|A soulja battling Boko Haram who is also fighting his personal|
demons writes his daughter about his personal struggles.
This is not Father.
Tell you what; this war's been one tough nut to crack;
If we fight the enemy we shall hit our brothers.
There's no telling who got dragged into this joint;
Or who got paid to settle for a human bomb.
I've had nightmares where I woke up totally drenched;
Victory has never before tethered on a more slippery edge.
Who willingly yields up a daughter?
Then turns around and cries, Murder! Murder!
Who can spot the color of truth, color of a lie?
Who discerns a foe just by looking 'em in the eye?
Sometimes, I feel this is a struggle in vain.
I assume it sounds lame and probably is insane.
But can I be positive I ain't sticking out my neck for a traitor?
Can I state with certainty there ain’t secret mass burial sites?
They wear our faces and speak our tongue.
They sniff out the nitty-gritty of our minds.
If I sound a bit off the wall maybe I am.
But when we get down to brass tacks it’s Nigerians offing Nigerians.
Things are never what they seem behind enemy lines,
In this place I wage war and for same I lay down my life.
This is Father.