YET WE KNOW

Yet we know! Yet we know!
Yet we know the trouble that cries
When the night swallows up the sun.
Yet we know their joy when happiness is lost
And becomes a trampled dust,
Yet we starve ourselves the promise of Eden
And prefer to be chained in a perfect den.

Yet we know these bad apples are
Filled with wits of evil,
Still, we plant, prune, and nurse
Them to germinate
To become the shade that offers us
Directly to the god of thirst and hunger.

Heavy is my heart that flows with
The river of fire.
Overburdened is my heart that carries a mountain
Of sorrow with no joy to borrow.
We know the truth, yet our lips are glued to lies
Like a baby to its feeding spot.
We have antidotes,
Yet we die of poison.

We shout and disagree in open doors,
For us to be seen and called into close doors,
To have a share of what they swallow,
Then our right to speech is left to bleed
And when next we try to speak,
Our lives and hearts are shut with ease.

We know the ants eat up our sugar,
Yet we put more for them to crush.
With good eyes, we give way for the leaders
To lust for their pot bellies and give us Judas’ kiss.
We know the destroyers of our nation
Yet we betray our own situation.

We know we are kings, yet we hustle
And struggle to sit on earth
While our slaves sit in thrones to propound
Falling rules that only cooks what the masters eat.


My soul weeps for this great place
That has been eaten up by human sharks.
I cry day and night till my tears divorced me.
This place of mouth whispered achievements
With broken compasses running round,
Trying to locate an achievement but non to find;
All we see is their smoke.
And when we gain a little courage to challenge them,
Our blacks and greens protect them
From who?
From us the supposed citizen of a great dust bin
We pour out our minds but get beatings in return:
We are offered as brunches to some hungry animals.

Louder and louder
Our sweats weep
Louder and louder
Our hearts groan of tiredness.
Our tears weep of being overworked:
We cry when the sun scourges
And blub when the moon strolls:
But tell me, where are the consolers,
Yes, where are the handkerchiefs,
Where are those to rescue us from strife?
They are there in mansions, drinking
And spending; dancing and talking of other
Means to suck us dry.

The sun has become our colonial master,
The street our plantation
And the moon our camping ground.
We have become squatters of the night-lord,
Though we have castles that are so long,
But we have become strangers in our homes.
 
They chain us down in our minds.
They read long manifestoes to our hearings
And give us nothing but philosophy of lies.

We are at the crossroad,
Which path shall we take?
When the Esus, the architects of tricks
Are there to confuse us,
But wait! 
If we say can, we can,
For we are the masters of our nation.
Yes, if we say we can, we can,
For we are the owners of this place.

Come with it again you liars!
And let us hang you
Upon the lips of your disturbing lullabies.


Esu is one of the traditional gods of the Yoruba people. Esu is refered as the trickster god and also the messenger of the gods. He dwells at various crossroad; popularly known as orita.

Mide Benedict