Ikechukwu frank

  THE EASTERN SUN WILL NOT DIE By Ikechukwu Frank  They came for us before dawn learned how to speak. In the markets of the Northwind Plains, in railway yards of Iron Junction, we were counted — not as neighbours, but as numbers to be erased. Fires translated hatred into a language of smoke. Doors kicked open. Names torn from signboards. The earth drank what it should never have tasted. We ran — not because we were weak, but because survival is sometimes the only rebellion left. Back to Riverland. Back to the soil that remembered our footsteps. Back with stories too heavy for children to carry. Then came the thunder of One Nation. Colonel Orion raised a trembling flag; General Tarex answered with iron. The sky forgot its colour. Silver Crossing became a whisper. Markets turned to dust. The sea closed its mouth. The land swallowed its harvest. Hunger grew taller than trees. Mothers measured hope with empty bowls. Children learned the mathematics of bones. And when silence final...

  WHEN THE RIVER REFUSED TO FORGET By Ikechukwu Frank  The river was not water that morning. It was a mirror. And the sky bent low enough to watch men become numbers. The town did not wake — it held its breath. Boots crossed the bridge like thunder learning to walk. Steel spoke in a language that did not need translation. The marketplace closed its eyelids. Palm trees stiffened like witnesses summoned without consent. They called it an assembly. But the earth knew it was a subtraction. Fathers stood in rows, shoulder to shoulder — not as soldiers, not as rebels, but as names that once answered to laughter. Teenage boys tried to grow beards in a single morning. Mothers swallowed screams until their throats tasted of iron. The sun rose — and wished it had not. Gunfire tore the alphabet from the air. Dust leapt up to shield the fallen. And the ground, overwhelmed, began to memorize. More than a thousand heartbeats fell into silence. Some say two thousand. But grief does not count...

  TOMORROW IS WATCHING By  Ikechukwu Frank  The night is loud with laughter, The streets glow like fireflies— Your heart races with the thrill of now, But tomorrow is already watching. Every choice a seed, Planted in secret soil, The soil of your life, Where your future will grow—or rot. That reckless kiss, That idle word, That borrowed thrill— They are architects of regret. The clock ticks, But you hear only the drum of desire. Pause. Look. Listen. Your future whispers in the wind: “I am fragile. Handle me with care.” The youth may dance, The youth may run, But the wise run with vision, And dance with destiny in mind. Do not let today’s fireworks Burn the bridge you will need tomorrow. The stars will fade, The laughter will quiet, But your life will remember Every moment you threw away Chasing shadows of pleasure. Rise. Choose. Build. Guard. Let your excitement fuel your dreams, Not destroy them.

  THE BADGE BETWEEN LAW AND CONSCIENCE By Ikechukwu Frank  Before the siren learned to scream, Before boots learned the language of fear, An idea was born in law and theory— Order standing guard over chaos, Authority designed to serve, not to dominate, Power meant to protect a nation’s sleep. From colonial shadows to sovereign sun, The Force marched through reforms and revolutions, Shaped by history, scarred by politics, Carrying both duty and inherited distrust, A legacy written in files, ranks, and commands. Ranks rose like ladders of control, Command flowed downward, obedience upward, Training grounds drilled discipline into flesh, Appointments signed by power, Yet accountability whispered by law. The Executive supervises, Parliament questions, The people watch with cautious eyes, For authority without oversight Is a river without banks— Certain to destroy its own path. You were created to prevent crime, Preserve peace, Protect life and property, Stand between the weak and ...

  BADGE NO BE LICENSE By Ikechukwu Frank  Who dey guard the road at night? Police! Who carry the badge and the gun? Police! But who guard the badge itself? Na the law—and the people! Police no be just uniform and siren, No be checkpoint and “park well”, E be idea wey law give body, Authority wey get boundary, Power wey suppose bow for justice, Not swagger for street. From colonial palava to independent hope, History train am with mixed lessons, Some from order, some from oppression, We inherit structure without healing, Uniform pass hand, But trust still dey queue. Command dey. Control suppose dey too. Order must flow, yes— But obedience without conscience Na danger with permission. Who dey supervise? Executive! Who dey question am? Parliament! Who dey feel the impact? The people! Because power without eye Go soon forget road. Una work na prevent crime, Keep peace, Protect life and property, Stand between weak man and mad violence, No be to turn citizen to suspect By default. ...

  SHE STAYED By Ikechukwu Frank  She met him on a morning wrapped in ordinary light, Not knowing that fate had scripts far too heavy for the heart. A car, a fall, a moment that shattered vertebrae C4 and C5— And from neck down, life became a cage of stillness. The world whispered, “Run. Leave. You cannot bear this.” Nine years, nine winters, nine thousand silent prayers later, She stayed. Her hands became his voice, her tears became his comfort, Her patience a cathedral of quiet courage. She learned the language of eyes, the cadence of heartbeats, The invisible threads that connect flesh to soul. Neighbours gossiped. Friends drifted. The world judged. Yet she carried no bitterness. Her love was a torch in rooms where darkness lingered. In the mornings, she combed his hair with gentleness, In the evenings, she read aloud the stories of hope, In the nights, she whispered, “I am yours. Always yours.” Not for duty. Not for fame. Not for pity. But for love—unyielding, unwavering, u...