Sixty-Five candles, no light, by Osmund Agbo   Sixty-five candles, yet the flame gutters in the wind, smoke curling over a nation that learned to crawl backward. Independence, they said but what freedom lies in a land independent but totally dependent, a giant bound by its own chains? Broken roads, broken homes, broken people trudging through the wreckage of dashed hopes. We speak of the dead, the dying, the better dead, the long gone our roll call of grief longer than any anthem. Mega-churches swell with hymns, while empty classrooms echo with silence. Masjid al-Haram finds its mirror in the scattered prayers of almajiri, children of dust and hunger, trading tomorrow for today. READ ALSO: Enugu...