When men err and the air they breathe is evil
When women are wound in woeful wonts
They say it’s you. They say it’s Satan.
They say it’s Èṣù. They say it’s the devil.
But you, strong one, are not Satan.
Yes, you are the commander-in-chief of the eight warlords
Curse is key, Death is dean, Paralysis, provost and Detention, the host
Trouble comes a-double, Sickness and Sin draw swords and Loss is gross.
Yet, you are the one who fingers fate to the favour of man
You, Láàlú, are the scrotum of knowledge and fortune
You packaged these in sixteen palm nuts then passed it to man
Bokono, what benevolence surpasses this?
These men chose woes that chose to disparage you
The duo that dared you today, you leaked their love yesterday
They fell off, the unthankful men crossing your penile bridge
The tree that snubs you becomes a stump
The stump that pays tributes sprouts again
There are two hundred gods to both sides – good and bad
Èṣù stays amidst, Èṣù stays unique, aloof yet nearby
Legba, handsome god of premonitions and prophesies
May I never disrespect you messenger of the gods
You are the epitome of punchlines and paradoxes
The heart of my art, the back of my knack
Èṣù má ṣe mí o!
Káyọ̀dé Afọlábí
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