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ÌRÈTÍWÁ: Our Remaining Hope
<p><br/></p><p>Three and a half scores ago, every street blazed with celebrations, every house glimmered with the flames of “knockouts”, every tongue was heavy with joyful screams and every heart was an overflowing well of it. The excitement hung thick in the air like the smoke from a burning bush, and all around the country, festivities blazed.</p><p><br/></p><p>Fast forward to today, I woke up and it was just an ordinary day, a Wednesday which happened to be lecture free. Finishing up with my routine and tasks, I decided to entertain myself with some media. There wasn't even a barrage of green and white flashing all over my face. No fireworks, no ginger, no gbedu—just a day.</p><p><br/></p><p>How did we even get here—to this point where a once celebrated day has now become "just a day"? How did the blaring of every radio in the neighborhood, the screaming of "arise o compatriots..." from the developing lungs of children, all grow into silence—a silence-filled morning? How can one actively celebrate a country with the stinging of the stomach walls by a thousand pricks of hunger pangs? Where is the joy supposed to come from when the air is heavy, not with fireworks, but with worry? When the green and white feels less like pride and more like pressure?</p><p><br/></p><p>Maybe that’s why that day feels so ordinary. Perhaps the ginger, just like the knockouts, quietly disappeared without anyone noticing.</p><p><br/></p><p>And yet, something in me still wants to believe that one day, the anthem will sound like more than words </p><p>again.</p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p>
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