The Terrorist Without A Gun

They labelled him terrorist though his voice only pierced air, 
A voice that rose like thunder from a lifetime of despair. 
A wounded land beat on his chest, a grief he couldn't shun, 
Yet still they carved the label: he was a terrorist with no gun. 

Royal bloodline marked him from the cradle to the throne, 
A lineage carved in stories older than the desert stone. 
But greatness walks with shadows when night is never done, 
Fear was his only true companion— this terrorist with no gun. 

He feared his people fading like a whisper in the rain, 
He feared their cries forgotten, drowned in generations' pain. 
And so passion filled his spirit like a rising midday sun, 
As words became his armour:  not bullets, not even one. 

He longed to be their Saviour, not for glory, not for gain, 
But to shield a weary people carrying so much of pain. 
A Messiah shaped by heartbreak, where ancient rivers run, 
In a prince with only courage they saw a terrorist with no gun. 

Sorrow spread its blanket on the house that made him whole, 
His mother's gentle laughter swallowed by night's black hole. 
His father followed after, and the palace lights were done, 
Two royal souls departed, leaving their heir to grieve alone. 

The soldiers came like lightning in haunted moonless skies, 
Their boots erased his history as smoke blurred royal eyes. 
He fled into the shadows where the hunted dare to run, 
A prince stripped of kingdom—yet weaponed with none. 

Across the ocean's borders, hands of secrecy arose, 
A capture done in darkness where no legal sunlight glows. 
Extraordinary chains wrapped where justice had begun, 
A taken man delivered—still a terrorist with no gun. 

Now he stands in judgment where the world pretends to see, 
Where truth is caught in crossfire between politics and plea. 
A man weighed down by history's weight too heavy for one, 
Still they all chant the sombre verdict: a terrorist with no gun. 

But deep within his spirit burns a stubborn, sacred fire 
A flame the storms can't smother nor the cages retire. 
For destiny must remember every battle lost or won, 
As Messiahs rise from ashes, even those who carry none. 

So call him what they will—his journey is yet undone, 
The future is still bending toward the rising of the sun. 
For history writes differently when at last truth is spun 
Time itself will witness truth in a terrorist with no gun. 

Author: Emeka Asinugo, Phd., M.a., Ksc

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