๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: ๐ ๐๐ข๐ญ๐๐ซ๐๐ซ๐ฒ ๐๐ก๐ฎ๐ง๐๐๐ซ ๐๐ฐ๐๐ค๐๐ง๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ฌ ๐๐ฎ๐ง๐๐๐ฒ โ ๐๐ข๐๐๐๐ฒ
โ๐ป๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐. ๐ป๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐. ๐ช๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐, ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐โฆโ
This Sunday at midday, the wind will carry a voice that has long been stifled.
A voice that cries not for vengeanceโ
But for peace.
K.K. Bonteh, the literary craftsman and cultural torchbearer, unveils his most searing and soul-stirring work yet:
๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
๐ ๐๐ฉ๐จ๐ค๐๐ง ๐๐จ๐ซ๐ ๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ง๐ญ ๐๐ง๐ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐๐จ๐ซ ๐๐๐๐๐
Have we not bled enough?
Have our children not wept enough lullabies turned into gunfire?
Have our thrones not sunk deep enough into the dust of forgotten honour?
And now I ask you, dear readerโ๐
๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐?
Not a fragile peace of silence, but one built with memory, with truth, and with unshaken resolve.
This poem is not just a readingโit is a reckoning.
A summons.
A mirror held to the face of a nation bruised but not broken.
From ๐๐ค๐จ๐ซ to ๐๐ฎ๐ฆ๐๐จ, from the ๐๐จ๐ซ๐๐ฌ๐ญ๐ฌ of fear to the ๐ญ๐ก๐ซ๐จ๐ง๐๐ฌ of ๐๐ซ๐๐๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐๐ ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง, this poem journeys across a landscape soaked in memory and marred by conflict.
This Sunday by midday, the wind will no longer be silent.
For those who yearn to hear itโ
For those who seek to feel it,
๐๐ข๐ค๐. ๐๐ก๐๐ซ๐. ๐๐จ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐๐ง๐ญ. Or reach out for your ๐
๐ซ๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ ๐ข๐ญ๐๐ฅ ๐๐จ๐ฉ๐ฒ.
Contact the author via ๐๐ก๐๐ญ๐ฌ๐๐ฉ๐ฉ: (๐๐๐๐๐) ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
Or visit BefAcademy.org
Let the guns pause.
Let the drums rise.
Let the children dream again.
Let peace be the loudest sound we make.
