-Dayọ̀ Ayílárá

Sometimes, there are words but there’s no time.

Sometimes, time converges like bees,

while words escape

through the hollow like Òkété.

But if we have words and time,

let us sit down and break them.

Ọ̀jọ̀gbọ́n said words are never finished

in the house of Ọlọ́rọ̀.

I took my journey to Ọlọ́rọ̀’s house

on the hill of Kàbìtì.

He offered me guinea corn-brewed beer,

fried beans, and a bamboo stool.

He said, “I have found something new under the heaven—

a great calamity has visited us

but those who allow their tongue

to be weakened by Dòdò are the cowards.

If they do not bite their tongue in the morning,

a Wọ̀bìyà kind of accident will choke them at noon.

They’ll have no seat when tales of legends

are being told by moonlight.”

When you see the hunter’s dog sharpening its teeth

at the edge of its master’s neck—don’t laugh it off;

it’s a bad omen

for vultures do not gather in the compound for naught.

Those who pipe the flute of sorrow

will come to dance to it in the coming days.

They will not only feel, but they’ll see

how the flames of a child burn the mother to ruins,

and they’ll search for tears they’ll not find.

Though they went out from us, they’ve no part in us.

They bear our name but not our mark,

who, when in their mournful uniform,

carry coffins in their hands—

those we ceded to watch over us

are washing their rifles in the foam of our blood—

they’re marching on in their boots of sorrow

upon our very lives.

Ask them what, and they’ll tell you: “we’re just doing our job.”

But we must call them by their name

whose fingers trigger memories of aborted dreams—

dreams which breath grapples under their knees…

Those whose uniform paints memories of death—

stillbirths and miscarriages

in whose eyes are tombs for burying our rights—

let us call them by their real name:

Sergeant Kòlọ́rùn, Corporal Kòlórí

let us call them—

Òkété!

Òkété, so such is your character;

you drank of the earth with Ifá,

and betrayed him.