The Prisoner’s Dilemma
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| "I long for nada but the emancipation of the mind." Image by Ch Kondoom |
weighed down by life’s grim absurdity.
he begged to confess, to clear his chest,
to rid his conscience of its unrest.
not for the bomb that shook the state,
nor the bribes that sealed his fate.
it wasn’t the crimes for which he stood blamed,
but the guilt of a world he couldn’t have tamed.
with a sedated voice, heavy and low,
he began his tale of sorrow and woe:
“darkness consumes my every breath,
while all I ever sought in life was light,
a fleeting joy, a moment of pride,
yet I’m bound to this land,
this selfish love, where my roots still hide.
inside this cell, the shadows creep,
my world’s grown darker, my soul sinks deep.
but i will try, till my dying day,
to break these chains and find my way.
i read of Shawshank, of hope’s ascent,
and dream of escape, my will un-bent.
inspirations abound, but one goal remains,
a fire within me that defies these chains.
not freedom of body, nor riches refined,
but the unshackling truth—the emancipation of the mind.
i care for my unborn child,
for my blood, my lineage, my ties, undefiled.
let the other bloods be—
I’ve seen them spill,
a crimson river across the Nambul, standing still,
flowing profusely, lost to a cause with such might,
while i sit here, clinging to mine, holding tight.
while all I ever sought in life was light,
a fleeting joy, a moment of pride,
yet I’m bound to this land,
this selfish love, where my roots still hide.
inside this cell, the shadows creep,
my world’s grown darker, my soul sinks deep.
but i will try, till my dying day,
to break these chains and find my way.
i read of Shawshank, of hope’s ascent,
and dream of escape, my will un-bent.
inspirations abound, but one goal remains,
a fire within me that defies these chains.
not freedom of body, nor riches refined,
but the unshackling truth—the emancipation of the mind.
i care for my unborn child,
for my blood, my lineage, my ties, undefiled.
let the other bloods be—
I’ve seen them spill,
a crimson river across the Nambul, standing still,
flowing profusely, lost to a cause with such might,
while i sit here, clinging to mine, holding tight.
they called it corruption, plundering greed,
but I saw a future, a family freed.
currency glowing in secret accounts,
a legacy growing in vast amounts.
as secretary of a land, I took my chance,
turned duty to profit in a careful dance.
money flowed where I made my creed,
a noble pursuit, or so I believed.
even now, I claim my name is clean,
each coin was earned, not overly mean.
scrupulous methods, or so I’d attest,
just paving the way for my kin to be blessed.
currency glowing in secret accounts,
a legacy growing in vast amounts.
as secretary of a land, I took my chance,
turned duty to profit in a careful dance.
money flowed where I made my creed,
a noble pursuit, or so I believed.
even now, I claim my name is clean,
each coin was earned, not overly mean.
scrupulous methods, or so I’d attest,
just paving the way for my kin to be blessed.
the taint of corruption, you’d scoff and reject,
but hear me out, show me some respect.
things are grim, that much I’ll say,
but let me share a tale, if I may.
in government halls, where jobs were rare,
came seekers with burdens too heavy to bear.
gold and chains from their mortgaged homes,
fields and lands, stripped to their bones.
their gifts, though tempting, I couldn’t just play,
for our society watches, sharp as the day.
the civil groups and gunmen bold,
with itchy fingers and hearts so cold.
so I balanced the scales, I gave some a break,
a gift-less few, for fairness’ sake.
imagine their shock, their stunned delight,
a job without debt in the dead of night.
but for only donors, I dared not choose,
lest I face trials I couldn’t refuse.
on slopes remote, where justice bends,
with guns and threats, and brutal ends.
but hear me out, show me some respect.
things are grim, that much I’ll say,
but let me share a tale, if I may.
in government halls, where jobs were rare,
came seekers with burdens too heavy to bear.
gold and chains from their mortgaged homes,
fields and lands, stripped to their bones.
their gifts, though tempting, I couldn’t just play,
for our society watches, sharp as the day.
the civil groups and gunmen bold,
with itchy fingers and hearts so cold.
so I balanced the scales, I gave some a break,
a gift-less few, for fairness’ sake.
