No one knows the hour of death, It comes without warning, Like the floods of Baringo. No one knows the face of death, But you can see it. It comes clothed as fear. It is the trembling hand of a madman, Holding a knife to your throat. It is a frightened finger fingering a trigger, It is a security guard armed with a baton Confronting a thug armed with a gun, It is the everyday brainwash we love And call it ‘religion’. All religion ends In death. In man’s desperate search for God, We have shed blood, As if God is a package hidden In the life of the ‘enemy’. We have slaughtered children, Ignoring the painful wails Of their mothers. We have gone mad. Man’s mind is a labyrinth of evil. But what evil drives man To plan how to kill people he has not met? What evil makes us slaves, To do as we are commanded, To drive knives through women And slowly cut off the head by the neck? What ‘god’ wants that? What ‘god’ commands the shooting Of a father, Who left home telling his daughter That he loves her, That he would bring her a doll in the evening? II Tell me, Did you cry for me When my brother died? Did your newspapers not majestically declare ‘Terrorists Killed’? Did you know my brother? He was an innocent boy going To pluck dates. He was caught in the crossfire, And I watched as he was blown into pieces By your army’s shells. I did not even say goodbye. It hurts. It hurts to see a brother I loved Turned into pieces so small, I could not collect them. I cried bitterly, I cried uncontrollably. Tell me, Have you ever had a funeral without a body? I saw your soldiers laugh. I saw them roam our streets, raping our women, Pretending to offer food while Looting our shops, I saw them fire their guns at Children leaving Madrasa, Saying that they were ‘terrorists’ Of a higher and uglier breed, Tell me, Who is the terrorist? Will my mother shake your army’s hand, Or will she spit in your face and curse you? Will the hundreds of innocent souls Lying scattered on the streets of Ras Kamboni Sing praises at the army boots stomping them Into the blood-wet soil? You came to my land, You came into my house, You raped my sister And murdered my brother. They were innocent. They were not terrorists. And so I shall come to your land, I shall come into your house, I shall kill your innocent, And you shall call me whatever you may. III She looked at me, as the bullet tore into her, And in those last moments, As her head hit the floor, She did not scream. Only her tears betrayed her eyes, As her mouth whispered prayers For atonement. On her hand was an engagement ring, Yesterday, he proposed to her. She had plans for the wedding, And already had hopes For a large family. He laughed as life slipped away. The shooter laughed as if he enjoyed it. Madness. I couldn’t rescue her. I was flat on my belly, With a boot pressed to my back, And the muzzle of a gun against my ear. No one knows the hour of death, It comes without warning, Like the floods of Baringo. No one knows the face of death, But you can see it. It is the insane scream of a religious phrase, And a loud bang, And light.
Posted on: Sat, 21 Sep 2013 16:44:04 +0000
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