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Who lied to you?
Who lied to you, all of you that you are winning? Who told you that you have pushed the weaver bird to the limit? Who lied to you that we shall come out and kneel before you hands up in surrender? Who, I would like to know, lied to you that because you own the gun you own the people, that because you have death in your possession you can scare life out of us?
The sounds of guns shall not cow us. The bullets you plant in our backyards and our children’s backs, they shall never grow, they shall never flower. You are not going to use death as a weapon, a means to scare us into submission. We are rebels, we rebel against nature, everything alive, so what would make us run away from death? Fight us but still we refuse to bow. Every time you think you have brought death on us you don’t know you are giving birth to a revolution. Do you think we bury our sons and daughters? We plant them, and when they grow... The weaver bird does not stop flying because hunters bought guns. They don’t stop feeding because someone is guarding the vast acres of land. They swoop down in greater numbers and know that one bullet can never bring them all down. They learn to throw their fear far behind them. They teach their children not to shiver and how to live another day.
The weaver shall learn new tunes and will come to your window sill early in the morning and start singing. It will poke holes in your sofa and crap on your plates. They shall upset your glass tables and your bedside lamps. Who lied to you that you shall laugh forever? We shall stand in line and watch you weep your eyes out. We shall cock our ears and listen to you calling out the ancestors that taught you to follow your heart but didn’t remember to remind you to take your head with you.
Let us though in the meantime learn some new songs and dances, let us write new tunes for our children as we bid our time. Let us look for ways to show you brains always win over brawn. Who lied to you that owning a gun means you call the shots? You carry that, and we will teach our children to walk with pens. We shall urge the little weavers to draw graffiti on walls of the presidential palace, we shall teach them defiance, to scream and shout our slogans even behind bars, not to walk the paved paths you created but rather use the bushes. We shall teach the weavers to strengthen their beaks so when they bite into the mounds of lies, they clean the carcass to the bone. Who lied to you, that the weavers flew away forever? The grain is ripening so keep knowing that if not today, then they will come tomorrow, and if they don’t, they have just postponed your death by a day. So run, run faster and faster but still, what’s the use? The death you owned has traded sides, the hunter is becoming the hunted.

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