Backseat Bullet || Sulaiman Khadijah || Poetry
Backseat Bullet
He wore his uniform like a crown, Hope folded neatly in his pocket— A boy of fourteen with dreams loud, Too loud for the silence that would follow. The skies wore a gentle face that morning, And so did he. A quiet ride with his father, Eyes on the future, Mind on the questions waiting at the exam hall. He had studied. He had prayed. He had trusted the road. But the road… The road twisted into nightmare. Not from God. Not from fate. But from hands that shook with too much power And too little thought. A siren. A shout. A shot
One bullet. Not meant for him, they said. But it found him anyway. Right behind the driver’s seat, Right through the laughter he hadn’t laughed yet, Right through the life he hadn’t lived yet. The car stopped. The world did too. And the father… The father who had given all, Who had raised children alone, Who was only trying to get his boy to school Held him. Held the weight of every failed promise in his arms. His son’s warmth fading like a lie. The officer stands behind a badge, Says “procedure,” Says “unfortunate,” Says “we didn’t mean to.” But what is meaning to a dead child?
We are not singing vengeance We are crying for value. For a boy, for a life counted in seconds. For a country where the backseat knows no safety, Where a student is a target Before he is a citizen. Kehinde, forgive us. We built a nation that could not carry your dream Even as you carried your pen. We failed to protect your journey. We failed to protect your seat. Now all we have is silence And the blood on the uniform of a child Who just wanted to pass his papers.
