a poem by peninnah ng'ang'a, Kenya

She rolls on the dusty ground
pulls her hair
scratch her skin
dress halfway out
to a stranger this may look like the Ingoma dance
she falls on her knees
tears streaming down the cheeks
mouth wide but no sound comes of her screams
"It has happened again." They utter in whispers
She cannot hear the voices
Her nerves gone numb
eyes light out
skin is flooding with goose bums
her heart bleeding faster than the body she has scooped on her laps.
she is paralyzed by the pain...

"Parents should not bury their kids."Bitterly he spit
"But when they defy the law we have no choice."

He pick the gun and disappear in the thickening crowd.

Another body on the ground another bullet to the count

To family and friends it is another mistaken identity
Police man word is "Dangerous criminal."

We could riot in the streets, sing solidarity and slogans
but we know what happens each time
The order is "Shoot and kill."

One by one we will make our way home
socked in sadness and disbelief
The nation will run a headline "What happened to guilty till proven guilty?"
Nothing new really,just a few new punctuations on the last re-run.
Human rights groups,NGOs and lobbyist will pick it up,make some noise,attract more donors then go black
In the village the drums will echo for a week
we will dance round the fire each night calling on our gods for solace.
Then on Friday we will put his shattered body six feet under
hope our son(s) will find peace beyond the misery of us living.

Only right before the flowers on the grave goes faint
another son will be on the ground,another bullet to the count
And the ritual goes on...

Who dare question Big Brother?

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