imagine their shock, their stunned delight,
a job without debt in the dead of night.
but for only donors, I dared not choose,
lest I face trials I couldn’t refuse.
on slopes remote, where justice bends,
with guns and threats, and brutal ends.
not long ago, I was just in a pack,
a common face in the leikai track.
leikai to leikai, I ran my game,
seeking votes, building my name.
with trust I sowed, their hopes I grew,
their ballots bore fruit, and the victory was true.
but now here I lie, democracy’s jest,
writhing in darkness, no light, no rest.
and the people, they wait, their patience intact,
for the next election, the same old act.
but I got my seat, as schemed, at last,
in the assembly of self-seekers, a carnival so vast.
oh my, their greed made mine look small,
more cunning, more ruthless—they outdid us all.
I chased Delhi’s funds with schemes to unfold,
while they craved power, a grip to hold.
power here elevates, in this blood-soaked land,
to a godlike stature, supreme, grand.
absolute power? it’s beyond the divine,
untouchable, eternal, a force malign.
corruption’s a system, an institutional game,
but power escapes even the slightest blame.
we’re shades of decay, of bullets and loot,
of murders, of dogs, of cops in pursuit.
and what not, oh what not, the chaos is rife,
a carnival of darkness that mocks our life.
so I gave up my seat, my ministerial throne,
the day they condemned me, I stood alone.
life sentence they passed, but can’t you see?
this is the price of their power, not just of me.
but I heard my inner voice, long before that fateful day,
before I learned things in my own twisted way.
before I saw the game, the tricks they played.
I found a vision, a path, a hope displayed,
where we could live as humans, free and proud,
like the people in Khwairamband, humble and loud.
I learned it from the cold winds that blew across the Koubru,
how to live unchained, how to break through.
I saw it in the white ibises, soaring in March’s skies,
flying above the fields, as the seasons rise.
so I donned a mask, faster than gunmen could show,
the same masks of patriots they wore, their faces aglow.
and so I planned, disguised and sly,
I bombed the assembly, without asking why.
and I killed the mongrels, with no second thought—
what fucking use are they? What purpose have they sought?
a common face in the leikai track.
leikai to leikai, I ran my game,
seeking votes, building my name.
with trust I sowed, their hopes I grew,
their ballots bore fruit, and the victory was true.
but now here I lie, democracy’s jest,
writhing in darkness, no light, no rest.
and the people, they wait, their patience intact,
for the next election, the same old act.
but I got my seat, as schemed, at last,
in the assembly of self-seekers, a carnival so vast.
oh my, their greed made mine look small,
more cunning, more ruthless—they outdid us all.
I chased Delhi’s funds with schemes to unfold,
while they craved power, a grip to hold.
power here elevates, in this blood-soaked land,
to a godlike stature, supreme, grand.
absolute power? it’s beyond the divine,
untouchable, eternal, a force malign.
corruption’s a system, an institutional game,
but power escapes even the slightest blame.
we’re shades of decay, of bullets and loot,
of murders, of dogs, of cops in pursuit.
and what not, oh what not, the chaos is rife,
a carnival of darkness that mocks our life.
so I gave up my seat, my ministerial throne,
the day they condemned me, I stood alone.
life sentence they passed, but can’t you see?
this is the price of their power, not just of me.
but I heard my inner voice, long before that fateful day,
before I learned things in my own twisted way.
before I saw the game, the tricks they played.
I found a vision, a path, a hope displayed,
where we could live as humans, free and proud,
like the people in Khwairamband, humble and loud.
I learned it from the cold winds that blew across the Koubru,
how to live unchained, how to break through.
I saw it in the white ibises, soaring in March’s skies,
flying above the fields, as the seasons rise.
so I donned a mask, faster than gunmen could show,
the same masks of patriots they wore, their faces aglow.
and so I planned, disguised and sly,
I bombed the assembly, without asking why.
and I killed the mongrels, with no second thought—
what fucking use are they? What purpose have they sought?
Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb!
Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb!
Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb!
Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb!
yes, if I’d felt any sympathy,Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb!
Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb!
