A tree is known by its fruits, not by its roots. But in today’s Nigeria, we beat our chests for roots traced to kings and caliphs while our fruits rot under the sun of selfishness. Once upon a time, the village was a body and each man a rib. Now, we have become bones scattered in the valley of pride. The call to be our brother’s keeper wasn’t crafted for clerics’ recitations; it was an eternal order, planted by the Creator Himself—to mend broken walls, to water dry hearts, to feed hungry souls. But this generation, drunk on digital applause and loud on legacy, has silenced the wisdom of our fathers. As the Igbo say, “the rejected does not reject himself,” yet we’ve rejected one another while wearing holy robes.
Cain didn’t die. He lives in our National Assembly, our pulpits, and our bloodlines. He signs budgets with ink and schemes betrayals with smiles. Am I my brother’s keeper?—the same haunting question dances in high places. But the ground keeps drinking blood—the blood of street boys, betrayed girls, unpaid pensioners, and unarmed dreamers. Our mosques have become echo chambers of routine. Our churches, theatres of performance. And our families? War zones in beautiful packaging. The rain no longer falls on one roof—now it pours over scattered leaves. We used to be our brother’s hope. Now, we’re each other’s threat.
In the old Kwararafa, and even in Igala land, to leave a man hungry was to court the gods’ wrath. Now, we fast and feast while our neighbors faint in silence. Religion has become the drum; love, the missing dancer. Pastor Paul Enenche thundered, “When love is absent, evil becomes dominant.” And evil, unashamed and unafraid, now wears agbada and sits in councils of men. Compassion has grown old and sits by the roadside while ambition drives the nation into potholes of sorrow. If you cannot cry with your people, you do not deserve to lead them. If you cannot carry their burdens, your title is clay.
This generation must give up the obsession with roots and start bearing fruit. The mango doesn’t shout; its sweetness does the talking. So must we. Let our love be louder than our language, our kindness deeper than our confession. The future is not for the smartest, but the softest-hearted. Let the Church bleed kindness. Let the Mosque echo mercy. Let homes become altars again, where soup is shared and tears are wiped. Let us not wait for government to become God. Let every man be an answer to another man’s prayer.
For on that final day, the trumpet won’t sound for those who prayed the loudest, but for those who loved the longest. The tree shall be judged by its fruit, not its certificate of origin. Did you feed the hungry? Clothe the shamed? Defend the voiceless? Or were you too busy tweeting doctrine while ignoring your neighbor’s groaning? The gods of our land knew “the goat belongs to the owner, but water belongs to the gathering”. We are the gathering. And if we fail to be our brother’s keeper, history will rename us as Cain’s children in borrowed garments.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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