SOCIAL POETRY: "DEATH BY FAMILIAR HANDS" BY YUSHAB ABOLORE
There are robberies that steal properties…
and there are robberies that steal life slowly, gently, without noise.
This one did both.
Till today, the questions still hang in the air like unanswered prayers:
Who switched off the CCTV?
What really happened to the camera?
Our former community chairman had just returned from the UK with his family. Christmas lights were still blinking in his compound. Laughter had barely settled into sleep when darkness crept in. Not the kind NEPA brings, but the kind that knows your name.
That night, their dogs barked endlessly.
We complained.
We cursed the noise.
We never knew those barks were cries for help.
Inside chairman's house, hands were already tied.
Lives already placed on pause.
Morning came, and the chairman’s house filled up quickly with friends, enemies, sympathizers… and the ones whose silence had already sold him out. Everyone came with prayers on their lips, but betrayal in their pockets.
Nothing about that robbery looked accidental.
From the community gate to the open balcony,
from the sleeping gateman to the dead CCTV...
This was not chance.
This was arranged.
How does CCTV fail at exactly 11:11 pm, the very moment NEPA restored light?
How does a gateman sleep through barking dogs, metal sounds, human struggle, unless sleep was forced into his veins?
How do armed robbers walk straight to an open balcony, without touching the front door, without stress, without confusion?
Someone knew.
Someone told them.
Someone watched.
The chairman said he woke up to hot pain, burning pain, as a matchstick was pressed against his body. His wife collapsed instantly, fear pushing her into darkness. They didn’t care if she died. The children were locked away, trembling behind a door, learning too early that the world is cruel.
They emptied the house.
Money.
Gold.
Jewelry.
Memories.
Then they emptied his soul.
He was forced to transfer money to POS merchants across the Southwestern states to avoid being traced at a go. One alert after another, like his heart breaking digitally. When the transfers reached their limit, they wanted more. They wanted blood.
“Take everything,” he begged.
“Just leave us alive. Life is more than property.”
They agreed.
Or so he thought.
They left quietly. No trace. No fingerprints. No mercy.
He smiled weakly the next day and said,
“I’m grateful they didn’t take our lives. Properties are nothing.”
But death had already entered his account.
A day later, another debit alert came from a phone they had stolen.
Shock wrapped its hands around his heart.
How did they know his password?
Why didn’t he block the account?
Questions we will never get answers to.
Because before evening fell,
the chairman fell too.
He thought they left with properties.
He didn’t know they had already taken his life,
they just allowed it to stay behind briefly,
to finish telling the story.
His enemies were not far away.
They were close enough to pray beside him.
Close enough to console him.
Close enough to attend his remembrance.
Today, they will come again.
Dressed in white.
Speaking softly.
Pretending grief.
But the truth knows their faces.
Some deaths are not sudden.
They are planned.
They are helped.
They are assisted by familiar hands.
And sometimes,
the people who killed you
are the same people
who cry the loudest at your grave.
© YUSHAB ABOLORE AYOMIDE
-Nigeria
This poem's a haunting tale of betrayal and tragedy. It tells the story of a community chairman's robbery, which wasn't just a theft, but a meticulously planned destruction of a life. The speaker's tone is somber, accusatory, and reflective, highlighting the pain of loss and the cruelty of human nature. The use of vivid imagery and rhetorical questions ("How does CCTV fail...") creates tension, emphasizing the insider's role in the heist. The chairman's physical and emotional trauma is palpable, and the twist of his eventual downfall, aided by those close to him, is a chilling commentary on trust and relationships.
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