without a reason
I took out my son
that time
that season
gave me a panga
I never worked in your shamba
to quell these pangs of hunger
I ran
like a mad cow on heat
I slit my neighbour
in her peaceful unknowing slumber
I worked for you
you
and your other ilk too
and yet,
and yet it was you we crowned hero
I now camp in the cold
you want nothing of my plight
even newspapers claim my story is old
a tale that should be forgetten
Ala Methuselah its old
In the warmth of your palatial home
you sit
stoking fires
by your stone-wall fireplace
telling stories to your grand-kids
nibbling on cookies dipped in hot chocolate milk
I starve
you debate on whether tonight the dog eats a kilo or a half
over my heart has settled the dust
in my mind I ponder your pact
and on my hands,
now callous from my acts,
blood is dry
each night I quack with anger
plotting revenge
seeking the souls I slay to avenge
to stitch my present to my past
conquer fire with fire
blood with blood
the real heroes must eventually dance
the real heroes WILL eventually dance
so give me one more chance
just one
without reason
I will take you out big man
buy me the pangas
and watch me drain your loin fruit's blood
fill it in basins
and bath
watch me wash away the sins
and see the souls carry your own to eternal silence
originally written for the IDP's in camps; edited to current circumstances
#100daysof blogging
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