Story of broken bridge, whispering walls

Emmanuel Nicholas

In the land of promise, stormy political agitations rumble across the earth with relentless zeal.

The state is the cradle of the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) heritage, a sanctuary of the party’s most successful era. For twenty-four years, its heartbeat was synchronized with the rhythmic chants of PDP, an ancient idol carved in the minds of its people, worshipped with fervor and revered as an eternal religion.

The people loved their PDP as lovers love their first dawn inseparable and eternal.

Yet, as all stories spun by the loom of destiny unfold, shadows began to dance upon the walls of power. Whispers grew into murmurs, murmurs into whispers, silent voices echoing through corridors, alleys, and the very bones of governance.

The media, those modern oracles, proclaimed him the man called Pastor Umo Eno, a model of leadership in the making, a demi-god of political prophecy, a figure wrapped in various mysteries and Laurels.

But the story was never told in certainties. Instead, it was spun into an altar of permutations, like a broken aircraft dangling in the sky, wings torn, engines silent, yet still suspended in the paradox of hope and despair.

Every headline was a prophecy, every news report a riddle wrapped in the enigma of his allegiance. Was he truly leaving the fold? Or was he merely playing the part of a celestial comet, destined to blaze across the political firmament and vanish?

Walls that once stood firm, a stronghold of partisan pride began to crack. Each crack, a fissure of possibility, each opening, a portal to the unknown.

The talk of the town became the saga of Umo Eno’s possible ascension and transition into the APC, an epic of political metamorphosis.

The state’s discourse morphed into a theater where the actors danced on the edge of certainty and speculation, their voices echoing like the chants of priests in a sacred temple.

In the heart of this political tempest, the people remembered the old idol PDP, their beloved deity, their eternal symbol of hope.

For twenty-four years, it ruled like a mighty leviathan, unchallenged and revered, transforming the State into Nigeria’s fastest-developing State.

Yet, in the corridors of power, the national head of the party looked unwell, like a once vibrant idol now withered by the greed of its priests, its vitality drained by the insatiable hunger of political vultures.

Across the land, the emperors at the crossroads Atiku and Wike, once mighty, now resembling suicidal emperors whose crowns were mere illusions, their manipulations likened to the cruel puppeteers pulling strings of a dying marionette.

Their game, a tragic ballet of power, each step dances around their demise, each move a whisper of impending doom for PDP. But how do we rescue our beloved party?

And so, it seems many faithful will refuse to cross frail bridges, those unstable constructions of political hope lest they fall into the abyss of betrayal

Instead, they longed for solid bridges structures of trust, of conviction knowing that their lives, and those of their followers, depended on the strength of their faith in the foundations beneath.

In this saga, the figure of Governor Umo Eno like a celestial leader hovered in the minds of many. Will he choose to fall with PDP or seek refuge in the house of the APC? Or a phoenix rising from the ashes of uncertainty?

But no man can test the depth of a river with his two feet, and no man can see an inferno and walk into it with closed eyes. No animal can dare to try measuring the length of a dragon’s mouth, just as no king can stand on the branches of a dead tree.

The world watched as the walls of Akwa Ibom whispered secrets in the language of shadows, and the winds carried stories proverbial tale of two aircrafts

And as the long story unfolded, permutation after permutation, the State held its breath, watching the dance of their leader, with the hope that there was victory waiting for them.

In politics, as in poetry, truth is often a mirror shattered into a thousand reflections, each revealing a different story.

But the people must stop murmuring and allow their leader to speak before jumping to conclusions, for only the elders who proclaim proverbs truly understand their meaning, as intent and context may differ.

In the end, let’s allow Governor Umo Eno to speak. Let us not judge him by his body language; his movements may be Spanish, but you wrongly interpreted them as Latin. Let’s leave Latin to the Popes and allow our political Cardinals to speak to us in plain Shakespearean English.

While whispering to the winds, seeking a new dawn, while the walls of history continue to crack and creak, awaiting the next chapter of destiny, let us not try to speak for Governor Umo Eno, just like an Oracle, at appointed he will speak to his people, not in Proverbs, but the plain language of hope.