The Man In The Dust - (For Every Man Who Vanished Into The Forest) Poem by Akwu Sunday Victor

The Man in the Dust

(For Every Man Who Vanished Into the Forest)

He sat like a broken proverb
in the belly of the forest,
bare chest, dust-painted skin,
wearing only the shorts that once saw home.
Two machine guns like angry gods
pointed at his ribs
as if truth can only come when fear breaks the bones.

He was nameless now,
not the man who paid school fees
or mended the roof before the rains.
His name had been stripped like a stolen SIM,
replaced by trembling eyes,
cracked voice,
a prisoner of performance.

'Tell them to send the money, '
one captor barked,
another towered above like an unkind spirit
smelling of sweat, weed, and war.
A phone camera blinked its eye,
like a hungry ghost watching him die slowly.

So, he spoke,
not like a man anymore,
but like something trying not to drown
in a river of dread.

'Mama... send the money... please...'
His voice cracked like dry harmattan lips,
hope scattered in syllables,
every word a funeral for dignity.

Inside, a storm brewed.
He remembered the tree where he carved his name at ten,
his daughter's drawing stuck to the fridge,
his mother's voice during evening prayer.
He wanted to cry
but the tears were hostages too.

Who is a man
when the state turns its back,
when the forest becomes court,
and his only judge wears a mask and holds an AK?

Fear crawled like ants on his skin.
Not the fear of death alone,
but of how he might die
slowly,
humiliated,
without witness.

Where is the government
with its songs of protection?
Where are the laws
that promise freedom and peace?
He wondered if those laws had ever walked these woods.

If a man can disappear in his own country,
reduced to dust and begging,
what then is citizenship
but a paper dream?

And still, the forest waited.
The camera rolled.
The machine guns stood.
And somewhere far away,
someone would watch
and either send the ransom
or not.

And he
He would remain a parable
of how quickly you can become nothing.
A nameless man
in a nation that forgets
that to be human
is sacred,
and to protect that humanity
is the first duty of power.

But here,
power wore jungle boots
and held triggers.
And mercy?
Mercy was not invited.