder to shoulder
on the hard wooden benches of the courthouse – a relic of the old colonial masters,
now inherited by their shadows.
The air hang heavy with the scent of sweat and dust,
thick as the silence
that followed the clash of streets and shields.
And together they sang —
A defiant song,
Hoarse voices echoing off stone walls,
Their weary bodies swaying,
Fists rising with the rhythm,
Wailing it like a dirge,
Not for themselves,
but for the nation
drowning in the greed of its own sons.
The magistrate shifted in his seat,
eyes narrowing beneath the weight of their gaze.
Outside, the streets simmered –
footsteps and whispers growing louder,
waiting for the doors to open.
The guards stood stiff,
as if holding their breath,
knowing that the song spilling from parched lips wasn’t fading.
It was multiplying.
T∆fahri
