The ground was tired.

It bore the weight of bro­ken promis­es, failed sys­tems, and ne­glect­ed peo­ple. Foot­steps of frus­tra­tion had worn deep paths in­to its soil, the dust ris­ing like silent tes­ti­mo­ny to the un­rest. The na­tion stood on weary earth—com­mu­ni­ties that once bus­tled with pride now gripped by fear, un­cer­tain­ty, and de­spair.

The ground was sad­dened.

Chil­dren’s laugh­ter, once echo­ing through neigh­bour­hoods, had been re­placed by the dis­tant cry of sirens and the heavy si­lence of hope­less­ness. Moth­ers clung to pho­tographs, not diplo­mas. Fa­thers stared in­to emp­ty hands, dreams slip­ping through their fin­gers like sand. Crime had be­come com­mon­place. In­jus­tice, it seemed, had be­come in­sti­tu­tion­alised. The heart­beat of the na­tion grew faint be­neath the weight of in­dif­fer­ence.

The ground was drenched in blood and tears.

It ab­sorbed the pain of in­no­cents caught in the cross­fire of crim­i­nal­i­ty and cor­rup­tion. It re­mem­bered every name etched on a head­stone too soon, every life claimed by bul­lets, pover­ty, abuse, or ne­glect. The soil, sa­cred and an­ces­tral, soaked in the sac­ri­fices of those who dared to hope—not for vengeance, but for jus­tice.

The ground was cry­ing out.

It plead­ed through protests, vig­ils, art, and si­lence. It called out through prayers in mosques, church­es, and tem­ples; through the qui­et strength of grand­par­ents rais­ing yet an­oth­er gen­er­a­tion. It cried out through stu­dents sit­ting ex­ams by can­dle­light, through pub­lic ser­vants nav­i­gat­ing a sys­tem that no longer served. The na­tion, as one body, bent low in lament.

The ground felt ne­glect­ed.

It had giv­en much, but been re­turned so lit­tle. Roads crum­bled. In­sti­tu­tions erod­ed. Lead­er­ship seemed more con­cerned with op­tics than out­comes. The soul of the peo­ple was strained—stretched thin be­tween loy­al­ty and sur­vival. For many, pa­tri­o­tism no longer looked like wav­ing a flag; it looked like find­ing the courage to stay.

The ground want­ed change.

It longed for lead­ers who lis­tened—not just to ap­plause, but to an­guish. It yearned for ac­tion that was gen­uine, not per­for­ma­tive. The ground cried out not for per­fec­tion, but for progress—mea­sured not in head­lines, but in run­ning wa­ter, fair jus­tice, and op­por­tu­ni­ty reach­ing every home, re­gard­less of lo­ca­tion or last name.

The ground was dried up and bar­ren.

Hope had be­gun to die. Con­fi­dence in the sys­tem had with­ered. Mi­gra­tion wasn’t just a trend—it was a symp­tom. But even in the bar­ren­ness, some­thing stirred. Some­thing re­silient. Some­thing sa­cred. A whis­per that would not be si­lenced.

The ground was search­ing.

It searched in town halls and talk shows, in voice notes and com­mu­ni­ty meet­ings. It searched in the eyes of in­de­pen­dent thinkers and the hearts of the youth. It searched for in­tegri­ty, for vi­sion, for courage. It searched for a rea­son to be­lieve again.

The ground was pray­ing.

Hands lift­ed. Knees bowed. Words poured in­to the heav­ens—some­times in faith, some­times in des­per­a­tion. Prayers for peace, for re­demp­tion, for trans­for­ma­tion. Peo­ple turned to some­thing greater than pol­i­tics—they turned to God, to an­ces­tors, to the un­break­able will to sur­vive.

The ground was all races, colours, creeds, and class­es.

It car­ried them all. It made no dis­tinc­tion be­tween who suf­fered more or who had less. It held the mem­o­ries of strug­gle and tri­umph, of Car­ni­val and ca­lyp­so, of Laven­tille and La Brea. It whis­pered uni­ty in a time of di­vi­sion, re­mind­ing a frag­ment­ed na­tion that the ground be­neath us is shared. That pain does not dis­crim­i­nate—and nei­ther should progress.

And then, the ground spoke.

Not with vi­o­lence, not with vengeance—but with bal­lots and bold de­fi­ance. With voic­es raised in uni­ty, the peo­ple chose trans­for­ma­tion. A line was drawn be­tween what was and what must be. At that mo­ment, the ground de­clared: “Enough.”

The ground re­ject­ed.

It re­ject­ed com­pla­cen­cy. It re­ject­ed ex­cus­es. It re­ject­ed the pol­i­tics of di­vi­sion and the cul­ture of de­lay. What the ground re­ject­ed, the peo­ple re­placed—with new lead­er­ship, fresh ex­pec­ta­tions, and the un­spo­ken warn­ing: “We are watch­ing.”

This change of gov­ern­ment is not just po­lit­i­cal—it is spir­i­tu­al, emo­tion­al, and his­tor­i­cal. It is the cry of a peo­ple who re­mem­bered their pow­er and used it. It is the echo of an­ces­tors who marched for free­dom, and the prayers of those too tired to march any­more.

To­day, the ground still aches—but it breathes anew. It wel­comes the foot­steps of lead­er­ship, not as mas­ters, but as ser­vants. The man­date is clear: Re­build. Re­store. Re­spect. The work ahead is ur­gent and sa­cred.

The ground is watch­ing.

The ground will not for­get.

The ground will Car­ry It and will speak again.

As I fin­ished this piece, I looked out my of­fice win­dow as the pul­sat­ing so­ca rhythm of Bun­ji Gar­lin’s 2025 hit echoed through the air. “The Ground Used To Car­ry It!!”