D-MOCKRATIC PEN
….If you don’t trust the slow rhythm, wait for the crown that fits you, you’ll grab a flattered crown
In a world addicted to speed and spectacle, patience is mistaken for weakness, and endurance for foolishness. The quiet path of purpose is often abandoned for the loud parade of premature power. And so, many who were born for thrones now settle for stages, trading sacred callings for strategic compromises.
Some were destined to be presidents, true nation-builders with fire in their bones and vision in their veins. But the journey looked too long, the process too painful. So they crossed the Rubicon, aligned with forces they once preached against, shook hands with shadows they once resisted. Why? Because the narrow road to glory scared them more than the wide road to irrelevance.
They believed the lie that only the crooked road leads to power, that righteousness is too slow to win, too noble to survive. And so, they formed dalliances with devils, sold birthrights for endorsement deals, and called it political wisdom.
But here’s the truth: If you don’t trust the slow rhythm or wait for the crown that fits you, you’ll grab a flattered crown. One that looks good in photos but doesn’t rest well on the soul. One that gains applause but loses peace. One that fills the seat but empties the legacy.
Their ambition, rather than uplifting the people, has caused panic in the land, unrest in the streets, and a system so glitched it no longer recognizes justice. They didn’t just betray their destiny, they broke the rhythm of the nation. The loud noise of their power play has drowned out the prayers of the righteous and corrupted the code of governance.
And while they rejoice in their stolen hour of glory, they forget one eternal law: Life has a beret way of rewarding evil, with timing so divine it shocks the entire kingdom of wickedness. When karma arrives dressed in silence, it doesn’t knock. It storms the palace, removes the crown, and exposes the man beneath the mask.
Because no throne taken by deceit can offer rest. No crown won by oppression can last. And no empire built on injustice will survive the whisper of truth.
So let the masqueraders dance. Let the borrowed crowns shine in the glare of staged cameras and sycophantic praise-singers. But the earth keeps its record. History sharpens its blade. And destiny, though delayed, does not die.
Let them laugh now. Let them mock the slow ones, the dreamers, the principled, the ones who refused to bow or bargain. Because in the final act of this tragic play, it is truth, not theatrics, that takes the curtain call.
For every flattered crown worn in haste, there will be a moment of reckoning. And in that hour, the ones who trusted the slow rhythm will rise, not by force, not by noise, but by alignment. Their crowns won’t wobble. Their legacy won’t rot. Their thrones will stand, because they were earned, not seized.
Power grabbed is power that haunts. But power grown is power that guards.
And so I write, not to curse but to caution. The Rubicon of destiny is no place for actors. Cross it without grace, and it will drown you in the very ambition you thought would save you.
Abioye Tosin Lawrence
THE-MOCKRATIC PEN
Hate Against Nigeria Campaigner