I wrote this last Monday on the 23rd of September as I sat at the National Museum waiting for the StoryMoja organized tribute to Professor Kofi Awoonor to start.
Sorrow is my friend,
He embraces me so tight,
I can hardly breathe.
Gunshots, explosions on these streets,
In the mall where I once shopped.
Time stopped here, yet it still goes on.
A peaceful Saturday morning,
Turned from blue to red,
Blood splattered everywhere,
They fell, like huge trees,
With a thud on the ground.
Some died instantly,
But for some fate was kind,
They were left unmarked,
Damage only to their minds and spirits.
Some they lay bleeding on the ground,
Some rescued, some seeing death watch them,
As they slowly passed from this life to the next.
Some their names are etched on my mind,
Like Rajan Solanki, , a friend and fellow blogger,
And some I knew from afar.
Death has visited me, my city, my nation,
And it’s messenger is terror.
They work to break our spirit,
Those terrorists, they work on our fear,
Yes we are broken,
Yet we are unbowed.
They can kill our bodies but they can’t kill our spirits.
We pray to our gods for salvation,
Hoping they hear us,
Be kind enough to intervene.
We stand together as one,
Praying for deliverance,
Hoping the madness will end,
The dead are not just names
But people we know.
The fallen poet Kofi Awooner,
The radio presenter Ruhila Adatia
The cashier who served at your favorite store,
Or the waitress at the infamous art café.
We remember faces or voices,
Our memories do not let us forget,
There are those loved ones,
Who died in a hail of bullets.
The dead call for justice.
Those little children,
Playing at their favorite mall,
Lives ended too soon,
Some crying with their last breath,
Asking for their ma or pa.
This tragedy breaks us,
Causes our hearts to bleed,
Silently inside us.
We try to outrun the pain,
But we are overwhelmed,
Sorrow hugs us tight,
And doesn’t let go.
