GOONS

 

By Kevin Kogo

 They came with hired hands,  

not signs, but switchblades—  

smiles like split receipts.  

The state’s dirty change  

jangling in their pockets,  

each coin a betrayal.  

"Make it ugly," someone whispered,  

so they did.  

Broke windows we didn’t own,  

threw stones we didn’t throw,  

set fires we didn’t light.  

All while grinning,  

like this was just another gig—  

another day, another bloodstain.  

They wore our struggle like a cheap suit,  

ill-fitting, borrowed,  

stained with someone else’s agenda.  

Cops hugged them like brothers,  

then turned and clubbed ours.  

We saw it—  

the way they checked their phones  

mid-chaos,  

waiting for mobile money confirmation  

before throwing the next brick.  

Traitors don’t always wear uniforms.  

Sometimes they wear our faces,  

pocket our pain,  

sell it back to the highest bidder.  

When the cameras left,  

so did they—  

counting cash in dark alleys,  

washing our blood off their knuckles  

with cheap vodka.  

We’ll remember.  

Not their names,  

but the weight of their betrayal—  

heavier than any boot on our necks.  

Next time,  

we’ll know the difference  

between a fighter  

and a paid dog.  

And dogs?  

They get put down.