By: Iyanuoluwa Oni
The cries have become ordinary.
Complaints have become background noise.
What once shook our conscience
now barely turns our heads.
Injustice is no longer resisted
it is endured. It is embraced.
Then forgotten.
Tell me,
What can the poor man do?
His voice, no matter how loudly it cries,
is swallowed by silence.
His emotions, no matter how deep
are never felt enough to move the world.
One moment, the internet is on fire.
The government is condemned.
Leaders are questioned.
Opinions flood every screen.
Everyone has something to say.
The next moment… Silence.
The hashtags disappear.
The outrage fades.
Life moves on.
The grieving are left to grieve.
The hungry remain hungry.
The homeless remain homeless.
So tell me,
What can the poor man do?
Too afraid to speak,
for fear of those in power.
Too powerless to fight,
for fear of losing
the little he has left.
Innocent hearts. Young minds.
Children who have done no wrong.
Whose sins are they paying for?
What state are they right now?
Have they eaten?
Have they found clean water?
Have they slept without fear?
We do not know.
Only unanswered questions.
It’s been over fifty days,
yet nothing.
Their seats remain empty,
The school bags wait,
still hoping for its owner to claim.
The playgrounds stays quiet,
missing their laughter
Their beds grow colder each night,
untouched for weeks.
Why have we become so comfortable in pain?
When did peace become a luxury?
When did security become
something we only dream of?
We watch.
We sigh.
We scroll.
Then we move on.
While somewhere,
another child is missing.
Another family is breaking.
Another community is learning
to live with fear.
I ask one last time
When justice is delayed,
when fear becomes our daily reality,
when innocence pays the price,
when the cries of the powerless
are drowned beneath the noise…
“What can the poor man do?”
