Westgate has opened up old griefs that were not properly grieved...
Disappearance
Six British
nationals are confirmed dead.
There was a
Canadian diplomat.
Every nation
reckons its stricken citizens.
The list reads
like the guest list
of a
diplomatic get-together
(pardon this
irreverence).
Had this
been that kind of gathering,
would we
have included the waiters?
Would we have
numbered the chef
the ayah,
the cleaner, or the messenger?
The media
and foreign offices
catalogue people
who are not us –
at least not
the rest of us.
The rest of
us have become illegible,
like the
Tana River 500, the Wajir,
and Mandera
hundreds,
the 42 on
the Narok bus, and
Mombasa Road’s
daily toll.
Earth cries
for her children
buried into
burning holes of grief;
into fiery
bosoms of pain.
Earth cries
for her un-eulogised.
See how we
deny them a mention in death
just as we disappeared
them in life.
These are
the ones we cremate conveniently
in national amnesia.
After every
tragedy we bring up
the palimpsest
and swear
then swiftly
overwrite it with the newest grief.
From Sinai to
Sachang’wan
we stand
indicted, the flames
of Kiambaa
an unheeded subpoena.
The only
forensic evidence
is found in
the trembling hands of old
people petrified
by anguish
and a
reluctant acceptance.
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