Dear Malam Audu

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

Matt Oyewumi is a passionate writer who has penned down magical pieces with respect to happenings and imagination around him.

Ideally, he is a content beast who writes for multiple blogs of different niches ranging from lifestyle to personal leadership.

Read and enjoy his breathe-taking parchments to your emotional appeal.

Submitted: February 03, 2018

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Submitted: February 03, 2018



Dear Malam Audu,

I was setting up my room the other day. I had to change some old stuffs.

Eagle-eyed me! I spotted an old Basic English MacMillan book.

I pick it up. I opened it. And I saw you.

Yes you!

I saw you in your colorful printed image.

I saw your smile, your kind heart, your plastic bottle, your stick, your slippers.

Your adventure! Your commitment! Your production!

I saw Ahmed, your son.

How he cried kiddingly when the baby cow you gifted him died on the farm.

How Mariam, your wife made cheese cake for people in the community.

I wish you could come out of the book.

And I remembered,

I remembered how the gumming memory I had of you made me to crush on a young beautiful Fulani girl that had once lived in my neighbourhood.

I remembered how everyone refuted, shouting "over our dead body".

I remembered how I tried to convince them with the Martin Luther King Jr.'s "...Content of character..." line.

I remembered.

But Malam,

What I heard about you in the past few days really troubled my spirit.

I heard your stick had turned to gun.

That your cows had turn to people.

That your knife is now good on human body.

That your milk had also changed to blood.

Holy Malam,

I tried to convince them. I said you don't even have much to order a toy gun let alone an AK47 model that is worth more than a million. I called the devil a liar. I swore on my balls. I defended you from Sokoto to Soweto. I queried them from Alausa to Alaska.

I spat on the ground. I rubbed it with my feet. I promised the devil to eat the mess, if all were true. I beat myself to the trust I had in you.

Dear Malam,

Please tell me! Tell me that those blood bath. That those lifeless bodies. That those that were pulseless like the abysses of space. That those little children crying for their mothers.

Tell me!

Tell me they were not carted off to their safe haven at the shower of your leads.

Tell me they had not dropped their last painful tears at the terror of your knife.

Tell me!

Tell me they had not fearfully asked you why. Why they were treated in the way of the wild.

Tell me they did not ask you what. What they have denied you that made you to butcher them savagely.

Tell me!

Tell me you were not the reason why some escapees are still saving their breathe because they are unsure of the dimension your next massacre will unfold.

Tell me you were not the cause why silence is reigning over the land. Why land itself is becoming a desolation.

Tell me you were not the one the news men are talking about on internet, radio and television.

Tell me someone has impersonated you.

Tell me you are the Malam I never knew.

Holy Malam,

Tell me!

Tell me because I don't know what to believe anymore.

Malam Audu!

Tell me if it wouldn't be safe to wait for your response.

So that I can care less about knowing.

Or wait for another edition of the book.

© Copyright 2018 Matt Oyewumi. All rights reserved.

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