Who should we blame for the rotten fruits?

ZAYNAB ILLIASU BOB

i was never meant to say anything.
i was supposed to watch the fruits
grow in the garden full of snakes.
i was bitten today.
yesterday,
i took a cyborg to my country
for sightseeing & told him to zip
his mouth about the rotten
fruits. his cheeks still hold
a warning tag from the last visit.
at the lab, wanting to hide the scar,
i told the prosthetic to cover
the cyborg’s cheeks with my country's
coat of arm—the eagle on the top
& the two horses posing on both sides.
i understand little about dishonesty
but i know the genesis of surviving
in the realm of a political nightmare
is to eat from the rotten fruits
or embrace the holiness of silence.
i & the cyborg—since we arrived
my country, have been fasting,
abstaining from our blue-coated tongue.
when it was time for the cyborg
to depart home, i formatted his memory
because the ears between politics & truth
is deaf & i do not want another cyborg's chip to rust.
i swear, i do not want to blame my countrymen
but who hasn’t eaten from the garden, me?