Anjola slouched, his black depressed eyes stared deep into the white blank screen. He felt nothing, dark and hollow with echoes of darkness in him. His emotions textured like the famed bottomless pit; unending, slippery, every attempt to grapple with something met with loss, terrifying, dark and abyss. No demons, no fire, no pain, just numbness. The news of three hundred kidnapped schoolgirls which succeeded the kidnap of three hundred schoolboys did not cause him to flinch. He conceded to himself that maybe the crawling of worms through his eye sockets and nostrils were more palatable than having to sit and come up with the next hashtag to trend. His eyes glowed like ripe foreign orange, an indication of the rage that was rising and dying all at once. He thought to himself that there was a correlation between catch-phrases and bound souls. He flashed back to his neighbors heated political conversation the night before as he returned from his bread-buying trip to his room. He had walked past them as usual, nodding hello to them as he fumbled for his keys and disappeared into the darkness to hope for power to be restored by 9pm.

Back to his workspace, his breath heated up his own face in resentment. Why would he have to generate a sweet flowing catch-phrase for this charlatan’s campaign? He pondered how the country became a lawless-governed state if it wasn’t by catchphrases. The incumbent won his bid by chanting ‘change.’ Four years later, a fairly terrible nation had morphed to a black hole sucking away all dignity for human lives and liberty. The incumbent as an aspirant embarked on numerous protests and marches without interference but every protest under his regime had been sites of mortality and brutality. The courts were now playgrounds of well trained judges who feared their houses would be broken into if they delivered constitutional judgements. A joke. Travesty.

The nation bought chants and catch-phrases. Catchphrases were easier than examining a man’s character and policies. The microwave approach landed the nation in Miss Peggy’s isolation box for naughty children. To save time, men sold souls. Why review policies when slogans were delightful. A catchphrase generation; happy for the moment, wail for the decade to come. We have failed this course for too long, one day we have to learn.