The Civic Scribe: Articles & Poems

They call him destiny’s footnote,
a chapter blown open by the winds of chance –
a man who stumbled into the palace
while history blinked.
His Accidency.

he rose on the broken backs of promises,
swaddled in the people’s tired hope,
carrying the prayer of a nation
like a calabash brimming with cracks –
and every dawn, another fracture spread.

our land waits for harvests of reform,
but only mirages grow in the dust.
roads remain riddled with neglect,
hospitals whisper with emptiness,
and the civil service spins
like a compass with a drunken needle.

he governs with hands unsure,
fumbling through urgent nights
as inefficiency blooms like weeds
in every corner of the state.
projects rise like half-built skeletons,
white elephants grazing
across the riverbanks.

the people ask for service –
he offers committees.
they beg for justice –
he gives a draught-player’s speeches.
they seek leadership –
he delivers shrugs wrapped in ceremony.

in the heart of our state,
disappointment grows legs
and march through the streets,
footsteps echoing:
we deserved better.
we deserve better still.

and yet he sits,
a tenant of chance in the house of power,
a leader by accident,
shadowed by the weight of unmet duty.

the nation watches, weary,
hoping one day the winds will shift
and bring forth a leader forged in purpose,
not placed by circumstance.

until then, His Accidency reigns—
a reminder that fate can misplace crowns,
but the people never forget
who truly owns the throne.