This is how it starts.
This is how they play us.
They pit one side against the other, asking us to lay down our lives for their personal pursuits.
Certain birds tweet and chirp accusations. Eventually, the bird droppings fall to the grassroots, fester with ignorance and grow into violence. Everyone ignores the writings on the talking walls.
The skirt no longer greets the headscarf when they pass each other on the road as they drive to work.
Misinformation and propaganda give rise to full-blown hate.
People eventually pick up guns and rally in the streets.
Three killed, one injured.
The word person isn’t even used. A newsroom somewhere: “Foolish Africans, killing each other again.” There won’t be a #PrayforKenya. The world is bored; you did this before in 2007. Plus you don’t have the charm of Paris and you’re not white. Oh and that singer just had quintuplets. “If it bleeds it leads” doesn’t work anymore. Get those retweets. Priorities, people. Priorities.
Headlines fly, a TV screen reads: “Kenya Burning.” The producer assigned it three sentences on the script. A description on the demise of the only country you’ve ever known is reduced to a highlight.
More people call for blood. They have the taste for it now. The inner demons that slumbered since 2007 are now fully awake and starving. Almost a decade, a long time for evil to be suppressed….
One by one their sons are called to fight. The colour on the skirt fades and the headscarf starts to loosen. They don’t talk so loud now, but still tap their feet to the rhythm of hate.
The politicians they loathed, the politicians they loved… they’re all gone. They had their visas and hired choppers long before the bombs started to drop.
There is a crater now, at the corner where they stopped waving hello to each other.
Clean water and food are scarce. An entire decade of children has never stepped into a classroom. Schools are now makeshift hospitals for the remaining sons who volunteer to get killed because at least the rebels feed them.
The mothers search for their children. Skirt queues three people behind headscarf, waiting for the WFP food ration. Death didn’t care: from the Ketepa hills to the Chale sands. A body is a body is a body, and Grim’s quotas have to be met.
They cannot remember why it started and now they cannot find an end.
The mothers walk, empty and shelled into a waking death.
The generation of their futures lie rotting in unidentified graves, bone fragments mixing into the rubble of the building where Mama Njeri no longer sells the oil that Mrs. Owino needed for the deep-frying. Buried is the laughter they shared when they discussed the youthful idiocy of their sons and how expensive everything was getting. How neither the government nor the opposition ever really cared.
Their sons are dead. The women are dead. The future is dead.
The Llama Thinks…
… leaders come and go, citizens remain. Nairobi is not burning: majority of western media is already hoping isolated protests turn into countrywide large-scale violence. I pray that after all this, they feel they have wasted money on all those extra journalists they flew into our beautiful nation. The future is still unwritten, “Sit down, be humble.”
The So Necessary List:
Awesome Kenyans winning gold medals at the IAAF championships in London
Something I wrote minutes after I heard a patriotic member of the IEBC was brutally murdered and my mind went into overdrive. Today, it had to be shared.
via When The Ink Wears Off — TAZAMA LLAMA