Hadda get ridda the dogs with a bomb!
i could've sent them off, set them free,
on a low-cost flight, far from here,
to a world where blood won’t smear.
they'd feast on food that’s purely and fit,
instead of drowning in the shit.
but no, I had a point to prove,
to show their bloody heirs the price to lose.
a beggar’s hands should never steer,
this engine of a world so queer.
society’s gears grind, they twist,
turning what’s real into a mist.
beggars roam, judgment’s lost,
we pay the price, no matter the cost.
fail engine! government sold!
authority’s power’s bought and told.
and here i sit in this shithole, a shattered soul,
lost in darkness, a hopeless hole.
everything’s broken, torn apart,
a mess that haunts my weary heart.
so here I sit, locked away, confined in this cage,
they’re shaping my life, crafting my mind at every stage.
schools and colleges, they teach you to obey,
at home, you’re just taught to yield and sway.
in servitude and duty lie the everyday praises,
but they are hollow, empty, with no lasting phases.”
schools and colleges, they teach you to obey,
at home, you’re just taught to yield and sway.
in servitude and duty lie the everyday praises,
but they are hollow, empty, with no lasting phases.”
the bomber of the assembly, his story would never end,
mistaking my objectivity for pity, my soul to mend,
here in this cell, I can get anything I please,
but what’s the use? what do I really need?
just two shots of junk, a quick fix every day,
until death drags me from this world, and I fade away.
so I stopped him
motioned for him to drink the glass of water
as I jotted down my thoughts in my notebook,
trying to understand the turbulence inside him, and I said:
mistaking my objectivity for pity, my soul to mend,
here in this cell, I can get anything I please,
but what’s the use? what do I really need?
just two shots of junk, a quick fix every day,
until death drags me from this world, and I fade away.
so I stopped him
motioned for him to drink the glass of water
as I jotted down my thoughts in my notebook,
trying to understand the turbulence inside him, and I said:
“your days are as long as the hours you remain awake,
in this land where life’s worth is less than a ball of cotton’s weight.
in these times when killing's a game more dangerous than yesterday's plight,
in this lottery, you’re as safe as an unpicked number in the night.
you’re lucky, still breathing, a drop lost in humanity’s sea,
it matters not how long you live, but answer this for me:
how will your dreams change the world you know,
when people seek not ideals, but cash for a modest home,
where happiness isn’t found in dreams that roam,
but in buying the peace and comfort of their own.
when all they desire is a place to rest and watch the birds above,
and time that’s split by hours, not by the moon or the sun’s love.
and your brutality in slaughtering those sixty fuckfaces
will urge the powers that be to summon the armies,
while they head to America, joining bands of freedom dreams;
in this land where life’s worth is less than a ball of cotton’s weight.
in these times when killing's a game more dangerous than yesterday's plight,
in this lottery, you’re as safe as an unpicked number in the night.
you’re lucky, still breathing, a drop lost in humanity’s sea,
it matters not how long you live, but answer this for me:
how will your dreams change the world you know,
when people seek not ideals, but cash for a modest home,
where happiness isn’t found in dreams that roam,
but in buying the peace and comfort of their own.
when all they desire is a place to rest and watch the birds above,
and time that’s split by hours, not by the moon or the sun’s love.
and your brutality in slaughtering those sixty fuckfaces
will urge the powers that be to summon the armies,
while they head to America, joining bands of freedom dreams;
and for the people, it means only more dread, more intimidation,
more violence, more pain, more endless frustration,
more of the same, worse than the land you once called home,
where the dirt you walk on is more prized than flesh and bone.
so I say let’s fade here together, in this rotting space,
bound by a twisted sense of grace,
believe me, it’s less decayed than the world we face,
where shit has worth and lives are erased.
where the air’s thick with death and decay,
and if you're still not okay,
take this junk, here’s a gun for you—
shoot your shot, maybe you’ll feel it too,
but all that high’s just a fleeting view,
it’s a lie that leaves you lost, not true.”
What compels an individual to succumb to such profound despair, where the pursuit of power and survival eclipses that of justice and humanity? In what manner can dreams for liberation resonate when individuals’ ambitions are reduced to mere survival, seeking wealth and comfort rather than striving for higher ideals, freedom or ethical considerations? Alas.
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