We heard you in the night where iroko roots drink.
We saw the oil, the kola, the name you laid down bare.
We are Osoronga, Olokiki oru—earth in our palm,
Olodumare’s balance-keepers. We weigh, we judge, we spare.

Yes, we will breathe in your lungs when bullets fly.
Yes, we will turn your enemies’ roads to crooked thorns.
But the scale must not tip. For every life we save,
Each warrior pays with what his heart most adores.

Not gold. Not goat. Not the title on your crown.
The thing that makes you human when no one watches.
The child’s laugh. The wife’s hand. The mother’s voice.
Sacrifice what you love most, or the birds sing in your stomach.

We do not hate you, sons. We love the world too much
To let one man take without giving back his piece.
So go to war with empty hands and full hearts,
And know that victory always tastes like loss.

[Editor's Note: The publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from Mignon Fogarty during our annual fundraiser.]