Are gospel truths or old government fables
Are mirror reflections. Literally inverted figures. Echoes bouncing off the seabed’s straight outta the ruling house. From the dark depth of the treasure trove subterranean. The national spoils laid up for the worthy righteous.
Are like mirror images. Identical twins created by the financial artists. They say; the image of the nation is weather forecasted. On whether the saplings have grown an inch taller or wider. Developed economic muscles to edge out their contemporaries competitively.
Are sound vibrations. Resonating heartbeats per minute pulsating on the health of the nation. Digital simulations of a pathology or a physiology of a collective national treasure chest. A temperature scale of the heat on the street. The friction in the air, molecules breathe. The tensile stress levels in the marketplace. Of the real life expectancy of molecules agitating in shells. The life of ordinary people.
The diagnostic panorama. Of the basic right to the pursuit of happiness. To a dream of parity. Of balance sheets and the legitimacy to the national food basket. Of ecological footprints and imported vitamins. Of a tomorrow to look forward to.
The state-of-art sceptre is broken. And suddenly the mirror images makes no sense. Like everything in reverse. Abnormally turned to normalcy.
The reflections in the mirror looks too enchanted to be true. It gives a different tableau of a nation’s overlay. Of the ghost of yesterday that would not rest in peace. An immutable picture of the boon days. The days when hypertrophied cows fed on their anaemic neighbours.
The GDP is a faulty accelerometer that is poised at a clamped velocity. A polygraph that says ‘yes’ when it means ‘No’
From the ruling house. A fable of lies told too many times it is the only truth. Of the heartbeats that sound sweet to the ears but it is surely ripples in troubled waters. Of the fact that despite how beautiful the mirror reflections are the molecules are still agitating in the streets and in their shells. Zombies piling in wards and morgues from the thrones go throes. Of strike actions everywhere. Of a graph econometrically deceptive. The creation of a conclave of master spin doctors. Surgically misleading while the incidence of unemployment sky rockets to the red fiery ball. While the inflation rates continues to elude the memory of the calculator. Debts piling like dirty linens.
Like birth dates skilfully plagiarised, they remain stubbornly rooted like the immutable earth. To accommodate. A general apathy. A tepid stagnancy in the seabed’s of the ruling house. A pathology in the general polity. And so on.
That as they say;
Art works are as imperfect perfections. Their creator deliberately make them so. Right to look left and what seems wrong right…
by Adedoyin Shobo.
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