#boodiedone
They know the hand that strikes.
They have seen the match lit,
felt the tremor of foreign boots
upon their borrowed soil—
yet they open their gates,
spread their lands like mats
for the war-drums of another.
Tell me—
when did the host become accomplice?
When did silence become treaty?
They could say no.
They could close their skies,
fold their earth back into themselves,
deny the stranger his fire—
but no,
they lend him wind,
they lend him ground,
they lend him night to carry his bombs.
And then—
then they turn, robed in fragile peace,
to the bloodied one,
to the scorched and trembling body,
and whisper:
“Be still.
Do not cry.
Do not answer fire with fire.”
Ah!
It is the arsonist’s choir
singing lullabies to the burning house.
It is the market of hypocrisy—
where those who sell the knife
beg the wound not to bleed.
Call and response—
Who lit the fire?
They know.
Who fans the flame?
They know.
Who must now be silent in pain?
The victim—so they say.
But the earth remembers.
And ashes—
ashes do not lie
© Lanre Adebayo
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 2:49 AM UTC