For Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan

You call me predator—

but tell me, little goat,

did you not wander too close?

Did you not dare to speak

when silence was safer?

---

The night has rules.

The tall trees whisper them.

The rivers murmur them.

Even the wind—soft and knowing—

hums the old wisdom:

“When the hyena grins, the goat must bow.”

---

Yet you—

you with your trembling voice,

you with your foolish courage—

you have run to the village square,

crying of teeth in the dark.

Crying of hands that grabbed

where they should not.

Crying of power misused,

of honor turned to rot.

---

Foolish little goat.

The elders feast with the hyenas.

They sip palm wine,

laugh at your wounds,

and call them whispers of the wind.

“It was just a joke,” they say.

“It was only hunger, not harm.”

“Why cry now, when the night is so long?”

---

But you—

you are not like the others.

You do not bow.

You do not hush.

You tear the silence with your voice.

You drag the hyena into the sun,

claw by claw, tooth by tooth,

exposing his grinning filth.

---

And the village watches.

Some turn away,

some wring their hands,

some whisper, “This is how it has always been.”

---

But one day, little goat,

another will stand beside you.

Then another.

And another.

Until the night is no longer ruled

by the grin of the hyena,

but by the rising of the sun.