They all know who I am,so I'm not fooling anyone.
Sometimes I'm in a suit, sometimes I'm in baggy pants,
Sometimes I'm in their offices, other times at the base,
Many times I'm the intern or the receptionist or the drug addict.
But they know who I am. Right?
Sometimes I wield a pen, and I get prizes,
When I'm angry I wield a machete then a whole country capsizes,
They call me all sorts of names; John, Peter, Tony, Amy, Wambui,
But at the end of the day, they seem to know who I am.
In the dead of the night they gather us together,
Whispers, hushed voices and the promise of comfort forever,
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth I'm told,
Because the blood of my friends is the price for loving my country,
I pace up and down as I consider:
"We know you! That's why we came only to you!" They say.
They know me? They must know me really well;
Well enough to trust that their malicious secrets I can never tell
A living soul, as they ask me to put on my armor and sound death's knell-
On my loved ones, my neighbors, my friends...
Do they know me? Or do they just know what I can do?
Is it a ploy to use me for my strength? For my influence-
This has happened before; I've been here before, I've been used before,
To shed blood, to tear down homes, to sing in church, then burn it down,
To rip a brother from a sister, to drag the wailing and the dead around this ghost town,
I've read from this script before. They're right. They do know me!
But so do the police, so do the judges, so do handcuffs, so does pain;
Pain knows me. Because I've caused it and it has caused me too,
I have seen it, known it, felt it in the disdain-
Of a mother losing her son, of a wife losing her husband,
And a nation bleeding from her arteries, and a God who must be tired
Of all the blame pointed His way when all that He desired
Was the happiness derived from lessons learnt by His Children.
They know me. But I know them no longer.