By Dr. Sunday de John
On the night of Monday, May 11, 2026, I dreamt that I was awakened from sleep by a thick beam of radiant light from a presence I couldn’t fully see. A gigantic dark hand handed me a book, and the voice behind it instructed, “Read this book; it is about the birth of your country, the Republic of Cornucopia, the one they stabbed and that is bleeding.” I quickly woke up and sat at the edge of my bed. The room was dark, and I realized I was not holding any book, but my heart was racing.Out of fear, I switched on the light. There was nobody in the room.
I was alone, and I began to think deeply. I reached the conclusion that many nations were born, as I had read in history books. But ours was now resurrected. The entity the instructor in my dream referred to as the Republic of Cornucopia was indeed a state reborn after being severely torn apart.The Republic of Cornucopia did not attain freedom as a child awakens to the morning; soft, unhurried, and oblivious to the cost. It emerged through arduous struggle, akin to a man finding safety after years spent in the wilderness, scarred, breathless, weeping, and still still standing. Every inch of Cornucopia’s liberty was soaked in someone’s blood or their final breath.
The borders of this land were drawn not in ink but in the very marrow of those who refused to die until the dream was realized.Indeed, the territory along the Iteru River was not bestowed upon us. It was shredded, torn apart, piece by bleeding piece, destroyed by those who believed its people were never meant to be free.Against this darkness, two men emerged, shining brighter than all others in their steadfast dedication to the land of upright souls.Dr. Trailblazer, born and raised in the rural South, did not stumble into greatness; he was molded from it. A son of the land, he became an intellectual of esteemed character; a true iron, both tender and thunderous. With wisdom and resolve, he charted a path to freedom across terrain that had broken even stronger men.
Dr. Trailblazer’s commitment was not for glory; in truth, glory meant nothing to a man who had buried too many friends. He fought because within him lived a vision of a people standing tall in their land, people ready to call it home without permission, without apology, and without chains or shame.He poured himself into that vision until there was nothing left to give. He died mid-stride, not in defeat but in total sacrifice, leaving behind a torch and people too grief-stricken to know who was worthy of carrying it.However, history often saves nations through quiet men. In this case, the quiet man spoke.Of course, Gen. Wise Hunter had always been present. He has been present in the shadows of great speeches, in the dust of long marches, and in the silence after gunfire, when someone had to decide what came next. He is a quiet man, composed not of noise but of stealthy endurance.
Where Dr. Trailblazer was the lightning, Wise Hunter was the ground that absorbed it and held firm. When his comrade fell, he lifted the fallen torch with the hands of a man who understood that a nation is not a reward; it is a responsibility. He walked the final mile not in triumph but in solemn duty, dignified and resolute. The people celebrated and wept with a gratitude so profound it had no language. The joy was truly indescribable. The morning had arrived; a genuine new dawn that everyone had longed for.Then came Dr. Delaney, and he arrived as all destroyers do, wearing the guise of a liberator.
He smelled like smoke because he had lingered too long near the fire; long enough to claim its warmth as his own. However, a man who stands beside a blazing furnace cannot be considered its builder. Dr. Delaney had never truly created anything; he had only positioned himself alongside those who did. What he accomplished was to connive, conspire, and turn against his own people.This time, when they denied him the seat of leadership, one he considers as his birthright, something within him shattered. Initially, he did not show sadness, nor did he act with principle. Instead, he remained aloof, shrouded in the cold rage of a man who believes the world owes him its finest chair. In essence, he did not engage in a debate. He exploded suddenly.
His war was the cruelest kind, one cloaked in ideology, fueled by ego, and paid for in the lives of children. Villages that had survived Arab colonization did not withstand Dr. Delaney’s ambition. Mothers who once ululated in celebration of independence now found themselves digging graves for their children.The Iteru River in protest ran darker than ever before, filled with the blood of its own offspring. Hitherto, Delaney remained in foreign capitals, speaking into microphones, articulating in polished sentences why Cornucopia had to burn before it could be saved.
History will not be kind to this exhaustive chain of reactors; it will strip bare the backstabbers. They betrayed their people not once, but multiple times.However, his sin paved the way for something far worse, allowing it to infiltrate the core of the nation.The Atheeng-goormalThe atheeng-goormal are a group of men and women who lack patriotism and conscience. To label them as corrupt is too lenient; to label them as evil oversimplifies the issue. They represent a unique and devastating force. They mastered the language of liberation without ever understanding its true cost.They realized that a country at war is easily distracted, and a distracted country cannot monitor where its wealth is disappearing.
They did not storm the treasury; they were welcomed in as advisors, envoys, generals, ministers, brothers, sisters, in-laws, and friends. Once inside, they began to voraciously consume resources. They revealed their gluttonous nature by siphoning off oil before it could reach hospitals. They devoured infrastructure at the policy level and expended the potential of schools before they were even built.They encountered the Wise Hunter not at his peak but in a state of age and fatigue. They circled him like jackals drawn to a creature once mighty. They whispered empty words into his ears, flattering and isolating him. Then, they slipped their hands into the glove of his authority and governed in his name. Analysts have remarked that he has become a scarecrow—feared, but harmless. The true danger lies with those whose hands are in his gloves, executing decisions without any mandate.
They are not even carrying out the tasks correctly. What they are building is not a nation; it is a looting operation disguised under a national flag.And the LoochdiakThe Loochdiak are individuals of strong moral character, deeply patriotic, and willing to sacrifice their lives for their country. They are the ones who make this story worth telling. They are the true keepers of the original fire. Some sat with Dr. Trailblazer in the darkest of rooms, memorizing his vision to ensure it would not perish with him. Others marched behind Gen. Wise Hunter, not for pay or recognition, but because they believed a free Cornucopia was the greatest legacy one generation could pass to the next.Their numbers have dwindled. Some have gone into exile, some remain silent, and others lie under the soil, deep down in the ground, dead.
Yet, they are not extinguished. The atheeng-goormal understand the truth. Beneath all their feasting lies a fear they cannot dare to acknowledge.The Loochdiak remember everything. They understand that Cornucopia is crying today, not in the quiet sorrow of those who have given up, but in a loud, anguished cry of people who vividly recall what they nearly possessed and struggle to accept what has been taken from them.The blood continues to flow. The children born after independence have never known a Cornucopia that genuinely functioned, only one that offered empty promises, alongside leadership that consumed those promises entirely.In spite of the odds, the Iteru River continues to flow. It carries both the bodies of martyrs and the laughter of children in the same water, on the same day, never drying up.
It does not despair. It moves forward, always forward, as if it understands something about these people that they have temporarily forgotten about themselves.Cornucopia is not dead. It cannot die while the Loochdiak draw breath. It cannot perish while memory endures. It cannot fade away as long as even a single citizen gazes upon this ruined but radiant land and senses, beneath all the grief, that ancient and unconquerable essence: the refusal to stop calling it home.
Till then, yours truly, Mr. Teetotaler!
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