Ndi Anambra.
The city has gone quiet. The music vans are parked. The posters flutter like tired lies on broken walls. The campaign is over — but the real story begins at dawn.
Tomorrow, they’ll come — the men in dark glasses, the women with sweet smiles, the envelopes that smell of hunger. They’ll whisper that it’s just a vote, just one day, just a token. But you know better. You’ve seen the roads that eat tyres and the schools that teach children nothing but endurance.
They’ve had their rallies; now it’s your turn to speak. Not with noise, but with ink. That small box on the ballot — that’s your only weapon in this long war between conscience and convenience.
Sell it, and you buy your own silence. Trade it, and you mortgage your tomorrow.
Keep it, and you write your name in the chapter of those who refused to bow.
When you walk to that polling unit, remember your street, your roof, your children.
Don’t vote for them. Vote for what you deserve.
Tomorrow, history won’t call the politicians first — it will call the voters.
— Linus Anagboso
You Anagboso.
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