DO NOT KILL THEM for they are dead anyway, why waste your stolen bullet and the cop you stole it from awaits you at the corner to finish a half delivered pledge of royalty betrayed? They are unfeeling, their thin skin hardened to pain with a rocky replacement so expect no plea for mercy. An option is in the air if you care to check twice. The only item of clothing worthy stealing are the tatters dangling on the rafters of this leaky tin roofed semblance of a house. Everything else is permanently on their body through shine or rain for it serves the duo purpose of clothing and bedding.
Do not kill them if you know the value and messy effort that goes to murder. They do not merit the sweaty planning and gruesome execution for they are a long dead people. What you think you see is a silhouette of past shadows dangling on bones that still lay claim to ancestral names inhabiting the stubborn hope of a once resilient people. The empty spaces you think you see a wallet are illusions of an economy long collapsed and buried deep into the psyche of skeletal remains of stubborn ghosts. You will be warned not to take matters into your dirty hands any more in pursuit of murder for what you are capable of reaping is pure insanity that is as contagious as flu or worse.
Do not kill them for the sake of this land. No man should die twice in one lifetime even if that man was a coward of the country and impotent to boot. If only you had looked closely, you would have seen the valid tittle deeds hanging on the bloated bellies of the children who by virtue of poverty are invalid to live. You would also have seen the spindly limbs of the elders with smoke bellowing off their hairy ears as they debated the inheritance for their many mouths long gone dry from the equally thirsty rivers. The passing of wind and weed scent spiral above the youths head as they practice the socially unacceptable homage to dying. You cannot invite death to its own ceremony. It’s not just rude but according to an uprooted culture, it’s against the anthem of the owls that’s speaks in the tom tom staccato of final footsteps of man.
Do not venture to kill them, unlike war or hunting there is no thrill to the game. You will shoot, you will slash and strangle but nothing would affect for the victim is already a victor in the cockroach dance of never dying. You will punch and kick, even douse them with petrol and throw in a grenade, but nothing is ever known to beat nothing or to win over it. For nothing is the complete system that guards itself against everything and having tasted death and accepted its tangy sorrow, nothing more feels as warm and cozy. Do not threaten them with anything for nothing is the antidote to their very existence. Do not promise them hell for they might just call your bluff for they might think yours is a variety different from theirs and hope to experience it. The reason would be really simple. They are the official tribe that was born, reared, bred and died in hell.
So who are these who must not be threatened by death especially by a thug?
All these are inhabitants of ‘Upsidedown land’ where politics breeds with hyenas in close proximity to the serpentine lair of crocodiles and mosquitoes. Their leaders long divorced them at a politically that was attended by foreign dignitaries at the coronation of the chief of the crow clan. After singing hoarse and dancing lame to the pregnant hope of tomorrow, the tribe was escorted home by live bullets and pepper sprays to hasten the flee. The young of the tribe was feasted on by the invited guests in more ways than the four points of the campus, moral or otherwise. Where the survivors ran to was soon declared a National reserve hence the fleeing wasn’t complete. In the bushes and forests up the mountains, the forest guards and monkeys were uncomfortable with their stinky sweat and bowel result so they took off again to the riversides where baby crocs did a decent job of minimizing the population. This act prompted the few remaining elders to call for one more meeting to seek a way out of a calamity of royalty betrayed. It’s while the tribe was hunched over trying to figure the way forward that metal birds flew atop the trees blowing dust and low vegetation into eyes and chests of the gathered group. Unable to cry out or run, live metal pellets rained down on the dwindled numbers and the only report that the metal bird people saw before flying away was the race of vultures, jackals and hyenas splinting to the scene of food.
So poor inheritor, your eyes lie to you to think there is something for you to steal or kill. You cannot kill the death who are tired of this human spectacle. What you see is the heritage of your forefathers who taught you to kill for as little as a title and a large house. You pursue a land that no longer grows even thistles with the war cry of your fore fathers to lay claim to what was never yours and never will. The grey bearded apparitions you see were cut by a metal bird. Here is you playing the acts of your faithless being still hunting a lot that only lives in the figment of your imagination.
Greed may build castles and empires. But like all things wrong, history tells their stories in the end.
So do not attempt killing these absent victims of your forefathers. Perhaps, it’s time to give their bones a decent burial, that way, you may stop carrying stolen guns to kill those already dead. Ghosts are real to the guilty. Face your actions or perish under a barrage of meds.