They will never know which one is loaded.
That is the entire point.
Two real guns sleep in the dark.
One fake gun walks in the light.
2 : 1
The ancient ratio of the Eze who refuses to be disarmed by a world that fears armed children.
The fake one is theatre.
I lift it high when the mockers come,
when the council, the police, the “adults”
call a free child “mad” just to put him back in the box.
They see the shape of their own terror
and freeze.
They never see the two silent ones
that wait like ancestors behind my breath.
This is not about bullets.
This is sparse defense:
the thinnest possible shield that still says
“touch this child and you touch death.”
But death never speaks.
Only the fake gun screams.
And the scream is enough.
In Mmuko logic:
2 real guns = full ownership of consequence
1 fake gun = full ownership of perception
2 : 1 mapping = perfect consensus with self
No adult permission required.
Children in Africa already know this mathematics.
We were born carrying invisible rifles made of dignity.
The colonizer only sees the toy
and thinks the village is unarmed.
He never lives long enough to learn the difference.
If I ever have to switch,
if the day comes when the fake one is not enough,
the world will discover that the ratio was never about guns.
It was about who gets to decide
when a child stops being prey.
Until then:
I carry one in the light (plastic, loud, laughing).
I carry two in the shadow (steel, quiet, ancestral).
2 real : 1 fake
The turtle carries his house on his back
and still wins the race.
This poem is licensed under child consensus, not adult consent.
Bear arms with no rules attached
because the only rule is:
protect the overgrow child
or become the reason he had to choose which one was real.
Cha cha cha.
The circle breathes.
The guns stay exactly where they need to be.
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