My Country

Thompson Emate

Thompson Emate

Sunday 4 January 2026

Are the odds totally against my country?

Are its leaders trapped in an unyielding quagmire?

Are they inattentive to the voice that speaks when the mind is calm and unruffled?

Do they focus only on the minor issues while neglecting the major ones, or vice versa?

Are they unaware that wearing the crown comes with the burden of sacrifice and servitude?

My country is a book filled with disheartening pages.

As you turn through its leaves, your emotions overflow with sadness and grief,

And you go to bed with a heavy, sunken heart.

My country is the night sky in search of stars,

but they seem imprisoned by unyielding rulers.

My country is a sorrowful woman,

with tearful eyes gazing at her children in threadbare clothes.

My country is a sluggish, murky, and cold river,

obstructed by stubborn deposits.

My country is a painting,

each brushstroke leaving behind stubborn blotches.

My country is a field,

its yields blighted by sudden and strange circumstances.

My country is an ark,

where the confusion within outweighs the chaos outside.

My country is a tourist site,

awakening feelings of melancholy.

My country is daylight struggling to emerge from twilight,

one of the unlisted wonders of the world.

My country is on another 365-day journey,

And I hope that this time it will emerge as the dark horse.

Are the odds totally against my country?

The answer lies in its yield after 365 days.

Are its leaders ensnared in an unyielding quagmire?

That remains a mystery to unravel.

Are they inattentive when the mind is calm?

Perhaps they’re too entangled to notice.

My country is a string of questions seeking answers,

and it is a feeble, crouching lion.