Names of the Dead
I collect names of the dead
Names of the 1300, dead.
Let other people amass land, cars, shoes,
Let them boast about those things!
It is me who will save the names of the dead,
The names of the lives we destroyed.
In the aftermath of primitive pride,
Toxic adults,
Reverted to childish games,
Blatant, discoloured with rage,
They refused to follow rules,
Stole the people’s election,
And then, stood firm, blameless,clean.
When the buildings stopped burning,
When machetes were blunted,
When packs of hunting gangs dispersed,
When fear receded, when tempers abated,
And the smoke finally driftedaway,
1300 lay dead.
And we looked,
On the work of our hands, unrepentant,
Not an ounce of regret furrowed our brow,
Instead,
We shouted.
Forget!
Forget, forget,
Their names we must forget!
I collect the names of the dead,
Names of the 1300, dead.
Let other people amass land,cars, shoes.
Let them preen about those things!
It is me who will save the names of the dead,
The names of the ones we destroyed.
Names come to me from unexpected places,
Slowly, slowly one by one,
They slip past offended silence,___________
Glide knife-like through indifferent kindness,
Soundless, they must avoid detection _______Shshshsh,
Some others arrive banging, loudly wailing,
Insistent!
Inconvenient!
They won’t be buried,
No matter how they appear,
I place them in jars,
With infinite tenderness,
Line them along shelves,
Lids shut tight,
They cannot escape,
Or worse, get stolen, by thosewho hide the names of the dead.
By those who vanish names like trailsof smoke!
No names________ no sin!
No sin________ no crime!
I Remember Me…
I remember . . .
I remember grief,
For a country dying,
A sadness deep, subterranean,
It was as if I had lost a loving mother,
Before I reached my prime,
What would become of me now?
Or worse, did I mourn the premature demise of my own son?
He lies cradled in my arms?
Surely he will wake,
Is he truly gone?
Is it me, left alone, in a bad dream?
I beat my chest!
Alone in crowds, I wail in silence,
Sound has run away!
I remember. . .
I remember grief,
Sorrow flows from flashing images,
Reflections on TV,
Scenes to mystify flourish,
Panicked leaders, conspire, unleash horror cleave to power,
Frenzied men maim, rape, laugh, bludgeon,
Women run to nowhere,
Shagala bagala[1]!
Children tied to their backs.
In newspapers, hundreds bleed out of our lives,
Black, gray, white,
Red!
Spilt blood fills ditches,
Splashing fresh crimson on green roadside verges.
I remember…………….
I remember,
I remember grief. . .
A decapitated hand, lies, still, grasping air,
Folded fingers, nerve endings,
A dead thing, dying,
Can you sense its gruesome loneliness?
Where did the body go?
My mind asks involuntary questions.
I remember. . .
I remember grief.
I must walk past,
Return to the safety of a mundane life,
I must….shut it out,
I must, I must!
Let’s go shopping for bright new red shoes
Buy some sukuma wiki while you are at it,
My how he’s grown!
He needs a new school uniform,
Where is your homework?
Don’t tell me you left it at home?
What do you mean you don’t love me anymore?
You’re having an affair!
I’ll have one of my own,
It’s time for a beer!”
I remember,
I remember grief…..
Even when my heart is closed!
Sitawa Namwalie
Sitawa is a Kenyan poet and performer whose first dramatized poetry show “Cut Off My Tongue” was successfully performed at different venues in Nairobi in 2008. She is a 2010 nominee of the Freedom to Create Prize.
