EYE
How I lost my right eye is something I avoided for long, but today I hold this no more. My grandchildren, you see me now as nothing more than an old man with a bent back and dimming sight, but behind this frail frame lies a story of power, betrayal, and regret. To the world, I am just another elder who once held the reins of leadership and now sits by the fireside watching the flames dance. But to myself, I am a man who lost not only an office, not only a throne, but the very eye of trust that the people once placed upon me. That is why I speak today, for silence has become too heavy a burden.
In my youth, when my voice carried weight and my steps were strong, the people lifted me high above the crowd. They sang my name with the rhythm of drums, and they declared with confidence that I would be their deliverer. I was their hope, their chosen son, the one who would bridge the gap between their hunger and their harvest, their despair and their destiny. In those days, I believed my rule would stretch beyond the rains, that I would sit among the wise and be remembered as a just ruler. But, as life has taught me, the crown does not weigh heavily because of its gold; it weighs heavily because of the company it draws.
I carried my kin with me, thinking that blood would bind loyalty. I surrounded myself with family, cousins, and so-called friends who filled the palace with laughter and clapping hands. Yet behind those smiles lay hearts that never loved the people. They saw in my office not a chance to serve, but a gate to plunder. They harassed the innocent, they extorted the weak, they mocked the very citizens whose faith had carried me into power. And when the people cried, I, blinded by kinship, refused to hear. I thought their wailing was but the voice of envy, the cry of the dissatisfied few. So, I covered the sins of my men with the cloth of my authority, foolishly believing that shielding them was strength.
The days of my reign began like the sunrise—bright, golden, and full of promise. But slowly, shadows stretched across my land. Whispers reached my ears: a farmer whose grain had been stolen by palace men, a widow beaten for refusing a bribe, children mocked at the gates of the palace. Each whisper was a spark, and together they grew into a flame I refused to quench. One market day, a mother stood before me weeping for her son, who had been struck down by one of my guards. I gave her promises, hollow words of comfort, but I did not act. That was the day, though I did not know it then, that the people’s trust began to slip through my fingers.
The climax came like thunder after a long silence. The people who had once danced to my name gathered in the square not with songs of praise but with chants of anger. Their eyes, once filled with hope, now blazed with betrayal. They no longer saw me as their son but as a stranger who had traded their trust for the laughter of his kin. And when their judgment fell upon me, I stood alone. The very men I had defended scattered like leaves before the wind. My family, my companions, my friends—they all abandoned me. My throne, once steady beneath me, crumbled into dust.
That is how I lost my right eye. Not in a battlefield of spears, but in the battlefield of trust. This “eye” is not flesh and blood—it is the eye of glory, the eye of honor, the eye through which the people see their leader. When I chose to cover the crimes of my companions, I blinded that eye. And when it was blinded, the people plucked it from me, for no ruler can lead without the sight of his people’s faith.
Now, in my twilight years, I sit among you with no crown, no throne, and no praise on my name. What I carry instead are lessons carved deep into my heart. If I had chosen my company wisely, if I had listened to the cries of the market woman, if I had cut off the hand that stole instead of covering it with my robe, perhaps today I would be telling you a different story. Perhaps I would be a happy man in my old age, remembered with gratitude rather than pity. But I allowed kinship to blind me, and loyalty to the wrong men to destroy me.
So, my dear ones, let this be your inheritance, greater than land or cattle: never lose your right eye. Never surrender your honor to those who do not love the people you serve. For a ruler without trust is like a man without sight—stumbling, falling, and soon forgotten.
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